From Pool to Poole

From Pool to Poole

Assorted fathers

All the world’s a stage, and I’ve certainly strutted in finery across many a board.

It has been noted and reported in numerous theatrical gossip magazines that I have, throughout my illustrious career spanning the last fifty-two years, also been found lying prostrate on many a board. Deserted by party-going friends and foes alike, I have been discovered, more times than I care to remember, on a park bench clutching my beloved “Toddie” in gloved hand, mumbling, “Oh, for a muse of fire,” to many a star-lit sky.

These gloriously entertaining events have occurred with an almost curtain-up regularity, from my early days in the theatre capital of the world, London, to my latter years here in my jobbing actor’s garret in “Mr Mandela’s Rainbow Nation”.

A jobbing actor!

Now, that’s a descriptive term that is not used very often these days. I find the lack of use of this very complimentary terminology a great injustice.

Think of all those actors’ faces you’ve seen in one B-grade movie after another, or on one TV soapie in 1973, then playing the same character in another soapie in a different country in 1998, and the same character, slightly aged, in another soapie twelve years later. Well, I am one of those.

I’m a jobbing actor. I am privileged to belong to this large and often unsung group of fine talented Thespians who continue to earn a rather limited living and keep their noses just above the waterline.

My “Toddie” and my name were given to me at a very early age.

My mother, Gladys, found herself in the family way towards the end of the Second World War. She was a large-bosomed fan dancer entertaining the remaining American troops and returning British soldiers at the Opera House in the home of music-hall comedy: Blackpool, England. Unable to afford digs in high season, my mother, who was always willing to help anyone in distress, made use of the convoys of military trucks ferrying servicemen back to their barracks, and the free accommodation at a nearby public house.

The journey to the barracks near the small quaint town of Kirkham should have taken three-quarters of an hour but, if an obliging driver, and the accompanying M.P., could be bribed, then a short detour would be made via my mother’s hostelry, which offered an after-hours service. The landlord was a jovial, well-mannered and refined local country gent and, in spite of his name, Robert Ulrich Smelley was extremely well groomed. It was in Mr Smelley’s attic room that my mother used to engage in her extracurricular fan-dancing activities.

Mr R. U. Smelley was able to buy more deodorant than he needed, and acquire some rather expensive French perfume, using his extra bar takings and the ration tickets my mother stole from her clients’ trousers on a nightly basis, so a good time was had by all.

One such night was the August Bank holiday of 1945, and on a foggy London morning in May the following year I was born. My mother never liked hospitals. By eight o’clock that evening I was being cuddled in the muscular arms of visiting American actor Todd Stardust. Todd was young, wealthy and not too wise. He was playing the lead in one of America’s first radio soaps. He was passing through London on his way to Paris, where he hoped he could find inner depth for his two-dimensional character by visiting the bars frequented by Mr Hemingway.

At the airport, the next day, he gave my mother a beautifully engraved pewter hip flask as a momento of his passage. Toddie hasn’t left my lips since Mr Stardust boarded his flight; as my mother discovered that, if she held the open top of it directly under my nose, it seemed to stop the hideous wailing I enjoyed so much.

I was only christened five years later.

The tardiness of this event was due to my mother’s hectic schedule and the high demand for nubile fan dancers across the length and breadth of the British Isles. It was hard enough for her to remember all the newly choreographed routines, and deal with the threat of forgetting a downward fan swing and revealing to the Lord Chancellor something she should not, without having to find time for such trivia as the registration of my birth.

However, in 1952 she was faced with the problem of my schooling and, in order to register me with a local authority, she had to catch up on her paperwork. She managed to convince a friendly registrar in Liverpool that he could do it all for her. With one mighty leap my birth was registered. I was enrolled at a local primary school, and introduced to an Anglican priest who was going to christen me the following day. I sat in the front pew of the Anglican cathedral whilst he and my mother performed a highly athletic display of the Kama Sutra over the font.

The only hiccup in the registration came when the registrar asked my mother the name of my father.

She giggled sweetly at him and said, “Oh, my darling, it was such a long time ago, I can’t possibly remember. It could’ve been Cecil, or was it Eddie? Er, no, no, I think Steven or, yes, yes, dear Simon.”

