Friday Fright Night comes to Mo's room, Cosmic Hotel
Worst primordial nightmare come true. Room 304 "Neptune", 3.30am Saturday (to be precise). With footnotes of my BBC brush-with-National-paedophiles, and my Maida Vale, W9 attic flat, showbiz days.
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The deep fear of the unknown. That's why the film Jaws was so successful. Playing on one of our greatest primordial fears. Who hasn't leapt out of their skin, or wet suit, when taken by surprise in the ocean by an USM (unidentified sea monster)? For a good 15 years after seeing Jaws when it came out at the cinema with Preston, and having literally fallen off the edge of the 1970's cinema seat during the sunken ship (submarine?) moment - I had serious fears about anything that was slightly dark and unknown in the sea. Even clumps of seaweed would have me panicking and breathing irregularly, and consequently swallowing mouthfuls of ghastly ultra-salty sea water. Enough to make one sick. Pathetic. Mortifying too, if one had to behave as if everything was normal while the other English tourists were staring dreamily out to sea at close range from the tiny but beautiful Greek island cove. When in actual fact I was having a seaweed spaz-out in the Med, trying not to flail my limbs around like an epi-fit kid in shallow waters.
You'll be glad to know that I learned to overcome that fear ... mostly. I forced myself to. It became a money issue. I'd be damned if I was going to have a phobia about swimming in the sea, when I'd forked out money for a one-week holiday in the sun - on meagre BBC wages - only to float on my back in the Mediterranean (so I couldn't see what was below me), shitting myself if I swam too far from the beach. I gradually practised meditative 'swimming', and now I'd be happy to learn to free dive to the bottom of The Blue Hole** - if I had half the chance. Mind you, if I saw one of those fat ugly moray eels again, I'd probably have to swallow my own sea-snot words.
There is of course such a thing as mind over matter. I guess it's a form of meditation. All the Zen stuff which I've been practising since last October has been making me 'come over all strange'. (Yes, stranger that usual, if that's possible.) Difficult to put my finger on it. No doubt a rambling, off-the-wall 2000 word paper will come out in due course on matters of breathing, observing and expelling fears.
Though the plaque on my hotel room door reads Room 304, Neptune, I'm not here to relate some bizarre Romanesque water-based nightmare from my newly-tiled ensuite bathroom at Cosmic. Sure, it does have a kind of 1-star, monsoon-type shower. In fact, the double combo of a large overhead shower head, and the smaller normal movable shower hose has been nothing short of a dream for me. When I'm under the weather, stressed, disorientated or ill - I innately go for my own version of water-therapy. I find myself standing for ages under a hot shower. To rehydrate, to cleanse - corporeally, emotionally and spiritually. Like a momentary baptism of calm. The Christians love to quote: Cleanliness is next to Godliness. In my mind, I have my own interpretation of that. But my philosophy on the themes of personal hygiene, self-worth and social nuisance - all interconnected - will need to wait for another time.
For now, back to the Cosmic mother of all fears, around 3.30am.
Ever since I can remember - faces that leap out of the pitch primordial dark - such as in the 1970s TV series 'Lost in Space', have been terrifying me to this day. Dr Smith who was the "camp as Christmas"* anti-hero, spaceship rider, that minced around in a gold lurex suit (see postscript), who's ironic catchphrase was:
"Never fear! Dr Smith is here."
Ironic because he was the most neurotic, hysterical, and back-firing evil, scaredy-cat there ever was. If I remember correctly, almost all of the scariest things would happen to him. Jimmy and I would piss ourselves laughing when something frightening would happen to him. Except for one episode, when both of us actually leapt out of our skin, and Dr Zachary Smith nearly imploded with fear. He was looking out into a pitch black primordial cosmic soup from the front of the spaceship. All of a sudden, AAHHH!! a huge alien face popped out of nowhere, and we both screamed! the house down.
I dare you to look out of a dark window, in an unfamiliar place, especially around the witching hour or beyond. My worse fear has been, and still is, that a face will flash in front of mine - appear out of nowhere - at ghoulish nano-second speed. AAAARGGH. Shit me.
It's the same as looking into a mirror when feeling a little unnerved for some reason. Perhaps in an eerily deserted Ladies toilet, in the bowels of some labyrinthine cinema complex, after watching one of the those horror films that properly worked and put the fear of Evil up your bum [a David Cronenberg number should do it, the original Cape Fear with Robert Mitchum, or maybe The Shining ...]. And the inexplicable dread that you might one day see - not your own reflection - but something spectre-like with rotting flesh that's hanging off the bone, and dark yellow-neon eyes. Or something equally peaceful, and pretty to look at.
