Willow

I like the Chinese, don't get me wrong. There's plenty of wankers on the Island giving it the large one about it being our colony, our town, our birth right. Fuck off. Traded, bought and sold for Class ‘A’s a hundred years ago. Most of the HK Chinese want us out of here the minute that clock strikes midnight and today I don't mind leaving. Funny place Hong Kong. One day you love the buzz off place, wouldn't be anywhere else in the world, next thing you know you can't fucking stand the shit hole and want to get down to the islands in Thailand for a month or two.
I collect and leave from the man, I’m not in the mood for nice sentiments today. I jump the MTR to Mongkok to find Linda, er I mean, Kelly. I could have legged it or got a cab but I got a touch paranoid and the MTR's a good way of losing people.
Mongkok has got to be the most densely populated area in the world. You'd think it easy, to find a six-foot tall American blond bird on any street, but fighting against the pedestrianised wave of little Umpa Lumpas, it's a fucking chore. The humidity is insane, I'm trying to hide in corners but need to move on. It's too much, I need to get in the shade to stop my brain from frying in the sun.
I find shelter in a shop doorway, it's more of a hole in the wall selling cyber pets, the Tamagotchi and other cheap mainland shit. There’s a drinks cooler in the corner so I grab a Pocari Sweat. I need some isotonic action. Whilst glugging on my sugar enhanced beverage I look down and notice I’ve been joined by a little old man staring, quizzically up at me. He is very small and portly, wearing little round glasses and a fez. I can’t believe it! I can’t fucking believe it. It’s the shopkeeper from Mr Benn, the hippy bloke, Michael, from the party back in England who daubed me with Henna on my forehead. He appears to be confused, it’s almost a dreamlike experience. He notices my recognition and with this he ushers me to the back of the shop where there’s three cubicles, three changing rooms. I feel compelled to pick number one and go through. Hanging up on a hook is a cowboy outfit, I try it on for size and look in the full length mirror. It fits perfectly: big boots with silver spiky spurs, a cheeky checked shirt with a leather lace tie. I look the absolute bollocks, I really fucking do.
I can hear country music, good 'ol good time, country music, which kinda draws me to the back of the changing room. Suddenly and without warning I’m in a bar, it looks like the Wild West. There’s a few guys sitting down playing poker, but this isn’t a scene from Little House on the Prairie. It's serious and real.
What have I done? What is about to happen? It doesn’t feel right and I want to return to the now, but I’ve gone to far, there’s no turning back. The dream sequence is horribly familiar, a déjà vu that I want to forget about. I look around for assistance but the shopkeeper is nowhere to be seen. I’m on my own, alone and becoming increasingly nervous about what is about to happen. The card players look through me with hatred in their steely eyes, I stride as manfully and cocksure as possible as I can to the bar, I’m feeling woefully inadequate, they can see right through me for what I am. Before I even get my order out of my mouth, there he is. He comes up beside me, the main man, The Bubbly Man, the only cowboy in town. I can feel beads of stress and sweat breaking out on my forehead, I can hear myself breathing, I can hear him breathing, nuzzling up to my ear. Threatening. I don’t feel too cocksure, as he says nothing, but strikes swiftly at the knackers. I double-up, I curl up in a ball, the agony rises up from my sacks up into my body. I wait to die.
The next ten minutes is a painful blur in slow motion, I'm on the floor gripping onto the brass foot rail of the bar waiting for him to finish. STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP. There’s a stomach churning noise of flesh being torn, ripped and shredded from my face. His sharp spurs spin and churn what’s left of my crunching cheekbones. A fire of pain rages through me, what is left of my dark soul fades and dies.
The pounding eventually stops, the real cowboy now bored of his sport, bends down to me, for the final humiliation. He clears his throat and smiles, with this he raises the index finger from each hand to either side of a particularly gruesome pus filled bubble on his left cheek. I brace myself for the on-coming attack – in one liquid motion he squeezes fiercely at the whitlow, which projects a hissing pool of venom into my eyes. Blinded and exhausted I lie there breathing in the last of my kicking, a little air clot of blood and snot dribble bubbles up and pops from my mouth signifying my defeat.
We’ve all got to take a beating sometime. Disgusted and broken, I eventually find the energy to move. Aching, exhausted, defeated, I clamber up the bar and stagger and stumble to my feet.
One of Bubbles mates want a go now, the little guy with the 'tash. The little guy, with the little dick and the little man complex. 'Fuck you', I spit. He backs away, he knows there's some left in me. Bubbles has had enough, and won't back him up.
Bewildered and confused, there’s a thumping, drilling noise in my head leaving me disoriented. Suddenly the barman, the shopkeeper, the little old man, Michael is working behind the bar polishing glasses. He looks glumly to the floor, he won’t look me in the eye as he shakes his head. He’s disappointed and appears to have little sympathy for my condition. He hands me a bar towel to clean up what’s left of my face. The Bubby Man walks away satisfied, mumbling under his breath,
‘You are not a man, you are not the man’.
In the instant I wipe the blood and tears from my eyes, without warning I’m back on the street, back in the now, finishing the dregs of my Pocari Sweat.
I check my pockets and I’m still in business the gear is all there and so is my face. That was too fucking sketchy, well weird.
It's hard and hot, I’ve got no time for stupid mind games or tricks. I'm back on the street and it's too busy. I'm getting swept away by a tide of aggressive little people, pushy shoppers. I drop a shoulder and barge through, there's still some aggro left in the engine.
I’ve got a thumping headache and I’m in a terrible mood. Even though I'm beginning to lose it, I secretly enjoy this part, barging and knocking people around on the streets, it makes me feel strong and important. I rationalise my violence by convincing myself everyone else does it, that it's a Hong Kong thing, a shopping tradition. Try this at home kids and you will get filled. These little people may bark and rant but they won't fucking bite, not the Gwailo anyway.