The registrar smiled, his arm gently encircling my mother’s waist.

She crooned and softly whispered, “They were all such lovely boys at the Old Trout Pool.”

A brainwave filtered down through the registrar’s right hand as he neatly wrote C.E.S.S. Poole on the certificate. The added “e” occurred as my mother guided his left hand further towards her bra strap.

In honour of my mother’s giving ways, on my graduation from the Royal Academy, sixteen years later, I decided to keep my real name when I registered with Equity.

The Attic

 The Attic

In the mid-fifties, I and my mother, when she was not off on one of her fan-dancing tours, were living with my grandparents.

It was a Victorian house – 17 rooms including three separate toilets and two bathrooms, ideal for renting rooms either on a short term basis during the summer months or long term, but excluding the two back garden-sheds, the pigeon loft, and the attic and by the time of my 14th birthday I had the pleasure of sleeping in them all – bathrooms, toilets and sheds included.

Strange?

 The situations which resulted in me being shuttled around the maze of corridors and rooms were also strange. But then, boarding houses are the strangest places. They have this creative ability of absorbing the character of the souls who pass through their portals making them multi-faceted shells of human pain and joy.

Laszlo Bartos entered the portals of The Beachcomber one fine summer’s day in 1957. He occupied the attic and for this privilege he paid my mother the princely sum of one pound and ten shillings a week. His arrival at the height of summer season along the Fyde coast had necessitated me being shunted into the last wooden shed at the bottom of the back garden which housed my grandpa’s tools.

“Kivanok!”

“Hi”, I replied as I released my hand and glanced up at the sweat glistening on the stranger’s forehead.

Two words of greeting – the only two we exchanged at our first meeting. He clutched a battered old suitcase wrapped round with string in his left hand. My eyes darted from the case to his bright yellow nylon socks. They seemed to light up the space between his grey flannel trousers and black plim-soles in a way that appeared to keep his slender body out of contact with the ground. The closer I observed him the more I was aware of a surreal aura that enveloped his whole body. The air shimmered around him.

“I want must study – me – alone, get the English. I need room. Time to get heal.”

My mother who was in charge of the rentals, had no time for small talk, especially pigeon-Hungarian-English and replied, “You can have the attic. One pound ten shillings!”

“I take it,” and off they walked.

I wondered if he would manage to survive the heat up there. I had been an occupant of the attic and during the summer months and the oppressing humid warmth of the house rose and hung trapped under the rafters. He wanted privacy. That he would certainly have up the two flights of twenty-two steps to the dingy brown fading door.

Mr. Bartos proved to be one of the best lodgers my mother and grandparents had ever known. He kept himself to himself. He was clean in his habits, as least he cleaned the bath, which he shared with the summer time guests on the second story, after he’d used it and to my mother this was of prime importance. So after the first few tentative weeks when she used to follow him around like his own shadow, checking how much hot water he’d used and whether he’d switched off the hallway and stair-well lights, my mother resumed her normal routine.
 
To her mind Mr. Bartos could do no wrong. Every Friday night he paid his rent in cash and my mother wrote him out a receipt.

He secured a reasonably paid job working as a conductor, a ticket dispenser on the Blackpool tramway system. He was supplied with a uniform and his very own ticket machine and belt. His name was etched into the leather belt and the machine had its own serial number.

He was very proud of this and often asked me if we had any brasso and black boot polish. I would often catch him sitting in his fold-up chair he brought down from the attic, enjoying the summer time sun and cleaning the metal machine until it glowed in the dark and rubbing the boot polish into his belt, which he wore off duty when he attended the local Catholic church every Sunday.

His job also was a blessing to me.

I had a daily long tram ride to school, or to Gypsy Rose Lee on weekends. School was at the South Shore of Blackpool almost next to the Pleasure Beach amusement park, a three shilling return ride. It meant that when he was on the early morning shift six am till two in the afternoon I gained a free ride on the tram.

Laszlo and I had our own little secrets, as I pocketed the fair money my mother gave me and bought chocolates and crisps, which I used to share with him.

We established a routine should a ticket inspector board the tram. He would whistle and a minute later he was next to me rolling out a three-penny student ticket, which entitled me to five tramway stops.