I couldn't settle again properly again on Friday night. Can't remember why. While in Kuala Lumpur, I seem to have fluctuated between being dog-tired and and sleeping like a log through the incessant Malaysian F1 soundalike circuit noise of Jalan Malabalelehabajaba-feckin-bingbong - the busy main road that Cosmic Hotel is on. And being dog-tired and too hot to be able to fall into any kind of satisfactory sleep.
At around 3.30am, for some reason, I get fed up of flinging my duvet from one side to another. I sit up to take a sip of water. I absent-mindedly look out of the window through the 6 inch gap I've left between the edge of the curtain and the wall. It's not fully drawn as I had wanted some weak natural light to wake me slowly in the morning. Also, there are no windows directly opposite on that side of my hotel window - so no fear of any late night warehouse or office workers catching sight of me - in this strict Muslim country - unclad, or barely clad in the humidity of Kuala Lumpur's nocturnal discomfort. [You know already I can't sleep with A/C on ...]
Next thing: Whoooo-waaaaaahhh! My heart nearly jumps out from my ribcage.
FACE, neck AND shoulders of MAN with close-cropped hair appears out of nowhere in front of my window. I SCREAM the hotel down.
To be precise. I am that shocked and disturbed, I do a deep growling kind of FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKK off you FUCCCCCCCKKKKINNG PERVERT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! At the top of my voice. The kind of screaming that comes from the gut, not the upper hyperventilating respiratory tract.
What the fucking hell do you think you are playing at? GGGGGGGRRRRRRRRR, gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. I yell into the dark, and at the interconnecting wall.
I am so scared, and livid. Livid because the little shitting perve has seen me topless in a country where I have done my utmost to respect its customs, and not even have a bra strap showing - as I did in India - let alone any hint of a cleavage. To be honest, I'm such a skinny moo after pneumonia and living in such hot and humid climates such as India and Kuala Lumpur - that I don't own anything that can be described as a 'cleavage' anymore. Huh, I should be so lucky lucky lucky. [Sorry, just had a Kylie moment there. See post- postscript.]
I phone up Rajeet in Reception and complain about the bell-end next door. What the hell was he doing? Methinks: How fucking dare he? How very dare he? In a Catherine Tate kind of voice [see post, post, postscipt].
Reception: OK, I'll call him and find out what happened.
Remember, when Miss Mo gets deeply disturbed, upset or affronted - especially by male willy-wagglers - the reaction is not a tearful one - it is usually one of angerrrrr.
Reception said he'd just moved his car and parked it outside the hotel, and was looking out of the window to check it was ok. Oh My! I'm not even over this episode enough to be able to write how fucking stupid that excuse was. As if there's now a car park in my little Neptune nest of a room - all of a suddin.
Rajeet: Perhaps you'd like to change rooms, ma'am?
Me: No I would not 'like' at all! (The cheek of it.) HE can change rooms as he had no right to do what he did. He nearly scared me to death. I like my room - tell HIM to move, thank you.
Rajeet: The hotel is fully booked tonight ...
Blah blah feckin' boring blah, I think.
I am still shaken when I put the phone down. Before I can help myself - I find myself barking and growling right outside next door's window. In case the pervert tries it on again.
The next morning, on my way out, both receptionists laughed a little when I brought up the matter. It's only beginning to dawn on me that perhaps they're not used to a woman behaving like me? Rajeet is Malay of Indian heritage, and the younger Sharif was born and bred in Bangladesh. I think I may be able to guess how they expect their women to behave ...
Forthright and indignant, I'd say I was. Though I have not a clue, nor even care what they think of me. They may've even been laughing lightly because I made them slightly nervous, or just think I overacted. I will never know.
Also, as much of a buzz as it is to be able to converse with people in Mandarin here, I wonder now if during such a short, 4 day stopover - whether it may have served me better to have been a deaf mute. I might have coped better. May have been insulted less by elderly male Chinese shopkeeper. Cunt. There. First time I used the C-word. Think I set myself a world record there. 38 days since the start of this blog, and not one C-word in sight. Pretty good going for a puddle-mouth*** like me.
