The Trip to Paradise and Alvin Stardeath
Leaving Egypt took will power and for
the last days I was singing, 'Let my people go' in my head – which
actually might have a political bias in the original song which I
wouldn't agree with (if I actually knew the song well) but
nevertheless, all politics aside, that one line was playing on a loop
in my mind.
My reasons for leaving can be read
about here:
http://www.writerscentre.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/winter-news.html
so let's deal with the physical and emotional what and how of the
actual doing of it.
I started preparing for departure a
month earlier as I needed to tell my landlord and then the cleaner
Samira and then aside from all the practical things that had to be
done I was also having to cope with Samira's emotional breakdowns as
the date got closer; with her tears sometimes starting before she'd
even stepped into the flat. I was also still running my courses,
editing and doing a number of other things whilst back at home I got
rid of huge amounts of possessions until the last 3 days I was
sleeping on a bare mattress with a veil over me for a sheet. Leaving
Egypt is also costly as I ended up giving hoddeya to all and sundry
that have been in any kind of service so that a manner of goodwill
was left – and with some it was almost a matter of money gifts
warding off their evil eye.
Three days before I left Egypt my
mobile was stolen from the cafe at the Opera House and I lost my
Egyptian telephone number that I had had for 7 years, all my numbers
stored for the last 7 years and the phone itself that I had had for 3
years and was a cheap cheerful Chinese model; pink with hearts.
After an initial upset about this I then decided it was somewhat of a
blessing and a sign that the new was very much with me and the past
was the past.
The last week or so before I travelled
was all about trying to minimise my personal belongings to fit into 2
suitcases and this proved to be a psychological ordeal - exacerbated
I believe by flashbacks to an acid trip in Kho Panghan where I was
unable to pack a bag and was filmed by a man making a 'Say no to
drugs' video. I finally finished the packing and was left with two
very heavy suitcases to pull along and a sports bag to carry on my
shoulder – this was actually an impossibility in all events.
The morning of the travel actually
arrived and I had a driver booked that is a real gem and does a type
of fast track service all the way to passport control. As we left my
street at 6.30am I thought thank god that this is the last time I
will hear the 'car parking' guy shouting manically, or wake up to the
ongoing car horns, or the street arguments, or in the middle of the
night to the zibella guy brushing the rubbish pointlessly to nowhere;
sweep sweep sweep on and on for one hour. I felt a very faint
sentimentality for the kushk guys, especially the one who always
claps his hands when he is nervous in any way, like a fearful seal
beached in a Cairo road.
So the practicalities of the travel
itself began. At the madness of Cairo airport one is thankful for
the slackness of Egypt Air but also disconcerted as bags are allowed
through overweight, extra bags are allowed on board, the security
check is half hearted, my passport and boarding card unexamined by
the woman checking them as we waited at the gate. It doesn't give
one a huge confidence in the state of the aircraft itself – but
that is where one has to just hand over trust as air travel is a
necessary mode of transport in most international journeys.
In the terminal and on the plane one
wonders how certain people have even got that far – they don't even
know if they are at the right gate, they can't work out their seat
number, they don't understand how to put on the seatbelt. Given that
it was a flight to UK with many British citizens so understanding the
language completely is a curse as well as blessing; the two chav guys
who talked about washing and ironing clothes, speaking in horrible
loud Kentish accents and swearing a lot. What on earth were they
doing in Cairo? Laying pipelines? Then there was the not so old and
not so immobile woman who was relishing her wheelchair service and
talking about everything and anything loudly – even about her ear
phones and then her Diet Coke as her compatriots listened to her
empathically. I realised, not for the first time, that I am angered
by people that yawn loudly and also that cough in a seeming affected
way. Anyway, I sat comfortably enough in my seat, did my meditative
breathing every time I felt anxious about the flying and watched one
of my favourite films; Cleopatra – with Eizabeth Taylor and Richard
Burton.