We’d worked out that the inspectors were usually off the tram after the fourth stop.

However, it amazed me that the inspectors did not cotton on, as often I was twenty or so stations away from my point of alighting. It was clear that the inspectors didn’t pay much attention to the school uniform, because that would have given them an idea as to where I would be getting off the tram if he’d been able to identify the uniform.

When Laszlo was on the afternoon shift 2pm till 10pm his journeys from South Shore to my home of Cleveleys, we followed the same routine. I normally finished lessons at 4pm and would be able to catch the four-thirty tram, but on days when extracurricular activities like rugby, drama, choir practice happened, I’d only be finished at approximately six o’clock. On those days I had to stand around at the tram stop as I knew Laszlo’s tram would not be coming till twenty past six.

So during my second year at secondary school I had an ample supply of sweets, chocolates and my favourite new on the market, smokey-bacon crisps.

Over the winter term at school Laszlo’s and my friendship blossomed, whether this was due to the very hot coffee I had procured from the border’s matron, for my large thermos-flask and shared with Laszlo on those gusty wind swept evenings, I’d never discover.

 He told me of his escape from Hungary during the 1956 Hungarian uprising. Soviet tanks on the street, how to make a Molotov-petrol-cocktail-bomb, how the black-market operated and many of the political depravations he endured.

The story of his older brother’s death was spine chilling. Lucas had been in the Hungarian army and had deserted and joined the uprising. He was captured by the Soviets and shot, his body wearing his dull green army fatigues was delivered to his parent’s house wrapped in a yellow sheet. They were told he was a traitor and a coward.
 
I was gaining valuable knowledge about the workings of the communist system, which thirty-five years later sprang into my head on my first visit to apartheid South Africa. The working class Hungarian and the South African blacks had much in common; pass laws, restricted living areas, a thriving black market and a diabolically poor wage packet.

I digress. I’m sorry but it tends to be a habit of mine which I have been trying to cure all of my life; where was I?

Oh yes, tram rides and Laszlo the perfect conductor.

He told me a recent argument he’d had with one of the inspectors who’d referred him to his boss. It was his yellow nylon socks. They were not part of his regulation dress code.

“You not give me black socks!” he’d screamed at his boss, “I these wear as yellow reminder of the uprising!” Obviously the Hungarian uprising was beyond the comprehension of the surly middle aged Blackpudlican and he demanded that Laszlo wear black socks and if he was ever caught again incorrectly dressed, “H’d be goin back t’ uprising!”

Laszlo was deeply upset when he told me this and was almost close to tears. I did my best to console him, but a near adolescent youngster was hardly capable of offering advice, or tear  him away from his horrific memories.

I didn’t see Laszlo for the rest of the week either at home or on the tram.

It was the Sunday morning of that week when I was summoned by my mother to find out what was wrong with Mr Bartos. He hadn’t paid his rent as usual on Friday night, and she’d noticed an odd smell in the upstairs rooms.

I was given the pass-key to the attic and climbed the two flights of stairs. It was almost a year since his arrival and the summer months with their exceptionally hot days were with us again. I also noticed the smell which reminded me of the tripe my grandmother used to cook.

I opened the door and called his name, “Laszlo!”

This was the last word I spoke before I screamed so that whole street could hear me.

Laszlo was hanging from one of the cross-joists, his fold-up chair on its side a few feet away from his dangling bare feet and entwined around his neck were six pairs of tied together bright yellow socks.

The police translated his two word suicide note “emlékére” in remembrance.

Lost on the Rhine

Lost on the Rhine

The sexual education of children particularly those approaching puberty has, and always will be, a hotly debated issue. The basic findings of all surveys on the subject come to a similar conclusion; it is sadly insufficient. However with today’s technology and access to the WWW today’s enquiring minds can easily gain access to this often taboo topic.

Unfortunately this access can lead to pedophilia, kidnapping and other even more horrifying conclusions.

My casual, slow and satisfying education way back in the nineteen-fifties was gained purely and simply by the act of observation and some strange graphic drawings on a blackboard during my biology classes.

