Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Silhouetted in Malawi

Travel is an integral part of a jobbing actor’s life, a theatre tour to the dusty old theatres of a country or a film contract that takes him away from his base. When he is working the actor is usually paid a per diem, a daily allowance and is given a roof over his head and sometimes gets a free meal or two if he is actually on the film set.


The allowance varies greatly and depends on the budget of the production and all producers of both theatre and film love to use the expression, “It’s a low budget production so we . . . . . .”


I have during my illustrious career been in over four hundred theatrical productions and been involved in at least one hundred and fifty television or movie shoots. A good fifty percent of these have been classed as “low-budget”. But a few times I’ve been chauffeur driven and provided with my own air-conditioned trailer. On these occasions I have lived the life of luxury and Toddie has always been full.


On many of these film shoots I have been unaccompanied and they have taken me to numerous countries, India, Namibia, Mauritius, Germany, Malaysia, and Malawi to mention a few. On the latter I was accompanied by my third lady-in-wedlock, Felicity or Flee for short. Thus I was able to combine work with pleasure and have what civilians call a part-paid-holiday.


Our first trip together was in nineteen eighty five to the shores of Lake Nyasa in Malawi, which was still under the Presidential thumb of Dr Banda. Like all neocolonial countries I have visited the remnants of the colonial occupier have been clearly evident, like driving a car on the left hand side of the road, round-a-bouts, four way stop streets and tarred roads between the major towns.

 However in Malawi as in India,the roads are now shared with elephants, pigs, pedestrians, chickens and vehicles of assorted sizes and shapes. The traffic lights are defunct; the storm water drains and gulleys are blocked, and the roads are riddled with pot holes, some large enough to seriously damage the vehicle you are driving.


Malawi was no different, however with practice, a degree of caution and following the old adage “when in Rome”; you soon follow the natives and take the detour through the adjacent field of mealies, cotton, tea or coffee thus avoiding replacing a tyre on every journey you make.


We were staying at Nkopola Lodge right on the southern shoreline of the lake which offered excellent accommodation and what can only described as a dual menu choice for main meals, a choice of either chicken or Chomba. Chomba is the local fish from the lake, very like freshwater bream and is very tasty, but after six weeks of having it cooked every way possible the yearning for juicy piece of prime Scotch fillet began to rise. However the local alcoholic beverage was superb. Malawi gin and their locally made tonic became our tipple from sunrise to sunset.


My third weekend was free.


A change over from night shooting to daylight, this required that the crew have what is know as “turnaround-time”, so we had Saturday through till Tuesday morning free. Flee and I decided to sample the tour excursions that were on offer and picked a visit Cape Maclear National Park which was about forty kilometers away.


We signed up with a tour company that advertised what seemed an excellent deal. We had to bring either a blanket or a sleeping bag, an ample supply of mosquito repellant, a torch, and we would be accommodated and fed and watered for the two day excursion.


Departure in a converted three ton army truck was scheduled for eight o’clock on Saturday morning.


Flee and I arrived punctually to be greeted by the tour operator Johann and his two assistants Unlimited and Battery. The assistants were muscular wiry men who were lying on their backs under the rear end of the converted 3 ton army truck. It was jacked up and supported by two heavy logs while they changed the wheel.


“Better safe than sorry”, said Johann “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

With a huge grin exposing his toothless gums he continued, “Good job I noticed it. It’s a hell of a mission to change a tyre on the road.”

 “Why?” I asked.

“Ruts” he said.

“Rats?” I enquired.

“No man Ruts! This time of the year with the rains and wet ground they can be over half a metre deep. Can’t jack the dam thing high enough.”

“So how long the delay” I asked.

“Depends on the other three ladies who are booked to take the trip.”, he said as he heaved a huge cooler box off the back end of the truck.

 “Take a seat and help yourself.” he said as he opened the box which was full to the brim with Carlsberg Browns. We laid out our blanket and sleeping bag on the Lodge’s gravel forecourt and opened ourselves a beer.

Little did we know this delay was going to be a daily routine.


After our second beer we took a look inside the truck. Two old four seated metal park benches had been fitted to the floor. They were cushioned, with one facing forward the other facing towards the rear; the canvas sides each had a large clear plastic window. The central area was piled high with other large plastic containers.


