Regardless of the merits of the case, when things go bad in Britain the ruling classes remain. Those who do the work, get the chop. Steven was ever so politely requested to resign for the honour of the corps and the satisfaction of the Arab government who wanted someone’s head to roll. That or a court martial.
10
Steven and Rupert
Raised by his widowed mother when his father had died from the after effects of being sunk in the North Sea by a German ‘U’ Boat during World War Two, life for Steven and his mother had been hard.
Because his father had died after and not during the war, and despite the fact both parents had given their patriotic all for the Crown, a clause in the Social Security Act was invoked by the British Government whereby his father was not paid a disability benefit. Sick and having to trudge to work in the cold early morning winters, ensured an early death. When such official scams entered his understanding, a certain doubt came into Steven’s mind regarding the ethics of the British ruling class. The Arab debacle reinforced that impression.
A childhood of weekend jobs, early morning paper deliveries and any work he could hustle in the school holidays to supplement a fatherless family budget, ensured that Steven’s route into the military had been via the servants’ entrance. Grammar school followed by higher education and a day job combined - to obtain the appropriate educational qualifications - followed by an application to join the military in an inner-city recruitment centre, eventually won Steven a commission in the British Army. His physical prowess and IQ test results propelled him into the SAS, Britain’s foremost military unit. Despite not having emanated from the public school classes, promotion to major was eventually obtained.
Engendered by the loss of her husband, Steven’s mother died prematurely. A cultured woman who sang soprano and played the piano, the ordeal of having to get up early to clean government buildings before coming home to get her children off to school, followed by a day job in a shoe store - at a time when claiming social security carried a social stigma - hurried her demise. The offices she charred for were staffed by the same people who had refused a disability pension to her husband for helping save the country - and their comfortable careers - during two World Wars!
But the populations of black ghettoes and trailer park America had been treated just as badly in a nation where welfare and social security were virtually unknown concepts. At least Steven had managed to obtain a decent education, something less possible in the UK or USA today. Equally scandalous, the aboriginal population - under policies dictated by the same segment of the British ruling class - had fared as badly or worse during Australia’s colonial past.
With parents dead and older sisters married, the British Army had become Steven’s home as well as an interesting career. As an eager young man with no personal ties, the military had suited him well.
In contrast, friends of the family in the diplomatic corps, judiciary, church, armed forces, and two cousins connected to the British Royal Family by marriage, ensured a smooth path to any of the professions Montgomery-Fairfax had desired. Rupert had chosen the military mainly because he was a homosexual, so the close company of men, often in remote, lonely locations, was much to his preference.
For all the wrong reasons, Rupert had enjoyed wearing the rough textured uniform which was standard issue in the British armed forces. The uniform irritated to some degree, which stimulated the private parts, and the swagger stick officers carried came in useful for a bit of bare bottomed beating with any soldier demonstrating a similarly perverse sexual need.
The fact that homosexuality contravened military law - a court martial offence - had not deterred lovers of the love which at one time dared not speak its name. Albeit, life in communal quarters allowed few opportunities for enlisted men to indulge in the clandestine existence of a turd burglar - as the common serviceman impolitely but accurately described comrades practising male to male anal intercourse.
For officers in their private quarters however, buggering their batman, or late night social contact with members of the Ward Room expressing a similar, asshole orientated sexual disposition, discretion had been the only rule.
Although not officially acknowledged, the British public had long been aware that ‘rum, bum and baccy’ was the motto of the British Navy; that jokes about the naked young powder monkey in the barrel with a hole in it were all about fucking young boys; and the insistence on flogging almost everyone for anything in public schools, prisons, and the British Armed Forces for so many hundreds of years, was all perversely mixed up with sex. The well known British expression about going up or through the ‘Khyber Pass’ -’ass’ in Cockney rhyming slang - further confirmed the public’s impression that sexual activity in ways other than the conventional, were not exactly unknown in the service of the Crown.
This typically British double standard engendered a climate which allowed Rupert’s sexual orientation to be viewed with Nelsons’ blind eye during his military service. But scandal of any type arising for the upper bracket tribe which made up the old boy network, would always be covered over with minimal public exposure.
Not that any scandal did occur concerning Rupert’s gay lifestyle, during a time period not so long ago, when public exposure of homosexual practises by establishment figures would have meant immediate withdrawal from public life.
Confirming yet again the way to the top is through the bottom, Rupert had served his time as a closet queen and an officer in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces until not long after the Arab debacle.
Although Rupert had not carried the can his conduct had been noted, and in the Whitehall post offered as consolation prize by one of daddy’s masonic friends in government, it was hoped Rupert would not be able to do so much damage.
Like many upper bracket, ex-public school individuals in Britain, Montgomery-Fairfax was unable to pronounce the letter ‘r’. As a result, his fellow officers knew him as ‘Wupert’.
It was five years before Steven heard the distinctive voice of the ex-public school chump who had obliterated his career. He had picked up the phone and, much to his surprise, an invitation to lunch emanated via Rupert’s strangulated-vowels.
