A bit of a muddle, this post, but it all sorts itself out in the end! Bear with me… peace!!
My son Leo and Dave’s daughter Jaymee are staying with us because their mums are away: one trucking and the other on a VERY rare visit to family. Onne is still in residence in the spare bedroom so they are happily camping in the training cabin. We decided to remind the kids of the British side to their heritage by celebrating Guy Fawkes night here in Oak Ridge with a bonfire and fireworks. Actually, fireworks were kind of hard to find for some reason, despite the approach of Thanksgiving…
Anyway, we had a huge bonfire party and some pretty loud ‘bangers’ in the yard, after warning the neighbours, most of whom came to join in. Leo, his usual cheerful and shirtless self despite the air temperature approaching freezing – leaping around the fire and (until we put a stop to it) somersaulting over one side of it… Leo and Jaymee know all about Guy Fawkes now, and we discovered that several places in England have taken to burning effigies of unpopular public figures instead of the Guy – Lewes in Sussex is famous for burning popes and stuff, but this year’s oddest one was somewhere in Kent that chose Lance Armstrong! ‘Nuff said about that.
Our guest of honour was a kind neighbour celebrating her 94th birthday – gosh, I hope I’m as active as she is when (if) I ever reach 94! She also has a cat called Alice, except that its a boy. Some lack of understanding at the kitten-sexing stage…
Now here I am breaking one of my own rules – no cat postings. Sorry Dave. But I found this on the blog site of one of the Kalutskikh boys (see two new links bottom right to their blog pages – zillions of photographs updated regularly). You can figure out the Russian joke for yourselves, noting that the cat is perched on a training bar (street workout style) and no doubt ready to do its ‘puss-ups’…sorry about that. Now, before I go on (there is a point to all this, eventually), lets have a couple of recent Kalutskikh pictures for the fans:
Look at Kirill’s amazing lower back flexibility – now in his mid-20s, remember they used to do astonishing contortion when they were about 10 years old.
Anyway, I digress, as usual. Where were we? Oh yes, a cat called Alice. Made me think for some reason of ‘A Town Called Alice’ and therefore of Neville Shute. And that reminded me of something I wrote in the forthcoming finale of my book series, Against All Odds. I thought that I could share with you how my mind works (or fails to) in a crisis. We are lying in the sun at a Californian lakeside, dozing off after making an unexpected discovery:
Maybe illicit drug crops around here were relatively ‘normal’. The ‘California beach bums’ surely grew their own supplies. Yes, that would be it. Hippies, probably living happily in the woods somewhere, stoned out of their brains. Well, that would be alright then. Hardly a threat to eight strong boys.
My thoughts merged into dreams, mutating into strange and unconnected strands which became less and less resolved. We were walking a tightrope, weren’t we? Because Kevin does that, and he’s here. So it must be a tightrope between our position now and a safe place at the other end. Just don’t fall off. Keep your head. Kevin’s in charge, and he knows what he’s doing, so it’ll be fine. But fall off on one side and a guy with a gun tries to pick you off. Fall on the other side and you get a dose of ‘wacky baccy’ to speed you on your way… wait. Speed. That’s a drug too. They’re all druggies, this is California. Cali-bloody-fornia. They’re all fornicating, those f***ing hippies. Just like we do. We’re no different, really. Horny ‘fornies’.
My whirling brain liked the sound of that. ‘Horny fornie, hornie fornie, horny fornie…’ As if someone was calling it out in some childish game we were all playing, where you had to keep chanting to show you were holding your breath, like in Kabbadi, that Pakistani raiding game where you try to raid your opponents’ base whilst chanting ‘kabbadi, kabbadi, kabbadi…’ The raiding teams slowly disappeared over the horizon in my racing brain, to be replaced by a silence. A silence so intense that you could have heard a pin drop. Now what the f*** was going on? Am I suddenly alone? Where are my mates? What’s Dave doing? Where the hell am I? Oh yes, I’m in Thailand with Leonardo di Caprio and that bloody randy woman who rules over ‘The Beach’. ‘On the Beach.’ No, that’s Neville Shute, isn’t it. I remember him. Read some books he wrote. So this is his beach. We’ve invaded his space. Neville Shute is out to get us. Shooting at us. ‘Shute-ing at us.’ My whirling brain giggles inwardly at that. I made a joke. Quite a good joke, actually. Neville Shute is growing cannabis in a secret place he never wrote about and now he’s going to ‘Shute’ at us. Sharp-shooting. ‘Shute-shooting…’ Neville’s bringing a raiding party. Well, tough. We’re Tuan Jie – well, most of us here are. We’re trained. You’re no match for us. But we’re lying out on your beach aren’t we? Sitting targets. No, lying targets. Get real. Here we are, Neville, stretched out on your f***ing beach, lying targets, ready for your ‘Shute-ers’ to point their little guns at us. All because we discovered your stupid little hobby. Shuter’s sodding drugs racket…
Nothing else. Just one almost inaudible ‘click’. Instantly, the dream, or more accurately nightmare, hits the buffers. I’m wide awake, with a chill up my spine…”
OK, dudes. Some hints there of what’s headed your way when book three comes out. Guns (again), drugs, someone’s history discovered… and to get on the learning curve of where all that is going I could suggest that books 1 and 2 would be good places to start, especially if you enjoy reading about what gay boys do and how we got so heavily into acrobatics along the way! Just click on the covers for more information.
And. meanwhile, we’ll carry on enjoying a few Bonus Boys:
That’s British Olympic gymnast star Dan Keatings.
OK, enough rambling for now. I’ll go for something coherent next post!