Finally at about ten o’clock as Unlimited and Battery finished changing the trye three rather plump middle aged ladies arrived. We were introduced to Gladys, Emma and Aletta, three Afrikaans English teachers from Benoni, a town near Johannesburg.  They apologised for their lateness and we climbed into the truck. The three teachers took the forward facing bench while Flee and I sat facing the rear with the cooler box at our feet.


It was a slow bouncy drive. Unlimited, who was driving seemed to have mastered the knack of keeping the truck in the ruts, helping to keep the ride reasonably smooth. Johann kept informing us when a really bad atch was approaching.

 “Grip the benches and keep your drinks secure between your thighs. Better still knock it back and have another when we’re back on a smooth bit of the road!”

At a quarter to one the truck pulled up outside what can only be describe as a hotel which looked as if it was about to collapse. It was another dilapidated relic of the colonial days but as Johann told us it was still functioning, so we had a choice either in a room, or in a tent that Battery would erect for us. Flee and I immediately opted for the tent and willingly let the Benoni lasses take the luxury of the fall-down-hotel.



The consumption of several Carlsberg Browns had over extended our bladders so we set off in search of a latrine. Round the back of the hotel we heard music; it was coming from a small wooden doorway.

Entering we found a bar. One normally associates a bar with a toilet.


“Hi, good-day.”, was my standard greeting to the seven or so guys that were in the bar. It was sparsely furnished, 3 tables, one with only three legs, some benches and the smoke filled atmosphere was illuminated by a solitary globe precariously hanging by its wire from the blackened ceiling.

There was a nod and grunt or two of greeting from the occupants.

Walking up to the bar I asked the barman, “Where’s the loo?”


A stoney face stared at me.

“The toilet,” I explained.

 A general laugh filled the room and in unison all the occupants pointed to the doorway.

“Nearest tree.” said a voice from the corner.

“And for the lady?”

“Next to the tree, she find it there.”

Flee darted out the door, “I’ll find it.”

I reckoned I could squeeze my cheeks and hold it a little longer.


 “So how about a drink.” I asked as my eyes now fully accustomed to the light took in the environment. Behind the bar was shelved, but not as you’d expect with drinks, but with groceries. Cans of baked beans, pilchards, various jars of Atchar and I spotted some cans of Fray Bentos corned beef nestled next to an assortment of both sweet and savoury biscuits.

The barman broke the dwall I was in. “What you like?”

“Two double gin and tonics please.”

He reached under the bar and plonked two brown bottles of the local tonic water on the bar. With dexterous ease he opened them by catching the rim of the metal top on the edge of the bar in a downwards motion.

He smiled benignly at me with a look that I interpreted as I must now do some thing.

“How much?” I asked.

No reaction just the continued smile.



"So where's the gin?"

Slowly the occupants began to laugh and the same voice from the corner, who’d given the direction to the loo said, “You must take a drink from the bottle.” The barman continued, “No glasses, you drink from the bottle, I fill with Gin.”

Flee reentered as I was taking my second slug of tonic water. I passed her the other bottle and explained, “No glasses, so you must drink the tonic a bit and then he’ll tot it up with the gin.”

“No bloody toilet either! A long drop! Stank to high heaven, so I squatted in the bushes.”

Placing her tonic water on the bar, the barman filled it to the brim with a generous helping of gin, “Thanks,”, she said, “I’ll see you at the beach.”, and departed.

Fifteen minutes later Flee and I were sitting on our blanket on a pristine beach with a hazy afternoon sun glistening on the majestic lake. Securely anchored in the sand were eight double gin and tonics in their brown open bottles. On a flattened out Carlsberg Brown box lay our mid-afternoon snack, slices of corned beef neatly arranged on cream crackers with a small green cocktail onion balanced on top.


Towards seven o’clock the sun began to set over the shimmering lake and fishermen began to drag their hewn-out-of-logs vessels up from the shore line. One explained that it was low tide and they had to get heir boats a safe distance from the water. Yes, the great inland lake has tides and its depth varies greatly from season to season.

You always live and learn on your travels.