11
Bangkok
After the semiconscious nightmares of past combat experience, Steven managed to sleep through the rest of the six-hour flight from New Delhi to Bangkok. Journey’s end was indicated by the screech of the wheels as the plane not too gently hit the blistering hot runway of Bangkok’s international airport. Ahh, Thai driving.
As he awoke, Steven was aghast to realise his document case containing his confidential orders was no longer on the seat beside him. Acting on instinct, he jumped up to seek the missing item.
Cabin crew had been conditioned to obey in-flight procedures. Passengers looking for lost luggage before the aircraft had ground to a halt, did not fall into that category. Steven’s almost mutinous contravention of cabin crew directives - standing up before the aircraft had ceased its journey across the tarmac - drew Gunn to his side. “Sir, passengers are not allowed to leave their seats before the plane has taxied to a halt.”
Gunn stood just inches from Steven in the narrow aisle, and as the plane turned to head towards the terminal buildings, they were accidentally thrown together.
Steven had met any number of exotic ladies during service with the Crown, but had been far less promiscuous than opportunity had allowed. Refined, educated, and very beautiful, he would definitely make Gunn an exception.
“My document case is missing. It was on the seat beside me, after we took off from India,” Steven explained, having no wish to cause any problems, just needing to retrieve his case.
Gunn’s perfume meandered into Steven’s psyche as her exquisite, sloe-like eyes gazed up at him. Instantly he started to get a hard-on.
“Can she see it?” he thought. “Can she feel it?” his thoughts added, so near were they to each other.
“It is in the overhead luggage compartment. I put
it there for safe keeping,” Gunn confirmed as she opened the overhead locker and handed Steven his precious case. “Now perhaps you would retake your seat.”
Steven sat down and placed the case on his knees. “I think I’ll need you to watch over me all the time I’m in your beautiful country,” he said.
Gunn’s noncommittal gaze gave absolutely nothing away. Her words did little to add more. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir,” she said for public consumption, as the head steward arrived to see if there was a problem.
Irritated that he’d had to unstrap himself and walk a few yards, the obviously gay cabin crew supervisor arrived to see if Gunn had a problem. The not quite so young fag had obviously seen better days, and Steven was not sure whether the guy wanted to slap his face or give him a blow job.
Giving the once handsome, tough looking older male a more in-depth look, the head steward was momentarily aroused. But with his instincts advising that Steven was almost certainly straight, giving a sideways glance that said ‘fuck it, out of bounds’, minced his way back to his landing station.
Giving a mysterious, almost arrogant look as she casually glanced back in Steven’s direction, Gunn followed.
“They must know they carry a fortune around between their legs, so why do women feel the need to act so superior at times?” Steven thought.
Not bothering to reconnect his seat belt as the aircraft approached its landing bay, Steven leaned back and reconsidered.
“On the other hand, I did just show a very casual approach to my work and she did just improve the situation. Shit, I hope I’m not getting PC (politically correct) in my old age.”
12
Taxi
With just hand baggage and knowing airport procedures well, Steven swiftly passed through customs and immigration.
Walking through the lobby of the airport, Steven drank in the energetic atmosphere of capitalism in its purest form. Looking around the busy airport building, he found himself comparing the good natured hustling of the Thai people surrounding him, with the downtrodden, depressed, over-regulated, impolite personality of what had become the character of his country of birth. It was good to be back in the Land of Smiles. Albeit, he would still need to watch out for the scams.
The young Eurasian flight attendant looked very different without her uniform. Not that she was naked. In fact she was fashionably dressed in a sharply cut black miniskirt and an almost transparent, lavender silk blouse. International haute couture meets Patpong, [*] Steven concluded as she walked towards him.
Bowing her head slightly, Gunn gave another respectful, hands clasped together wai.
“That would be politically incorrect in the West.”
“Arai, what?” Gunn asked.
“For a woman to show deference to a man. Where have we gone wrong?” Steven stated with an element of dry, tongue-in-cheek humour.
“Not in West now,” Gunn replied, her previously perfect English suggesting a degree of pidgin. “Thai people show respect for everyone. Courtesy cost nothing. Surely English people same?”
“A long time ago but not any more,” Steven replied. “Politicians pissed on their own importance, inarticulate media celebrities and soccer hooligans rule these days.” Steven knew he was getting older because he remembered when standards were better.
Gunn looked uncertain, having little knowledge of British politicians or so-called media and sporting celebrities.
“But you decided to take a chance and meet me, despite being against company rules. I guess my charm must have overwhelmed you.”
Gunn ignored Steven’s remark. Despite her intelligence and relatively wide knowledge of farang culture, she did not fully understand what Steven’s comment really meant. The Oriental part of Gunn’s cultural heritage knew little of irony or self-deprecating humour - the mainstay of British comedy. Using satire to lampoon someone in the Orient could get you killed, as it would make the other person lose face. Western people were nowhere near as smart as they thought they were.
“Pudlen, just joking,” Steven said as he saw the look of puzzlement on Gunn’s attractive face. Noting she was currently on another cultural planet, he changed the subject.