We landed 10 minutes late at Heathrow
and given that I then only had 1 hour to go through passport control,
retrieve luggage, somehow carry it and get to the National Express
station I wasn't overly hopeful. It transpired that we all had to
first walk for about 10 minutes to reach passport control, the bags
were then slow to come round on the belt and I was then stopped
momentarily by Customs. Finally I was free of all procedures and
started to run as well as I could pushing my burdened trolley along
and trying to find the National Express station which involved a long
walk and then wait for lifts to go down a level only to then find
that was another bus station and having to then go back to another
level – I finally arrived at the National Express area – a crazed
person shouting 'I'm coming through!' as I ran haphazardly with my
trolley. I got to the coach bay with 5 minutes to spare before the
coach departure time. And then the problems began. The coach I was
booked on due to depart at 1.50pm did not arrive, the staff kept
saying it was delayed until at 2.45pm they said that the driver had
'disappeared' and was out of all radio contact. At 3pm they said
they would put the Cornwall destination passengers on the Bristol
bus, after getting us to queue for it they then said they were not
doing that. They then said they would 'rail' us, meaning they would
buy train tickets for our destinations and take us to the train
station by coach. However, as I had my heavy cases which were
impossible to manoeuvre without a trolley to take them all I said it
would be better for me by coach as rail travel involved steps, stairs
and other difficult negotiations. After a lot of waiting and talks I
was given a ticket for the 4.55pm coach and told that I was
guaranteed my seat and that the coach was running, my luggage was
fine to take and all was well and they gave me £10 to spend whilst I
was waiting. The coach did indeed arrive on time and one of the
platform staff ensured I was at the front of the queue – then the
driver opened the gate and inspected my ticket and then became weird
about the authenticity of my ticket (which had been issued only
30mins before by the organisation that employs him) and he looked at
my luggage and the conversation went something like this:
Him: Oh no, no, you're not taking
that, no.
Me: Why? It's only 2 cases.
Him: No, no, no.
Me: I don't understand.
Him: You're not taking those, they
aren't allowed and there's no room.
Me: But everyone is allowed 2 cases
and I have a ticket for the bus issued by the company themselves and
they said everything was fine.
Him: Look, it isn't your job to tell
me how things work, this is my bus (points to rules on back of
ticket) It says here you aren't allowed more than 1 case (this is a
lie as it says 2 medium sized cases may be carried).
Me: (in exasperation) I don't
understand what you want me to do.
Him: You should pay £10 more.
Me: Fine.
Him: No, I don't want your money.
Me: Look, I've just come all the way
from Egypt, my coach didn't arrive, National Express have given me
this new ticket, I have to get to Penzance and this is the last coach
available today, I'm by myself and I have this luggage.
Him: I'm not saying you can't get on,
but from now understand the rules.
(He starts taking the luggage, I move towards the coach to board)
Him: Oh no, you're not taking that.
Me: What?
Him: That
Me: But this is my carry on.
Him: Not that size it isn't, that's
going in the hold.
Me: But it has all my important things
in it.
Him: So, get them out.
(He stands over me whilst I scramble to
get things out of the bag trying to think of the most important
items, then he takes the bag and I board the bus)
As we set off he does the microphoned
introduction to the bus, 'Hello everybody, my name is Alvin and I'm
your driver for today.' he then guides us through the coach's safety
features and the stops we will make and at what times.
Well, Alvin, I think, you've got it
coming. I muse about Alvin and his patriarchal control, how insecure
he must be, behind his pasty faced appearance and his polished shoes
he's a man scared of women. I see how he jokes with the flirtatious
older woman, how he speaks with an element of respect to male
colleagues, but with me he didn't know how to be in tandem. Yes,
Alvin, I think, because I'm more intelligent than you, better looking
than you and got more going on than you. I can see this type of man
is the type to eat the boiled egg his ageing mother gives him but to
always wish she'd be more house proud, he's the type that uses
disinfected wet wipes to clean himself, he was probably bullied at
school and now assumes some level of control over luggage amounts in
his low brow job.
I go in and out of sleep, unable to
find a comfortable position because my travel pillow is trapped in
the hold and so I continue to enjoy my hate towards Alvin. How come
he has that name anyway? He's some southern English white guy in his
early 40s – the name and he do not fit. Since I have only ever
heard of one other person with this name, the performer Alvin
Stardust, I decide to name him Alvin Stardeath.
