20 June 2012


Oh Jesus, won't somebody help me? I'm so scared, I'm not just shaking, I'm literally shitting myself.. I'm in a little cave I discovered a few weeks ago - beneath the rocky headland, just round from the main beach. You have to really crouch down to get in. I've got a bag with a few possessions in, my passports, money, a two litre bottle of water and this laptop - which thank God is fully charged.

Earlier, I was down at the social club watching England beat Ukraine in the European Nations tournament. There was a bunch of the new immigrants in the bar - a dozen or so of the nasty bastards. As they constantly raided the bar,  I wanted to yell at them that the Tetley's was just for me, the "Wild Tiurkey" was reserved for Mr Brague and the "Babycham" had been bought in specially for Arctic Fox and Shooting Parrots. But my instincts told me to say nothing and just smile. They kept patting me heartily on the back as if I was their best buddy or something. They were getting louder and nastier and their eyes were bloodshot. When Wayne Rooney scored the victorious tap in header, their cheers were clearly ironic. They were laughing at me, not with me.

It was a relief when the match finished and I could get home to Thuza and Arun - The Coconut Boy. But when I got home, Arun wasn't there. Thuza said he'd probably been secretly watching the football match from the  social club's shrubbery with some of the other Burmese kids.

Ten minutes later, we heard him running on to the veranda. He was all hot and bothered and out of breath. He garbled something in Burmese, gesticulating like a mad man. Thuza's customary inscrutable smile turned to  terror as her face went a whiter shade of pale. She translated:-

"Those bad men - they coming for you Mr Pudding. They wanna kill you! You gotta go! Go now! Grab bag. Take few things. Go! Go! Quickly!"

I sprinted to the bedroom, grabbed my Royal Stewart tartan holdall and stuffed it with a few necessities before hurdling over the veranda's wooden handrail into the pitch black garden where I crouched down in the shadows of my banana grove. Not a moment too soon. I heard the gang coming down the path. Fired up on alcohol and full of bloodlust. It was obvious that they were after me.
What happened next will remain with me for the rest of my life. It was so terrible it still seems surreal. I keep shaking my head, hoping to wake up, hoping it was all just a horrible nightmare. But I know it wasn't. It was as real as the tears that are dripping on to my laptop's keyboard as I write this account.

They were yelling gruffly at Thuza and Arun. Pushing them around. Arun was screaming and  one of the rigngleaders  grabbed Thuza's hair then slung her roughly to the hardwood floor of my living room. I could see it all through the french windows - like a late night horror film on a big screen.

I wanted to rush in like Superman - to fight off the forces of darkness but in real life, as we all know, goodness rarely triumphs over evil. If I'd gone back in, I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever that they would have brutally assassinated me. My survival  instinct was utterly backed up by what happened in the next five or six minutes while I looked on frozen with terror.

The shouting increased along with the slapping and then the punching. Two of the drunken thugs held Thuza's arms back while another pummelled her with bare fisted punches to the torso and head. She was screaming hysterically in Burmese but they were just laughing like mad men. And the same was happening with Arun, even though he was just a kid. There was genuine agony in his protestations. A couple of times I had to avert my eyes.

And then one of them found Arun's machete. There was no warning, no teasing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I saw the blade flash above the man's head and I watched it come down. In one fell swoop he sliced off the top of Arun's head like a coconut.  Blood and other stuff spurted out. Arun had stopped screaming. I retched, afraid that they'd hear me but their attentions were now fully turned to gentle, beautiful Thuza. She was on her knees, pleading for her life but they weren't listening. One of the ringleaders grabbed the machete and hacked at her neck three or four times until she was decapitated in a gory mess of hot, crimson blood. Awful. Awful, Awful!

I grabbed my bag and rushed away, feeling like a fox about to be pursued by huntsmen on horseback. And as I sit here quaking, I ask myself not only: Why? But also: How? How could they do that to two such lovely and innocent people? I can't get the images out my head and I fear what tomorrow might bring. I'm going to have to save the laptop battery. I'll  try to blog again tomorrow - if I'm still alive. Night night Thuza! Night night Arun!


  1. illegal drugs are a terrible thing!!!

  2. now let me dispell the myth that Babycham is a drink for ladies and that..... it's actually a sparkling perry (pear cider) and not a bad one at that..... the fact that it comes in tiny, girlie sized bottles and has some camp little drunken fawn on the label doesn't mean I won't drink it!! Lovely stuff..... football and a babycham!!

  3. How odd that you would be saving the Wild Turkey for me. Not 15 miles from my house, a wild turkey commandeered a small stretch of Highway 5 in Woodstock, Georgia, for several weeks before he was hit by a passing car (it wasn't mine) and killed. The local populace and news reporters had named the turkey "Bob" and for a time there was even talk of erecting a roadside memorial.

    But back to the matter at hand, how terrible for you! By all means, save the laptop battery. Perhaps a Dunkirk-like flotilla is already on its way to rescue you.

    RIP, Thuza and Arun.

    (This is the most bizarre post I have ever read, and this is the most bizarre comment I have ever left on any blog.)

  4. Well, this blogger gets shifted to the "do not read because she's nuts" category.

  5. Oh, yuck. Are we writing a new book? Dindin, YP is a he, not a she. The important thing is, how are we going to get him out of that cave?

  6. EARL GRAY I agree, they are! That's why I would never touch them even in this desperate situation. I need to kep a clear head if I am going to survive.
    ARCTIC FOX You'll be pleased to know the social club had also ordered in a case of "Cherry B's" specially for you.
    RHYMES WITH PLAGUE I doubt there'll be a Dunkirk-like flotilla. If I am going to get out of this situation I know I will need to rely on my own resources. A turkey called Bob? No way! A raccoon maybe but not a turkey!
    DINDIN Thanks for dropping by good sir! Rather than condemning me to the nuthouse, some helpful suggestions would have been more welcome.
    JAN BLAWAT Truth is usually stranger than fiction ma'am. Could you phone the US SEALs? Maybe they can send a small task force to ensure my liberty.

  7. I'm imagining the news footage of Obama and Hilary watching another real life rescue as Charlie Sheen and the boys from the Navy Seals come to rescue you.

    or will it be Lewis Collins from the SAS now that everyone is all patriotic again thanks to litewawy Woy.

    By the way don't worry about Arun (your hairy coconut boy) and Thiza (professional masseur) there will be some more burmese immigrants coming back over the border from Thailand any time soon.

    Paradise lost and then restored.

  8. I can really see how dindin would have thought YP was nuts. There's a big backstory, dindin.


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