It was during my time with Gypsy Rose Lee as her assistant that the full use of my eyes came into play. This was due to the fact that Rose Lee demanded that I scrutinize every possible punter, so that I could gather as much information about them as possible.

In the early mornings before the punters arrived I used to walk along the shore-line and the promenade of Blackpool. I would occasionally find a young couple “At-it”, as the sexual act was described at that time, under the iron girders of Blackpool’s north pier.

In my wanders during the height of the summer season just after high tide I used to find the debris and residue of sexual activity, an assorted supply of used rubber-jonnies. These useful contraceptive devices, made by a rubber company in which the Vatican had a share, came in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes, but they were not what I was after. Apart from noting that they looked like dead jelly fish they held no interest for me.

I was on the look out for far more sellable items, like watches and jewelry which the sun-worshippers had lost the previous day. It was amazing as to what I would find amongst the broken sea-shells.

Some-days nothing, others a lucrative windfall, a rolex watch, a diamond ear-ring, a gold bangle. 

Gypsy Rose Lee had a contact in the fencing-trade, known as Larry the fingers. He was a forger by profession but also dealt in the trading of what he called “Lost-Merchandise”, thus bringing him in an extra income while staying just on the right side of the local constabulary.

I used him many years later when I was tracking down my biological father and he arranged the five passports I ended up with when I visited Munich after the 9/11 incident. You’ve presumably already read about that in the essay called “Passports”.

I digress, my apologies.

Sex at a tender age was the subject that I wished to enlighten you on.

Apart from the delicate, although at times robust handling of my private parts by some fan-dancer friends of my mother, who said. “It’s better than doing it yourself Cess. You could go blind!”

I was in theory, a virgin till the tender old age of sixteen, when all was revealed to me in a broom cupboard on board a tourist vessel cruising down the river Rhine in Germany.

I was there as I was playing Brutus in Mr Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar. It was a National Youth Theatre modern dress production and we were on tour in the mining town of Recklinghausen, in what was called West Germany.

The theatre was newly built when the coal mining company of the town “Swapped coal for art” just after the Second World War hoping they could give something back to the community, and make the fact, that they supplied Mr Hitler with most of the energy for his war effort conveniently disappear. 

This was my second NYT tour to the continent.

The previous year I was playing Paris in Romeo & Juliet. I was only reminded of this fact when I received a copy, in the mid-eighties, of Simon Master’s book entitled, The National Youth Theatre. 

Although he does not comment on my acting in the tome, my ability to make a fast buck definitely caught his attention as he mentions me in the second to last chapter, “Cess Poole spent a good part of the Romeo and Juliet season getting up at seven in the morning, walking to the local public house, The Enterprise, to swab down the bars and clean the tables, all for a few shilling and a free breakfast.”

At the time Simon was totally unaware of my ulterior motive in securing this employment and Toddie remained full to the brim throughout that summer season.

When the NYT toured the country they visited supplied them with what was called “A liaison officer”. On the Reckinghausen tour this officer was a very young attractive lady called Heidi, who certainly wanted to show her young charges the beauties of the area and the Rhine valley.

It was our first free Sunday with no performance and we were taken on a barge and chugged along the Rhine from Strasbourg to Colonge. 

After a few slugs of Dutch courage from Toddie, I made my introduction, "Ich habe Deutsch in der Schule fünf Jahre lang lernen"

 

"Das ist sehr gut Cess, müssen Sie sehr hart studieren und dann werden Sie in der Lage, die großen Werke der Literatur der Deutschen lesen."

And on she gabbled like a Messerschmitt chasing a UK bomber  thinking that I would understand.

I didn’t and we continued the conversation in pigeon German and English.

She was studying English in her first year at university and certainly understood the underlying implications involved in taking steady sips from Toddie.

I knew that Toddies contents were taking effect when she started changing all her “Sie’s” to “Du’s”. The latter being the more friendly translation for “You”. It wasn’t long before we began kissing and exploring with wild youthful abandoned hands under her great overcoat and my army surplus combat jacket.

We thought we’d found a secluded little hide-a-way to the rear of the vessel under the tarpaulin that covered a small life boat, till we heard the voices of fellow thespians congregating next to the life boat.