Then Alvin tells us all that he is
getting off at Exeter and we will have another driver. Great, I
think, I'll ask the other driver to let me have my carry on bag. The
other driver is a wiry Cornishman who has no problem at all in
getting my bag for me out of the hold and so I could finally relax as
we went through every town in south west England, counting the hours
in the darkness of night. I was momentarily disturbed by some
Latvians eating fish sandwiches and a chavvy Cornish girl talking on
her phone for about 20 minutes to some idiot about their Facebook
statuses, but all in all I was glad that after 21 hours of travel I
was now approaching my new home and the beauty of the sea that was
waiting in its wide welcome.
The Monkees
I was living in Manchester with my crazed musician/sound
engineer boyfriend (who later joined The Fall and Elastica). It was
towards the end of our 5 year relationship – though at the time we
didn't know that. He was very excited because The Monkees were
coming to town on a comeback tour (they have had more comebacks
since) and we had been invited to the VIP party. Those formative
years of mine were spent at many 'in' parties and I knew and hung out
at times with The Stone Roses (they were not yet famous) and
frequented the Hacienda and saw Happy Mondays win the Battle of the
Bands (a scene later shown in the film about the time). Anyway, I
digress..
So, we went along to
the venue in the city centre, I had wanted a friend to come too but
Dave hadn't allowed it as he said 'She has bad teeth'.. Yes, he was
that far gone. As we walked up the red carpet Dave was clutching my
hand tightly and saying through clenched teeth things like 'Don't
embarrass me when we're in there'. He had always had this notion
that I was a liability.
We got up to the VIP
area – which was an entire 3rd floor of the club with a
huge glass dancefloor. As we entered the bar area, Dave said he had
to go to the bathroom and that I shouldn't move or talk to anyone
whilst he was gone. As soon as he was out of sight I went to the bar
and I saw a man getting a bottle of champagne on ice; I asked the
barman what drinks they had and the prices and he laughed and said
it was all free and I could have anything I wanted. So I said 'I'd
like a bottle of champagne, please.' I looked around and saw I had
been observed by 3 guys and they put their glasses up to cheer me and
laughed and they motioned for me to come over. Having nothing else
to do I went to their table and they told me they liked my style and
we started drinking and chatting. They asked me if I was alone and I
told them about Dave and how he was always trying to control me and
they laughed more and then one of them started talking about 'Davy'
and how he was being weird and then at this point Dave came into view
and his face dropped and froze and he just stared over at me in
horror and then at this point I looked around at the guys and I was
like – 'Oh my god, you're The Monkees, right?' And they all
laughed and they got me more champagne and then Like a Virgin by
Madonna started playing and this sheikh suddenly appeared and got
hold of my hand and took me to the glass dancefloor and we rocked
out.
It was a hilarious
night.
Minotaur (synopsis for script)
Set in modern day
Paris. Daytime. Two white minotaurs are running across the city.
The Seine becomes a river of fire. At sudden moments the Metro
becomes a channel of raging water and a silver streak appears and
then disappears within the crashing water that has consumed &
replaced the carriage. The Merman appears. Powerful, almost a
minotaur of the water, and random people are plucked into the
Merman's realm.
The
mythical scenes set in a contemporary daytime scene heighten the
surreality and impact of the images. People are going around their
everyday business which is interrupted, deviated, thrown into chaos
by the energy of the beasts. The Metro becoming water is the
Underworld dreamscape, the Seine becoming fire is the Overworld order
being changed, revealing the unmanagable. The two minotaurs running
in mirrored effect show there is no escape, there can be avoidance
but the beast is there at all times. The Minotaur was borne from the
union of a white bull that rose from the sea and a woman, Pasiphae
the queen of Crete, the consort to Minos the king. Therefore the
idea of a merman below and a minotaur above is indicative of that.
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After Midnight Conversations
i think you can turn the silence and the darkness into something potent
even the darkness - imagined as a force - as a body - can be most arousing
like a dark silk fabric licking the skin
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