As darkness encroached we headed back to the hotel to find our tent erected about four foot away from the hotel’s front patio. Johann greeted us and asked if we’d like the evening meal of freshly caught Chambo and chips. We declined the offer and climbed into our tent which was lit by a small Cadac lamp.


We zipped up tent, finished off our corned beef and onion biscuits, and another supply of  G & Ts, then settled down to a quiet night of nuptial shenanigans.


Dawn broke around five thirty. We were awoken by Unlimitted, who brought us a cup of tea and informed us that breakfast would be at six thirty on the hotel’s front patio.


As punctual as ever Flee and I emerged from our tent to rapturous laughter and applause. Seated at a table on the patio were the teachers who were clapping enthusiastically.  We made our way up the steps and sat at the table next to them. It was the three-legged table from the bar which was now supported by a column of bricks.

“A good night?” enquired Aletta.

“Fantastic.”’ I replied.

“Us also.” said Emma as the three giggled softy.


Unlimited and Battery served the breakfast of excellent breakfast of bacon, two sunny-side-up fried eggs and toasted mealie bread. We were told by Johann that at eight o’clock a catamaran would be arriving and we were going out scuba diving round Downe Island about twenty kilometers into the lake. They would take a packed lunch, drinks, beverages and all the necessary equipment. All we had to bring was swimming costumes, a towel and some sun-tan lotion as the reflection of the mid-day sun off the lake could cause serious sun burn. Luckily for me Flee had packed some.


Then a complete surprise. On the dot of eight the catamaran arrived and we all embarked on our cruise for the day. It was idyllic. The destination of Downe Island is what Malawi is about. We passed several local fishermen who greeted usand told Battery and Unlimited which part of the Island had the best snorkeling place of the day.


It took us about forty minutes to get there. In we plunged in to see the most beautifully coloured fish of every shape and size you can imagine. I am not the most accomplished snorkeler in the world and it was only after my third attempt that I mastered the art and stopped reacting like a drowning hippopotamus spouting the water out of my mouth.


Johann suggested we actually go onto the Island, telling us that there no dangerous animals and the place was uninhabited. We should pack our lunch and what we wanted in a plastic “Checkers-bag”. The teachers declined and stayed on the boat enjoying their drinks and continued giggling every time they looked at us.

“Back at four.” said Johann as we dived into the lake getting away from the constant giggling and headed for the island’s shoreline.

“What the hell are they laughing at?” asked Flee, “every time they look at us? It’s starting to annoy me.”

“I’ve no idea.” I said. “Must be something you or I said yesterday."

We found what we thought was a cosy little hide-a-way that couldn’t be seen from the boat and settled down. Flee basked in the sun and I read a book I’d managed to bring with me securely wrapped in the “Checkers” plastic bag. This also contained some bottles of tonic water pre-mixed with gin. I’d mastered the opening and closing of the metal top so that no contents leaked. After about ten minutes we suddenly heard a whistle, follow by a voice that we did not recognize.

“You want Gold?”

Flee sat up immediately quickly covering her boobs.

“Malawi  Gold?” said a tall lanky man who was now standing right next to us, seemed to materializsed on the uninhabited island.

“Dagga?” asked Flee.

“Yes.” said the lanky man smiling ear to ear.

“Very special, good quality. I roll especially for you, only five Quatcha.”

“We’ve no money with us.” I said.

“No problem. You toss in lake from boat when you swim back.”


He extracted from his plastic “Checkers” bag a sheet of the Malawi national daily newspaper and laid it neatly on the ground. Tearing it in two he asked, “Half or quarter?”

Flee and I were mesmerized.

“A quarter.” I said not knowing what I was buying.

“That’s good.” he said, “Five Quatcha, half is ten.”

He then proceed to pour a flakey green mixture from his bag onto the quarter page of torn newspaper and roll the most gigantic joint I’d ever seen. He licked the page as he finished and sealed the joint. “You have to smoke quick, or she fall apart.” He said as he lit it and took a drag.


I have been stoned a few times in my life and indulged in a few social drugs but for the following five hours I felt as if I was walking on water. The colours of everything seemed to take on a distant shimmering quality and time seemed to stand still. Thank God I was Flee as we swam back to the catamaran. It seemed to take two days.


