Tuesday 13th November
– Hong Kong airport
I’ve been arrested.
Yeah, came as a shock to me too.
I’m locked in a room so small that when I just took my diary out of my rucksack I bumped both elbows on the walls. It’s like an election booth! I’m writing to distract myself from the huge armed guard at the door. I think his name is ‘Wang’, which is appropriate because he’s wielding a big old weapon at waist height and I’m sure it could do a man a lot of damage.
Anyway, the point I should be making is this…
What the actual effing fuck?
We had landed in Hong Kong for our layover and walked off the plane, no problem. I’d spotted an Asian woman at the gate holding a card with my name on it. Bev and Rachel had been dead impressed, thinking I’d arranged a private city tour before tonight’s connecting flight. I was almost entirely sure I hadn’t, but I stepped forward to find out what she wanted. She gave me a shy little bow, whispered into a radio and, before I knew what was happening, three armed-policemen appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my shoulders and marched me away. No explanation. No warning. Now I’m sitting here BRICKING it. What if they make me disappear? I’ve always hated magic.
My first thought was maybe it was a gay thing (though I’m pretty sure my penchant for penis isn’t stamped on my passport). I’ve since Asked Jeeves and apparently the ban on homos entering this country was lifted in the ‘90’s when they decided that we were, regrettably, legal.
The problem, it turns out, is that the name on my plane ticket doesn’t exactly match the name on my passport. Bev had offered to book my flights so I’d be sitting with them and stupidly I’d let her. It looks like she’s mixed up the surname and forename boxes, so my ticket says ‘St. John Kevin’ instead of ‘Kevin St. John’ which is, you know, my actual name. It wasn’t mentioned in Heathrow but come to think of it the lady at the gate did call me “your Holiness”.
Bev and Rachel are no help. They’d skipped off to McDonalds as soon as we landed saying, “at least the food there looks safe”, so I’m stuck here, terrified, alone, and grateful for the only perk this cell has: access to one of those new-fangled wi-fi hot spot things.
From: captainkevman@live.co.uk
To: 'Friends & Family' Group
Subject: Hong Kong - Phooey!
Date: Tues 13 Nov - 10:37
‘Knee How!’ as they say in Hong Kong (not sure of the spelling), which is where I am RIGHT NOW, nestled into a snug little airport lounge, enjoying a bit of quiet time between flights. Great service. Attentive staff.
I’m writing to you from 6,000 miles east of where I was this morning (yesterday) when I was shoe-horned into a Vauxhall Corsa with three giant backpacker backpacks, three regular-size rucksacks, two Essex girls and a slightly stressed dad on the wrong side of 50 on driving duties. I’m not saying the car was crammed but I did a nervous fart and changed gear.
We’re currently in China for a bit of fuel and a stretch. The first leg (13 hours) was surprisingly pleasant. I’d imagined chickens in the aisles and no air con, but Malaysian Airways had gadgets galore and zero poultry. I’ve never flown long-haul before, and I spent the flight glued to the screen on the back of the seat in front, watching our tiny digital plane creep across the globe. ‘Western Siberia’ is not only huge but it’s also a real place. Who knew? The same screen informed me we were 33,000 feet in the air and that the temperature outside was -85 degrees. Bev and Rachel spent most of the journey huddled under a blanket, grumbling that someone had left a window open.
It’s occurred to me that some of you don’t know my travelling companions, so let me give you a quick bit of background. After all, it was their dream to spend Christmas Day on Bondi Beach that persuaded me to come on this adventure in the first place.
Beverley and I met at Corks Wine Bar when we started work on the same day just under three years ago, both having the idea that now we were legally able to drink booze we might as well try and sneak some for free. We became instant friends. I guess if I was being inappropriate I’d describe her as my fag hag and she’d take that title proudly and in the spirit in which it was intended. She might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she is stunning inside and out and has a heart of gold. Curvaceous and blond (I’ve heard her describe me the same way), she has waves of golden hair and a crooked smile that could almost turn me. If I wasn’t, I would. I love her very much. She quit Corks for Wetherspoons last year after one too many merlot-fuelled gropings, which is where she met Rachel.
Rachel is stylish and street-smart and always up for a party. She has wavey brown hair that she likes to make poker-straight and a splattering of freckles which she says guys find “adorbs”, which is why – after she cakes her face in make-up – she draws them back on. She’s shorter than average, but what she lacks in stature she more than makes up for in heels. She’s sharp-tongued, fashion-focussed and can spot a label from 100 metres. She refers to me as her gay accessory – more specifically, her ‘fag bangle’ – which I don’t resent at all and its fine. I’m used to hanging around making others look good. Incidentally, her voice is like a Cockney cat being strangled. Just saying.
