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Once upon a time I was in Vientiane, the capital of Laos. It was a very quiet city where the most activity seemed to be the aid workers visiting restaurants with their friends and families, driving in trucks no doubt paid for by kind people back home.
I fell in with some fellow travelers in the place where I was staying: an Australian called Ross who banged on about the unions being excellent and how the poor working man was being constantly stiffed by the fat cats. He was quite barmy. A laid back South African called Nathan who was good fun. Charlie told us he was Scottish, but he was one of those Scots who sounded more English than the queen, and I was certain he lived in a castle. Fat Tim, another Australian, was also around, and he was a good guy.
We passed the time in the usual way: getting drunk, overspending our daily budget in a fantastic French restaurant, and smoking some of the local weed on the balcony of the hotel. Now, this grass gave you a nice high, but for me personally it made me realize how high the balcony was, and I felt I had to resist the idea of leaping over the handrail to a certain maiming. Ordinarily I was a happy lad, and suicide was not on my agenda. The urge wasn’t overpowering, but just there at the back of my mind. Ross admitted to having similar sensations, so I knew I wasn’t completely crazy, although I knew he was.
The rugby world cup was on at the time, and England were playing one of their pool matches, trying to get into the finals – which they did, eventually losing in the third place play off. I was on my holidays and not at all interested in rugby, but “Scottish” Charlie insisted we watch the game. Due to time differences, the game was on late at night, and nowhere in sleepy Vientiane was showing the match. Undaunted, Charlie said he’d pay for a room in a hotel with a TV and we could all pile in and watch the match with him. He even bought a bottle of whisky for us to drink with him.
Four of us settled into the room, Charlie, Nathan, Tim and me. We drank whisky and smoked a pre-match sharpener. The rugby started and Tim and Charlie proved to be the true sports fans in the house with Charlie yelling “Come on England” with great excitement. Myself and Nathan, the only non-smoker, made dumb comments and I rolled another joint. As the joint went around the three of us, Nathan cried out, “Suck baby don’t blow!” in a funny accent, as each person took a toke. I was enjoying myself immensely.
After a while, Tim had to take a time out in the bathroom. Apparently the room was spinning and some of the strange side effects of the weed led him to huddling in a ball leaning against the wall and refusing to come out again. Charlie’s cries of “Come on England” lost a lot of their force as he slid down the wall and was eventually lying on the floor with his eyes closed. It wasn’t even half time.
Every so often myself or Nathan would yell at Charlie to wake up, or Nathan would croon, “Suck baby don’t blow!” to my huge amusement. Each time he was disturbed, Charlie would pathetically say, “Come on England” in a tiny, child-like voice. It was the most he could do!
We put a blanket over each of them, drank the rest of Charlie’s whisky and quietly watched England win the match.
Charlie awoke in a fug the next morning and left almost immediately. I never saw him again. |
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