Correcto-mundo, again - of course you can expect a 2000 word essay on my love of that word, and everything that is associated with it. For me, it is a wonderfully expressive word. I urge you to look up the etymology of the it ... "Gropecunt Lane ... organised prostitution in Southwark ..." according to Wiki. Mate! I can't 'elp livin' in Sarf London ...
Watch this space. The possible working title of paper:
'Cunt. Cunts. Cuntal****." And maybe the odd 'oyster' in the sub-title thrown in, just for a good crack, like ...
* Thanks, Jamie Lee Antonia Curtis of Payyambalam beach. I owe this wonderful phrase to you. I know you were surprised I'd never heard of it before, but I hadn't until I had the privilege of meeting you at Mascot reception that fateful morning. And our subsequent highly entertaining yacking sessions. You made me laugh so much over our breakfasts there that I nearly vommed what I was eating at any given moment, and back-inhaled it through my nostrils. Quite awkward with the wheezy old chest I had back there. Having to hold my under-boobs every time I guffawed. You're a devil, you. I guess it takes one to know one. See you on Hampstead Heath one day for a jolly nice picnic ... or down Lower Marsh and the smelly Southbank.
** The Blue Hole (hahaaaa, I just realised I wrote 'hole'. Christ, I can be childish ...), near Dahab, South Sinai. That's another thing I'd love to learn to do before I die. Another reason to stay off the old ciggies ... I remember watching a nice short film in which a middle-aged-looking English woman was interviewed, against the dreamily azure, amniotic waters of the Red Sea. She was, and maybe still is, a world-class free diver. She sounded and looked lovely. What I'd call an English gentlewoman. She talked of her phenomenal ability to be able to stay under water without coming up for air using Mindfulness techniques.
*** Thanks to Steve Hunt (oh, no, guess what that rhymes wiv?) who so gently described my foul language by calling me something far nicer: puddle-mouth. I like that a lot. Thank you, Steve. You've been so generous to me over the years. And it was so lovely to visit your amazing wife and boys last year. I hope the laurels are not sitting on their laurels - and growing into fine 'bushes' (aaah, no, I'm at it again - puerile sense of humour ...).
**** And perhaps a nod to an old former pothead I shall call Didier Lambourghini. It was he who came up with the word 'cuntal' back in the early '90s. He's the only other person who I knew at the time who felt the same way about the beautiful C-word ... I clearly remember his short soliloquy on the matter, from the comfort of his white armchair. The import of his extemporisation was deliciously accompanied by perfect hand gestures. Exquisite it was to me. I've no idea how the other motorcycle boys thought of it at the time. I have no doubt that they have all but forgotten that fine moment. And I'm thinking now - it's funny what I remember, and how memory works in general.
p.s. Maybe I got the gold lurex suit mixed up with that of Jimmy Saville's? Doctors, priests, Savile? Paedophiles all the same ... [Clearly I don't need to use the C-word here, because surely most of us are thinking of our own form of extreme profanities when it comes to paedos?]. I had worked on 25 Years of Top of the Pops while I was on the BBC TV Production panel, and had a slight brush with Evil-personified itself. My job was to call up all the old BBC TOTP disc jockeys and ask them if they wanted to take part in the programme. Along with the Most Evil of All English paedophiles, Gary Glitter was asked to waggle his scrote in front of recording cameras at BBC Television Centre. He was one of the performing artists. I invited my then temporary flatmate along - one of those people that Lisa Houghton used to shove into her room when she went off on some dancing tour with Barry Humphries. She was so considerate then, she never took the trouble of pre-warning me. Showgirls, and drama school kids, for you, eh? Flighty, vain and as self-obsessed as a haughty Swan Lake corps ballerina. They can't help it. It goes with the territory. The dreadful auditions, and horrid panels they had to put themselves through just to earn a crust - if you don't believe your the best thing since sliced tutus - you are a complete goner. Cut throat industry. Anyway, I invited the temporary flatmate to the recording of the show, and she was completely made up she was. Sweet how she nearly wet herself when Glitter made a passing comment at her on the stairs in the recording studio. Small minds, eh? I know I sound bitchy. But honestly, working in BBC Television was horrid compared with the intellectual integrity of the producers, and radio journalists I'd left behind at Bush House - the home of the World Service, and External Services. Run on a shoe-string compared with their millionaire TV counterparts.