As we boarded the vessel Johann gave us a knowing wink and the teachers giggled even more.

“Five Quatcha.” Said a voice from the water.

Flee quickly took my now empty “Checkers Bag" and stuffed a five Quatcha note and an full tonic bottle into it. Tied if off and hurled it towards our floating drug dealer.

“Thank you. I see you again tomorrow?” our dealer said and swun away.

By this time I’d lain back on the central canvas and was fast asleep.


We arrived back at Cape Maclear as the sun was setting, and were told that tonight we were having peri-peri chicken and chips. Flee and I were ravenous and even though she’d run off to the bar to buy some Kit-Kats for the munchies we were suffering, we both decided we would partake of the meal scheduled for seven o’clock.


I left our tent to stock-up on our G & T supplies and left Flee to tidy up for supper. When I returned to the patio the three ladies were seated at their table and were still giggling whilst looking at our tent.

“We were out here last night.” said Gladys. “Having a night-cap.” She continued as the three of them burst out into hysterical laughter.

“What a performance!” said Aletta, “You said you were an actor!”

I glanced at our tent and saw a clear silhouette of Flee combing her hair.

The Cadac lamp had provided the ideal setting for a “Hand-Sprung-Sex-Show!”

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Aussie tour & being a complete Eejit





When a jobbing actor is offered a part in a touring company’s production his initial response is usually one of joy. He may even be over-joyed as it is the first offer of work he has received for many a long dry month. However once the terms of his engagement have been thrashed out by his agent, Ms Boo-King Clarke and the reality of his life for the next four months on the road sinks in, he usually dives deeply into the well of depression.

I have been on many tours in my illustrious career. Some like the tour of Australia in the early seventies hold many exciting and wonderful memories; others have left much to be desired. However they all deserve a mention. Some with hindsight are seared with regrets, others with feelings of guilt and others with self-acceptance of realising that I was a total eejit.

At the naïve and tender age of twenty-one and being a hard working and industrious young thespian full of desire to show off my skills to the world, I greatly enjoyed working an almost twelve hour stint. My day in the metropolis of Sydney started at ten in the morning with an ice cold shower, a hearty breakfast of lambs fries, eggs and bacon and then it was of to the theatre to give an exhilarating performance in Peter Hanke’s “Offending the Audience”.  This was in the days when “Lunch-time theatre” was the in-thing and audiences flocked to the theatre to be insulted by a bunch of energetic Poms.
The price of their ticket included a small bag of over ripe tomatoes and stale bread rolls.

Handke's play is an hour-long polemical improvisational lecture about the theatre, taking place in a theatre, which tries to be as unlike theatre as it possibly can be. Four strapping, fit and dynamic young actors bombarded the audience with insults, ranging from the cynically benign to the outright atrociously disgusting.

Reactions were varied. Some audiences were mesmerised and wouldn’t utter a word. Others, displaying true Aussie grit and an inbred hatred of Pommies, pelted us with their rolls and tomatoes. After such a performance it was another quick shower and into the nearest hostelry to see if we could meet up with any of the audience and continue to insult them. As you can imagine this did result in some hair-raising alcoholically induced mayhem, which required the intervention of the local constabulary to restore the peace.

Recuperating from such events either in a police cell or back in comfort of your B&B’s bedroom was a regular occurrence. Then there was the preparation for the evening performance of King Lear. This was either a short session at Bondi beach chatting up the local girls who seemed to be completely ignored by their local male counterparts. Or an afternoon’s nap before we all had to join the main company for a warm up session at the theatre.

The performance was, to put it mildly, long. Four and a half hours including two intervals. In those days the attention span of an audience was longer and they were educated to the fact that Shakespeare is 15th century soap opera. So the Aussies thought nothing about nipping out to the local bar to have a quick schooner and a pie floater and returning ten minutes later to pick up were the story left off.

We junior thespians all played small supporting roles and also had long spells off-stage. It was during these times that we used to either watch the performances we were understudying from the wings or play games of chess, dice, cards or scrabble. These games often tended to distract you from the job at hand, - that of performing in a play - and many times screams were heard through the tannoy system calling the third servant-on-the-left to get his arse on-stage! However I learnt to play many games. Little did I know that in later life I would be a complete eejit and regret the learning of these skills.