“You look stunning. Where’s the best place for breakfast?”
“I know a lovely English-style tea room not far from central Bangkok,” Gunn replied.
“Let’s go then,” Steven replied as they stepped out of the air conditioned atmosphere of the airport into the anarchic atmosphere that is Thailand.
Steven stopped momentarily as heat, dust and gasoline fumes temporarily overwhelmed his senses. “Thailand hasn’t changed.”
“What are you referring to? The heat, pollution, corruption, vote buying, bribes, a not guilty approach to sex? What?”
Steven grinned. “I was just talking about the heat and traffic fumes. But I guess the rest is still the same.”
Sensing the conversation between the couple had terminated, some smiling taxi touts approached. Hoping to persuade yet another stupid farang - as all foreigners were regarded until a few words of Thai suggested otherwise - to use a nonmetered cab parked away from the main airport building. They would multiply the correct fare by as many hundred percent as they thought they could get away with. The taxi driver who would actually do the work would receive the smallest share. But all farangs were fabulously rich, so no harm was done [**].
“Maiow krap, cannot use. Not all farangs have big money. Cop khun krap, thank you.” Steven was firm but polite in his refusal so the touts would not lose face. Despite their larcenous intent, they had little money and only moderate education, so taking away their face
- by speaking harshly - would leave them next to nothing.
“I’m glad you said no,” Gunn advised, keeping her voice low. “Some tourists have been robbed or murdered in nonmetered cabs from the airport.”
Realising Steven was an experienced Thai hand, the touts left to hustle another farang. Wearing a formal-looking suit and two cameras, he had to be an American with more money than sense. If the touts could persuade this bah bah ba boh, stupid tourist to take one of their nonmetered cars they would make enough money to get drunk on Mekong whisky for the next three days. Ironically, the fare would still be less than the equivalent ride in London or New York!
Steven walked outside of the main airport building to a desk where metered taxis could be obtained.
“Sawasdi, hello. Sukhumvit Road,” Steven told the driver as he entered the cab. “Meter. Expressway. Dai pload cha cha, please go slowly.”
Steven turned to Gunn. “Sukhumvit you said for the tea room?”
Gunn nodded. “I’ll show the driver when we get closer to our destination.”
“I told him cha cha, slowly because I don’t want him to go at breakneck speed on the expressway. High speed tailgating the vehicle in front always gives me a problem.” Steven explained why he wanted the driver to take it easy.
Gunn knew the road accident rate was horrendous in Thailand, but did not elaborate or Steven might feel bad and the driver would lose face. Buddhist mindfulness.
The cab driver seemed disappointed as he heard Steven’s knowledge of Thai, realising that a sad story about his poor elderly grandmother; the money required to fund his children’s education; and his sister’s medication for an incurable disease which he could not afford to buy, would almost certainly fall on deaf ears. The multiple limb breakages farangs had paid for in Thailand were legion. Whole families fell victim to heartbreaking medical catastrophes within days of a farang forming a liaison with a new Thai friend! [***]
Silently chuckling as the ageing car filtered into the traffic clogged road, Steven recalled the many extraordinary tales he’d heard in taxis, buses and trains in Thailand. Verbal begging letters in effect, the list of scams routinely and artistically executed on farangs in every part of the country, was considerable.
“You know they are ripping you off, but unlike the Philippines they do it with a smile on their
face. That way you don’t really mind so much,” a young American sailor had once commented to Steven on a beach at Pattaya, 80 miles south of Bangkok. He had accurately described the character of many Thai people.
But an artistic scam cleverly executed was a far kinder method of transferring Western wealth to indigenous peoples. Murder and mugging were the norm in too many non-Thai destinations.
As usual the taxi driver got lost and Gunn had to show him the way. [****] Pointing him down the far end of Sukhumvit Road, eventually running parallel with Bangkok’s fantastically clean, low cost and efficient Skytrain, past Soi Cowboy where shops, stalls and bars sell everything from tourist gifts to sugar cane juice and pussy, a sharp right manoeuvre at the traffic lights led into Soi Asoke.
Drawing up outside the tea room Gunn had recommended, Steven gave his age away by opening the taxi door for his young companion. “Mai tong aow, keep the change,” Steven said to the driver as he tendered a thousand-baht note, boldly decorated with the King of Thailand’s profile.
“You just gave him five times the fare,” Gunn said in surprise.
“Making merit. He’s probably got a big family in the North East to take care of. Just a gesture to show I’m pleased to be back.”
With a look of near joy on his face, the taxi man silently thanked Lord Gautama (Buddha). Today after all, he would be able to pay five hundred baht for the hire of the ageing car; cover the cost of gasoline; reduce his debt to the taxi Mafia from whom he had bought the job; purchase some food from one of the million or more streetside restaurants which proliferate Bangkok; and later in the day could raise his spirits with a bottle of Mekong whisky. The fares he’d received during the rest of his eight hour shift would be sent to his family in Isaan [*****].
Sleepless in Bangkok Page 4