It took a lot for me to be starstruck. Errol Brown was on that same show. And he threw me a rather hot chocolatey gorgeous velvety look. It was only afterwards, many years later, that I wish I hadn't been so churlish (or was I actually shy, can't quite remember?) and just smiled sweetly back at him, instead of giving him one of my inscrutable Chinese Ming Vase blank faces with a too-late attempt at smiling. He was all right, that Errol, you know.
p.p.s. Incidentally, didn't Cathy Dennis write and produce that song for Miss Minogue, consequently reviving the latter's lagging pop career? Think I'm right, no? Little Cathy used to come round to a flat I used to live in in Maida Vale, 1988 - 1990. A good friend of my dancer flatmate, Lisa. Cathy was, and probably still is, a little weirdo, i.e. eccentric. She had red hair, was a bit imp-like, kind of dreamy and air-headed in her beret. Petite, and always stylishly-dressed. She used to ring up to speak to Lisa, and infuriate the hell out of me with her strange, off the wall, disconnected-from-reality comments. One day when Lisa wasn't in - she rarely was - Cathy even asked if I wanted to buy her clothes rail or wardrobe or something equally daft. She knew exactly how tiny my box room was! Funny that. Thought I was weird ... At that time, I remember Lisa used to yack away about how Cathy had a powerful boyfriend in the music industry, and that one day Cathy would go far. I had not an inkling what the hell she was talking about. But I listened. It was fascinatingly other-worldly to me. Though, if I didn't know them personally, they were just meaningless 'names' to me. Simon Fuller Who??
p.p.p.s Yes, of course there are European women, both western and eastern, that walk around with teensy-weensy belt-like cut-off denims. There was the odd western tourist with huge boobies that almost spilled out onto the pavement. Or taller and leaner versions, perhaps Germanic, where the sides of their bras gaped out from their too-big hippy Thai singlets. Likewise, I remember feeling a little surprised, after the Conservatism of India, when I see a local, middle-aged Chinese Malaysian (about my age, or slightly older), more petite and skinnier than myself, wearing equally tiny cut-off denim shorts. However, the latter will never be showing a bra-strap, nor any hint of a bosom. That is saved for the bars, where imported Filipino girls might show a modest portion of their decolletage ... Even that is considered "sexy' in this country, from the little that I have seen.
p.p.p.p.s. Catherine Tate is a geee-nius. How the hell did I not pick up on her during her hey-day as an international BBC comedy sensation sell-out back as 2004...? Oh, I was doing my PGCE the whole time. No wonder. I barely had time to sleep then, let alone fart and watch telly. I am not even kidding. Then teaching up until 2010. Catherine's agent - if you get to read this - please may I interview her one day? For free, like? She kept me sane during my bootcamp days in Tanzania - via the hysterically funny impersonations that Miss G used to do. In exchange, maybe I could do a couple of days' voluntary work as your Executive PA? I used to temp for Michael Barrymore's agent - when the news came out that he was gay. Christ, that was badly timed. The phones were mental busy that day. Should have got time and a half at least for that booking. Having to speak to the shark-like press. Nightmare. All the while, Barrymore's all-powerful, but seriously bonkers agent, Ann wots-her-name, was picking up the dry cleaning, having lunch at an exclusive restaurant, and taking one of her blessed pedigree cats to the Harley Street version of vets. Mad? You wanna know MAD when you have to work and deal with people like her. Cunt. Oops. There I go again ...
Game of Profanity Tourette's Syndrome Tennis anyone?
Oh, and I can touch-type at around 90 wpm. I don't swear when I'm employed as an Executive PA ... believe it or not.
Oops, you mean you're a relation / close friend of Ann wots-her-name? That's showbiz for ya - such a small world. Not the first time I put my foot in it - and probably not the last. Good luck to you all. It doesn't matter how bonkers, cruel or plonker-ish many of my media bosses have been to me in the past. Just believe me that I suffered more than a fair share of them. I recognise now that we are all human. And we all feel pain. What they meted out to me - was merely a reflection of their own pitiful suffering at the time - and my inability to tell 'em to fuck orff - in the nicest poth-thible way. End.
p.p.p.p.p.s. Yes, of course, I will be naming all-powerful names. Laters.
Addendum [4 April]
Um, regarding the appearance of the C-word - I actually used it on Day 5 of my blog - and not Day 38 as stated above. Still, 33 days of abstinence is pretty darn good for me ...
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