I was the servant that gets killed by the Duke of Cornwall while he pulls out Gloucester’s eyes. Never once did I miss my entrance even though my Queen was being threatened by two pawns and a bishop.

But later in my career whilst I was playing the evil Claudius in another Shakespearean masterpiece Hamlet I nearly did fail to get on stage in time for my cue.

The game of chess was to blame.

 I am by all accounts a mediocre player but during this later production at the Alexander theatre in Johannesburg the actors playing Horatio and Guildenstern were keen and fervent players.

 As you may well know Claudius does have an almost thirty minute break and I was drawn into the chess tournament. The game in question had been in progress for five days and for the first time it looked as if I had our chess guru, Guildenstern, a move or two away from a check-mate.

The Alexander Theatre had a strange, actor-unfriendly design. The architect who designed the building decided that the actors should be housed in dressing rooms that were as far away from the stage as possible. Four flights of stairs, a walk through a cavernous underbelly of the stage and the ascent of another flight of stairs was the only way that any performer could make an entrance on stage-left. A stage-right entrance required only the descent of the four initial flights.

My first grand entrance with all the court following was on stage-left.

My cue rang out through the tannoy.

Expletives flowed, heart pounded and pumped muscles tore. I knew there was no way I would be able to make the stage-right entrance in time. The production was fortunately directed as a modern dress version and my long and slow kingly entrance was accompanied by a mighty fanfare of trumpets.

As the last note of the stately regal trumpet died echoing in the auditorium an unnerving eerie silence descended. Standing on stage-right was the full court, lords, ladies, courtiers, lonely Gertrude and the juvenile delinquent Hamlet.

Suddenly I appeared down stage-left and uttered what I consider to be my best line of improvised Shakespeare.

“What doest thou there?!!!”

I immediately snapped my fingers and ordered the whole court to circle the stage, fall in behind me and then proceeded to march them all back to where they had all just come from. Using the device known as a pregnant pause I awaited the arrival of my fellow chess playing thespian, - an out of breath Guildenstern who had traversed the theatre’s underbelly, and greeted him with the opening lines of the scene:-

“Welcome, dear Rosencrantz”, and after beautifully handled Pregnant pause, I continued, “Guildenstern!
Moreover that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending.”

I never again played a game of chess during a performance and I never again almost missed an entrance.

 But I’m happy to consider myself a self-confessed eejit!

Methylated in the Blue Mountains

My nine month tour of Australia did teach me a lot of other important lessons in the life of a jobbing actor, apart from the previously mentioned one of being a complete eejit. It was, in these tender years, that I was introduced to passion fruit, Brian the snail and learnt a great deal of the Australian lingua-franca.

Our company had been invited to the Adelaide Arts Festival, and with a Labour government in power, the British Arts council was offering an extra bonus which was expressly to be used for, “Extending British culture to the Commonwealth” Tandem productions of Shakepeares’s “King Lear” and “Loves Labours Lost” with lunchtime productions of Samuel Beckett’s “End Game”, “Escurial” by Michel De Ghelderode, and Peter Handke’s “Offending the Audience”, the stage was set.

What British culture was to be found in an Irish-Frenchman’s play about men in dust bins, a Belgium’s playwright’s farce and a German’s hour-long polemical improvisational lecture was anybody’s guess.

But the two Shakepeares and the star-studded cast which included, Timothy West and wife Prunella Scales and at-the-time boyfriend of Vanessa Redgrave, the yet to be James Bond –Timothy Dalton, attracted the attention of the Adelaide festival organisational committee. We arrived in Adelaide flying BOAC as it was then known.

The flight lasted well over twenty four hours with touchdowns in Zurich, Tehran, Calcutta, Hong Kong, Perth, Canberra and a short hop to Adelaide. Ourreturn flight took seventy two hours, - but more of that another time.

For a young actor on his first visit to a foreign clime beyond the borders of Eastern Europe the trip was an adventure of my life. On our second evening after a long day’s rehearsal we were invited to the residence of the British high Commissioner. Brian the snail as he was affectionately named after his look-alike in the then very popular kiddies cartoon show called the Magic Roundabout.