The cruising barge had just passed the magnificent Gothic cathedral of Colonge and they all wanted to look at it for as long as possible, so had swarmed the full length of the vessel and had moved to the stern to catch a last glimpse.

A healthy pause and silence followed until the voices died away.

Heidi said, "Lassen wir in funfzehn Minuten Andocken werden. Wir müssen uns beeilen. Ich weiß von einem Besenkammer auf dem Oberdeck. Lass uns gehen"

I understood kamer, gehen and Lass for room, hurry and go, and surmized that we only had 15 minutes before we’d be disembarking. So off we crept trying to avoid the rest of our party, and made our way inside the smallest broom cupboard on the upper deck you can imagine.

So it was amongst oily rags, buckets, hose-pipes and mops that I lost my virginity.

Sordid is perhaps a good word to describe it, but it was also filled with adventure, fear, intrepidation, anxcious pleasure, sheer ectascy, and all the other adjectival words you can find to describe your own sexual exploits.

Heidi and I continued our fly-by-night relationship for the whole of the following week before we had to return to the UK. In those days when international phone calls were expensive the trendy thing to do as parting lovers was to become pen-pals.

I am certainly glad we did, and although our relationship fizzled out two years later, the exercise of putting pen to paper has helped me write these tales.

Whether or not I learnt anything as regards sex education is another matter, but the dextrous moveability I devised amongst the mops, buckets and brushes could certainly be published in the next edition of the Kama-Sutra.

Photos of Blackpool in Sir Cess's younger years

I hope all the above pictures will give you a better idea of Sir Cess's younger days in his home town of Blackpool.

High and not so dry in Poffadder

High-and-not-so-dry in Pofadder and Munich

Have you ever been left stranded whilst you were on holiday or perhaps even when you were contracted to perform a job or a mission in a foreign clime?

Well I have.

On more than four occasions I have been left to fend for myself with only “Toddie”, a friend or two, a Good Samaritan and my own wits, to help me disengage from the predicament in which I found myself.

I hope you remember by brief description of the area of “poor grazing” found in the upper regions of the Northern Cape in South Africa.  The one-horse, one-bar, one-shop, one-church, one-petrol station, 10-farmers, 20-locals, and one hundred fifty thousand sheep, town of Pofadder stays sun-burnt on my aging hard drive.

In the month of November the temperature hovers in the upper thirties and settles around forty-three degrees at noon, and that’s in the shade. It was a Sunday and ten local English-speaking actors were assembling for breakfast in the Pofadder Hotel. We were all nursing hangovers as the previous night had been our wrap party.  Bloody Marys were organised by yours truly and gently sipped as we partook of a large Boere breakfast. Boerwors, - that’s like a sausage, bacon, liver, spiced mince, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. A lavish cholesterol packed meal fit for a Springbok front row forward.

We had been informed that we would be picked up at eleven o’clock and be driven to the nearest airport five hundred and fifty kilometres away at Uppington. Our flight back to civilisation in Egoli, the city of gold - Johannesburg, was booked for 5 p.m. and we were told that the drive would only take five hours.

Although this all happened in the early nineties the Sunday Gestapo observance laws of the Second World War remained securely locked in force in Pofadder. Had I not organised the purchase the previous morning, of a take-away supply of vodka, beer and wine we would have dryless-in-Pofadder, so to speak.

The Hotel owner, known affectionately as Oom Jan, was a good-hearted soul and was used to entertaining “uitlanders” – people from overseas. Although the bar was securely barricaded and completely off limits even to us guests he was happy to let us consume our beverages in the garden next to the swimming pool or on the well shaded patio. He also willingly served us with non-alcoholic mixers and gave us pots of herbal rooibos tea.

Iced rooibos with a splash of vodka and a twist of lemon is a beautifully refreshing drink and I heartily recommend it. Oom Jan told me that I was not the first visitor to imbibe of this delicious
beverage. He pointed to a photograph on the lobby wall. Nicki Lauder, Nigel Mansel and Michael Schummacher all linked arm in arm with glasses raised toasting the setting sun.

Oom Jan explained that they were regular visitors and that this photo was very valuable. All these formula-one drivers raced for different teams and to have Honda-Williams, Ferrari, and Jaguar personnel staying at his hotel at the same time was a strange occurrence.