I finally lose my rag, I’ve got a sweat and a monkey on my back, a raging, thumping heartbeat that pulses with my headache. Not cool behaviour for a man with 14 G's in his pocket (Thought - it better not go moist on me, more fucking work when I get home).
I finally hook up with Kelly, she’s blissfully unaware of what is happening inside my head and for now it’s probably best I don’t tell her. I told her way too much in Macau and it’s kinda changed the dynamic of our relationship, made it seem more serious, made us closer. I like it, but I’m not sure about it. It’s like I’m exposing parts of myself, that should be left under wraps. Some things are just best left unsaid.
I’m quite glad she’s blissfully unaware of the dark world I carry around within me, she brings a little innocence to my life, she simply looks at me and smiles. She wants me to see these pair of Buffalo trainers with stupid heels. Are you not tall enough already honey? This is before the Spice Girls got into them, this is soooo Hong Kong honey.
Pretty soon even her shopping demands begin to piss me off. No, no, no, I've just got to go. Hungry, still thirsty, hot, bothered, exhausted. I’m having a real energy dip. Something is making me paranoid and confused. It was seeing The Shopkeeper that did it. I just want to get back into AirCon Land, I hail a Taxi.
‘You coming?’
We ride in silence, cooling down through the tunnel. Back home to our cocoon, my cocoon, my luxury shoe-box.
The Cabbie wants to talk, tells us that every Halloween he goes with his family to Lang Kwai Fong to look at all the English white ghostly faces, the `Gwailos', getting drunk. It's like a tourist attraction for them. They like the superstition of the event and the added bonus of ‘Gwailo watching’.
‘We are not like you. We respect the home, family values. We cannot tolerate alcohol, makes us go red and purple’.
He’s banging on about an some lack of ‘alcohol gene’, that the Chinese don’t have, makes them intolerant of alcohol. It's interesting but I'm not particularly interested if you know what I mean. I just want to get home with the minimum of fuss. He keeps on and I try to switch off. He's got some good points though, what he's on about is exactly what I've been thinking lately.
Mantra Three - Thinking is bad.
GWAILO: We don't get into your culture, you don't bother to get into ours. Sad but all too true. This rock populated by immigrants and refugees, each and every one of us. Mr Cab Driver, hey Mr Cab Driver you have no claim to it and neither have I. You don't want it to stay in the hands of the British, you don't want it to go back to the suits in Beijing.
CHINESE: Chinese Hong Kong, own identity, own stamp, own Hong Kong as its birth right. We will take on your laissez-faire business attitudes, your colonial buildings, thanks very much. Now kindly fuck off back to your chips 'n' gravy in England and leave us to it. We will move out of our squatter settlements and take our turn on Victoria Peak. We will rub our hands and bellies together in glee as we watch you cascade down the hill of Mid-Levels in your red yuppie braces clutching your mobile phones. Jump in the harbour Gwailo fuck, float back to Blighty on a soggy Macdonald’s wrapper.
GWAILO: Our last chance of colonisation and what do we do? Give it back, no questions asked, we're British and we're honourable. Shite to it. Didn't even put up a fight when the flag, our Union Jack came down. Where's Mountbatten now? Blown up by the fuckin' Eirish, that's where. All we've got is that daft cunt Patten. Everyone loves the underdog. Oooh, and it's a terrible mistake. Oggie, oggie, oggie,oi, oi, oi... Just got wankered and felt a little bit sad for a few seconds when we saw the ceremony on telly. Crying into our pints of imported warm bitter. Cheese and nibbles anyone? Having a bit of a boo and a bubble with Patten's lovely daughters. Frolicking in the streets in a Union Jack waistcoat made by that the friendly tranner geezer whose always cruising around Hollywood Road. For what? What is it exactly you are celebrating you bunch of toffee-nosed British cunts. The last bastion the fall of the British Empire that's what. Given back without so much of a murmur or a whimper. You never walk away, you never stand down, it's the British way, still got a chance on the black ball if you double it. One hundred and eighty! Give everyone a fair go, fair play to the man. Might even go to penalties. No such luck mate, everyone bought a one way ticket home the very next day with a tear in their eye and the slight twinge of a1997 hand-over hangover.
Flick and purr. On goes the AirCon. Safely back in AirCon Land. Fridge, drinks. Cupboard, ibuprofen. Clothes, off. Shower, number two today.
I slump on the bed with Kelly, we fuck around for a bit and both decide we're not into it. We are open and honest with each other in bed which is fantastic. No need to do it when you don't want to, there's no point. No point grinding away for the other person's benefit thinking the other person is into when they are thinking the same about the other person. Who's having a good fuck here? Nobody with no body. So it's a cat nap, nice, naked and cool. We are getting closer, we haven't spent that much time together but I can feel it. I’m not sure about it, but I like it.
Today was a really a bad day. A bad day for operating and hustling, going through the motions. A bad day to think about things, about negative things. Don’t think about The Elelphant Tower anymore, what was that bar room scene all about? Don’t think about anything anymore.
Mantra Three: Thinking is bad.
I decide to rent a video and write this one off. Apologies for being such a grumpy fuck, but hey that's life. Selling drugs, Hong Kong 1997. That going to the other side for you.
We get up and fart about for a bit round the flat. I feel doleful, wasteful but happy. Later, we doing something ‘normal’ for the first time in ages. We snuggle up on the sofa and watch ‘Spinal Tap’. A couple of beers, a delivered pizza, shower three and beddypies.
Before I hit the sack, I check it over. It's all dry. Yes indeed. Back to business, time to have a right mix up with the Mannitol and baby powder tomorrow. Like I say, BIg Boss man go plenty chop chop.