Brian moved at speed of a tortoise carrying a snail with ten ton of Mafia-styled concrete blocks on its head. Meaning, - he didn’t moved at all. He lounged on a recliner in his vast back garden whilst costumed butlers and maids scurried about delivering excellent G&Ts and schooners of Australia’s finest beers on silver trays.

As is normal at these soiree gatherings thespians know when they are onto a good thing. Free food and drink was on offer, oysters, prawns,clams, salmon and a lavish spread of every roast of meat, game and poultry. Entertainment expenditure is listed very high on the budgetsheet of the diplomatic service and the scene was set for a good old thrash.

We had all been instructed to be on our best behaviour by our company manager. We were and the rest of the six weeks performances in Adelaide were booked out. All the shows, including out lunchtime sessions, received critical acclaim and we played to full houses, so we were suddenly informed that we’d been invited to Sydney and Melbourne and the tour was to be extended.

 We were all delighted at the thought of having work for another nine weeks. However the tricky question was raised about where we were going to stay and the even trickier question of “per diems” was raised by our union representative. These added engagements were not part of the original contract and we were told that new ones were being drawn up and the company manager would let us see them as soon as we arrived in Sydney.

 A friend of mine at the time was a Mr James Snell, a fellow junior actor who was also in the lunchtime productions. A fellow imbiber of alcoholic beverages and a partaker of the dreaded weed, as it was then known. James was an avid smoker of what the Aussies called “Mull”.

 During our stay in Adelaide he had made contact with a dealer in the product and established a rapport with him. So on our last night in the city we arranged a drink with him to find out where we could get the “Mull” in Sydney. He gave us several telephone numbers and two addresses.

 This set our young excited minds to work now that we had some contacts in Sydney. If, as had been suggested by the company manager, as long as we gave him our contact details we could stay with friends or relatives and not in the hotel which was going to be booked by the company. We had name names and addresses. So James suggested we take full advantage of this.

 The added incentive was an increased “per diem’ – the daily allowance. We would get one hundred and fifty Aussie dollars per week as compared to fifty if we stayed in hotel and had our meals with the rest of the cast.

 The die was set for naughty times.

 On landing in Sydney we said farewell to our fellow thespians and took a taxi to a suburb called Paddington which was quite close to the area known as Kings Cross, a bohemian suburb which at the time was a chosen place for American service-men taking R&R from the war in Vietnam. Restand recuperation for the Yankee soldiers meant being stoned out of their tiny minds for as long as possible.

James had definitely chosen the right place to assuage his addiction to the dreaded weed. On meeting the long haired hippy residents at the address we were given it was almost as if we had arrived back at our dingy basement flat in Hampstead London.

 “No worries mate’ said Geoff, “you can doss down here, 20 dollars a week, take the end room next to the back door, the showers outside, and so’s the Dunny, the great white telephone!” I was just becoming accustomed to the Aussie dialect and lingua franca.

He meant the toilet.

 After the second week in Sydney James and I had settled into our routine. Understudy rehearsals in the morning, lunchtime performance sessions which turned out to be a lot more violent than in Adelaide.

The police had to be called twice to the bar next to our venue to separate the warring factions that the Pieter Hanke play created. Thetheatre going liberals tended to be pro-Pom and the anti-royalty factions would make any excuse for a punch-up, a “Blue” as they called them, usually close to the two o’clock closing time.

It all worked out well for everybody as the Landlord would then complain that his licensed selling hours had been disrupted and the police would allow him an extra half an hour to serve his last round. James and I would then return to our doss-house have a sleep and prepare for the evening’s Shakespeare.

Like all neo-colonial countries, Australia has added national day holidays. Anzac day was around the corner. This is a day of remembrance for the fallen soldiers of bothworld wars and those who had died fighting in Vietnam alongside the Americans. It fell on a Monday so that meant we had a forty eight hour break before the Tuesday’s performances. The hippies suggested that we take a tour to the Blue Mountains, a wine farming area of the country about a two hour drive outside Sydney, if you take the national highways.