The three of us hope to be Ambassadors for Essex, proving to Australia and the world that not everyone from my homeland is a vajazzled, perma-tanned moron with badly-drawn eyebrows and a donkey laugh. We intend to demonstrate that Essex isn’t all about vacant chewing-gum grins and sex addiction, and that most of its residents are naturally beautiful, intelligent people and hardly chavvy at all. *Cough*
Oh, I meant to say. Airplane toilets. What’s the deal with them? It’s not the easiest thing to do, take a poo in a room the size of a shoe box, but add the overhead lighting from hell, no wash facilities for eight time zones, and an evil flush that would whip your innards out of your arse if you don’t stand up quick enough and you’d have the same mile-high experience that I’ve had. How on earth two people are supposed to get up to anything kinky in them is beyond me. I barely had room to undo my own belt.
I’ve been reading up on our destination and it seems Australia is proper big. It’s the only country that is also a continent. Twenty-four times bigger than the UK, it has only a third of the population, mainly because the centre of Australia is so inhospitable that it’s practically devoid of human life. In fact, 90% of the residents live around the edges in ten big cities, which sounds remarkably similar to the world according to Judge Dredd if I remember my old comics correctly. The country is divided into five ‘territories’ and tomorrow morning we’ll be arriving in ‘Victoria’, which is both the country’s smallest state and the first female I’ll have entered in a long time.
Will respond to your emails as soon as I can.
Love Kev x
SENT BY MY IPHONE
[INTERNET PROVIDED BY AIRPORT SECURITY]
[EMAIL MESSAGE BLOCKED]
[NO FURTHER ATTEMPTS WILL BE MADE]
11.20am
I’m so impressed with the email I wrote home. It comes across as cheerful and upbeat, when in truth I typed it with trembling hands, a thumping heart and a spasming a-hole. I want so much for everyone to think I can do this, but I’ve not even made it to Australia yet and already I want to go home.
Things have got so much worse in the last few minutes. How was I supposed to know taking a photo out the window would be illegal? You can only see the runway! I just figured it would be the only photo I’d get of Hong Kong. You’d think I was trying to shoot a person not a picture. Wang got right in my face and shouted foreign words that needed lots of saliva. The machine-gun at his hip swung to face me and I swear I nearly vomited out of my butt.
AND HE CONFISCATED MY PHONE!
4.15pm
I admit I wanted lots of new experiences on this trip, but being someone’s bitch in a Hong Kong prison was not one of them. I can’t help but expect a cavity search at any minute, which is a horrible thought as I’ve seen Wang’s fingernails.
I can’t get my head around it. Yesterday, I was at home having a cup of tea and a hob-nob, and today, I’m literally halfway across the world, locked in a room with a big Asian copper and his mighty weapon. Yet it sort of feels like I’ve just popped out for milk.
I hadn’t even felt sad when I was leaving home. I was saying goodbye to everyone I loved and everything I knew, and I had no idea when I was going to see them again. But I didn’t shed a tear, didn’t even want to. Mum had stood there in the rain, crying, Sis had hugged me just a tad too long, and Tommy had stumbled after the car, sobbing his heart out once we’d pulled away. Michael hadn’t even shown up. Bev asked if I was going to press my hand up against the window and gaze out as they disappeared from view like they do on Eastenders, but instead I just stared straight ahead feeling… what, numb? No. Determined. I knew a new road lay before me and I had to see where it led. And I don’t mean the M25, I knew that led to Heathrow.
It’s ironic. The whole point of escaping Essex, England, and my life as a whole, was to keep my overactive brain occupied with exciting new adventures and possibilities, and to get over Phil without having time to actually stop and think about it. Unfortunately, less than a day in, I go and get incarcerated with nothing to do but think.
“We’ll be together forever.”
That’s what Phil used to tell me, and being the hopeless romantic I am I’d accepted that without question. Even after those words sounded more like a threat than a promise of enduring love. After all, who was I to turn my back on someone who was actually willing to be with me? So I stayed, like a faithful puppy, even when everything I did made him angry. Was I really that bad? I know I didn’t put that random stranger in his bed, so why do I feel so guilty about it?
It pisses me off to admit it but I miss him, like a part of me has gone. Even after catching him sprawled out, legs in the air and begging for it, the image burned onto my eyeballs. Even now the thought of them together kicks the air out of my lungs. He’d snuck away from our own anniversary party to meet someone. Forgot he’d given me a key. Afterwards, I’d stumbled out to my car to drive home, and blinded by tears, and being totally blotto, I was lucky I only crashed into his neighbour’s garden.
He’d pleaded with me for two weeks to take him back, desperate for another chance. Making me feel increasingly unreasonable until, stupidly, I’d given in.
“Ok, I forgive you!”
And that was all he needed. His face had changed immediately.
“About fucking time, I’m always the one that gets to do the dumping. And you are officially dumped.”
He’d wanted me back only so he could finish with me himself.
Is there any way to humiliate someone more completely? He’d left, taking what little remaining self-respect I had with him, along with a pair of my favourite jeans that he’d been wearing at the time.
But you know what? Maybe being forced to sit in this room and confront my own brain for a bit wasn’t such a bad thing. Instead of asking myself, “Why did he leave me?” I’m just now thinking, for the first time ever, “Why the fuck didn’t I leave him?” That’s got to be progress.
5.55pm
IF I DON’T GET OUT OF THIS SODDING ROOM I AM GOING TO MISS MY PLANE!