 “Why”, I asked.

“The teams, they is coming here to test drive. They is using the airport runway.”

“What runway, I though the nearest airport was at Uppington?”

“Ja, she is!” he replied curtly and continued with a whisper, “But they is using the secret one!”

My ears pricked up, eager to hear yet another conspiracy theory, which were common urban legends circulating in the soon to be liberated apartheid South Africa.

He continued moving closer to my sun recliner so he could whisper in my ear. “We, us Nats, we have to be building it during the onslaught. The reds under the bed. The Yanks couldn’t be landing their Lockheed C-5 Galaxys at Waterkloof military base near Pretoria when we is up in Angola, right?”

I had no idea were Angola was never mind Pretoria and I’d never heard of a C-5 Galaxy, which sounded like cosmic chocolate bar, so I was soaking up every word.

“The Cubans man, they is up there! Thousands of the fuckas, and we is only eighty ks from Luanda! They is supplying old Savimbi with arms, the Yanks. They bring in everything, artillery, tanks, the works!”

I donned my John Le Care hat and poured him a drink. He beamed from ear to ear, knocked back a huge gulp, licked his lips and continued. “You see, Waterkloof, she is too high, on the Highveld, altitude is too high. Those big fuckers, the C-5s, they’s needing a lot of fuel for landings and take-offs, right?”

 I nodded in agreement trying to recall my A-level physics lessons in aero-dymanics.

“So we Boere maak a plan! We builds them a longer runway down here. They is nearer to the Angloan border and we is helping them fuck up the Cubans! And should the shit hit the fan, we’s got an brand new airport!”

 I think I got the picture.

 “So what happens at this runway now? A white- elephant?” seemed the obvious question.

 “Hell no man! They’s using it.” he said pointing to the photograph on the wall, “for their testing.”

“The formula-one teams?”  I asked.

“Ja, twice a year they comes in droves only for two or three days and we tries never to book them double. You know, to have two different teams at the same time. They don’t like that, ‘cause of espionage!”

 “Spying”, I enquired.

 “Ja, their trade secrets, close to the chest man”, he whispered as I refilled his glass. “They come in winter when she is cold and then in summer when its baaia varm like now. Test their cars at extreme temperatures.”

 “So what happened there?” I asked pointing to the photograph.

“Jerra man! That was Nigel, a Pom like you Cess, he discovered the rooibos and vodka and refused to leave. He had two chicks with him and he wanted to party like. Him and Nickie were great buddies and then Schooey arrived with his team and I had them all for two days! Lekker
times!”

Suddenly we were interrupted by a very disagreeable junior thespian in a near state of panic, who inadvertently knocked over my bottle of vodka and told us that it was quarter past two.

 “So what?” I said as I licked the spilt vodka off the tabletop. The poor young man broke into a soliloquy of a man demented.

“We’ve all been trying to reach them. We can’t get through. Nobody’s answering their phones, We’ve tried the assistant director, the transport manager, even the director and the grips and lighting department, they’ve gone! Everybody’s gone! There’s nobody in town, nobody!”

“Of course not son,” said Oom Jan trying to calm the young man down, “It’s Sunday, nobody moves on a Sunday in Pofadder, not even Schumacher!”

“They were meant to be taking us to the airport at eleven o’clock!!”

Oom Jan and I broke into uncontrollable laughter and I poured us another drink. “Join us.” I said to the young thespian, who seemed to be wetting his pants with agitation at the thought of being marooned in Pofadder. “I’ve even tried calling my agent!”

 I was about to say, “And what would that achieve?” but I thought better of it, as I did not want to disillusion the youngster as to the futility of agents at such a tender age.

Oom Jan sprang into Boere action. A true good Samaritan. “Tell your okes to load up my Kombi, I’lls drive you.”

We arrived at Uppington airport well in time to board our flight to Johannesburg. Oom Jan had donned the feet of his idol Mr. Shumacher. I was sorry that I had fallen asleep on the back seat of the Kombi and missed our low flying drive at two hundred and ninety kilometres an hour through the desert.

I’ll tell you about Munich next month. It was a bit drier but not much.

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!”