 They arranged with a couple of friends who had an old VW – “Dub” to take us. We went the long way round, along Bell’s Line Road from the suburb of Richmond, through to Mount Tomah and across to Mount Victoria and covered most of the vast Blue Mountain National park.

After about three hours we found ourselves at the weathered limestone peaks of the The Three Sisters, one of the iconic landmarks of the Blue Mountains. They tower more than 900 metres high among the cliffs of the Jamison Valley.

These unusual formations watch over the land of the traditional country of the Darug, Gundungurra, Wiradjuri and Dharwal Aboriginal people. According to one Aboriginal legend, the pillars were once three beautiful sisters named 'Meehni', 'Wimlah' and ‘Gunnedoo' who were turned into stone by a powerful tribal elder.

The women had fallen in love with three brothers from another tribe, but were forbidden to marry under tribal law. The brothers decided to capture the three sisters, causing a major battle, and the elder turned the women into stone to protect them.

He had intended to reverse the spell when the battle was over, but was killed himself. As only he could reverse the spell to return the women to their former beauty, the sisters remain in their magnificent rock state as an eternal reminder of this battle.

The character of the Three Sisters changes throughout the day and throughout the seasons as the sunlight brings out the magnificent colours. Our hosts then decided we should get down to the serious business of wine tasting and we drove off to Hunter Valley, which is Australia's oldest wine growing region. It is also boasts fine dining, cooking schools, galleries, health spa retreats and golf courses. These later four offerings were outside the reach of our limited budget, so we concentrated on the freebies.

All the wineries offered samples of local cheeses, hand-made chocolates, charcuterie, dairy goods, sourdough breads and olive oils. Finally at about three in the afternoon we joined a wine tasting master class and sampled a varied selection of wines at one of more than forty cellar doors. We learnt that the first vines in the Hunter Valley were planted by families in the 1820s. The Hunter Valley semillon is widely considered the iconic wine of the region, but the Hunter also produces wine from a wide variety of grapes including shiraz, chardonnay, cabernet sauvignon and verdelho.

As the sun set Tiny, a massive rugby playing lock forward, who was driving said he heard of a “B & S” going on in a small town called Wollombi and we should “Give it a thrash.” “What’s a B & S?” I asked.

 “A Batchelor and Spinter’s or Shelia’s bash.’ answered Tiny.

 “A Great place for us Root-Rats.”

 “Root-Rats?” I questioned.

 “Horny males, Bruce!” and the other two males Gary and Tony laughed. “A good place to pick up Shelias! Time to have a naughty!”
 
 So we stocked up in next town with “BYOs”, because the “B & S” was a “bring your own booze” party. I made sure Toddie was full to the brim with a delightful Aussie gin, which was made, I was told, from Juniper berries similar to an old Dutch brew. It was light blue in colour, and mixed well with tonic water it made a delightful drink.

 The gathering was in full swing when we arrived with about a hundred mostly youngsters cavorting about, twisting and shouting to the music of Chuck Berry, the Beatles and the Rolling stones. James immediatelyfound his fellow “Mull” smokers and proceeded to get stoned out of his tiny mind.

 I decided to chase the Shelias and spent most of the night dancing under the star lit sky, hoping I could “Pull a Shelia and have a naughty.”

 At about three in the morning my legs were beginning to give way and all the Shelias I’d tried getting plastered on my blue gin had disappeared, leaving Toddie empty and my “Donger’ unused. 

James sidled onto the dance area carrying a plastic bottle containing a bluish liquid, and joined in the remaining few dancers. He was taking what appeared to me as constant slugs from the bottle, and with a devilish back swing as The Stone’s “Fuck the star” blasted the air waves, he passed me the bottle screaming, “I found some of your gin.” I took the bottle and had mighty gulp, which I immediately tried to spew out of my mouth. 

 James laughed hysterically like only a stoned person can.He had been faking the drinking, and had handed me a bottle of Methylated spirits.

 I never again drank gin until I travelled to Malawi, as every time I burped I had to “Chunder” in the nearest “Great white Telephone”, and for the next three days the horrible taste of the Meths stayed in my mouth.

 I cursed him for the rest of the tour after which our friendship ended.