Mr. Fusspot Goes To Goa - A Diary

Mr. Fusspot Goes to Goa – A Diary

The Arrival.
I made my first fatal mistake by telling Mr. Fusspot the word “Maccanacca” which I believe is a rude word for “I don`t want to buy”
We got off of the plane from Manchester, and, after the long hot tiring walk from the plane to passport control we joined in the total free for all with our suitcases.
Mr. Fusspot had brought his guitar and was watching the young baggage boys grabbing casesfrom the carousel. He became paranoid that his guitar was going to be stolen so he started running around the two conveyor belts like the proverbial demented chicken with his head cut off looking for his guitar.
All I could hear him shouting was,
“Yuccawacca, Baccanucco, Namaccnaca, Paccanicca” - of course he`d forgotten the word Maccanacca and what it meant, so screaming “I don”t want to buy.” made absolutely no sense at all to anybody
The local people were looking at each other as if to say
"What language is this raving lunatic speaking?"
I stood back laughing and watched a couple of boys fighting over peoples” cases but one eventually got ours all together (including the guitar) and we just stood and watched the demented chicken running round and round, dripping and sweating looking for his guitar. I have no idea what the poor baggage boy must be thinking.
He did look over once or twice to see if I was helping and I thought I saw him wave, well, I like to think that”s what the gesture meant - but I was standing in front of the cases deliberately so he couldn”t see them as the spectacle he was making of himself was really cheering everybody up after the long journey
When he stopped for breath, gasping and wheezing, he finally noticed that there were no more cases coming out and, after peering in the hole that the luggage comes out from several times, he realised that I was standing there with all the luggage. Over he puffed over looking like he had just run a marathon (which he probably had), he was totally dripping wet and exhausted.
He looked terrible. The hair that he has was plastered over his face in clumps and was in all different directions. He had a little tussle with the boy and the trolley as he wanted to push it, but he was far too frail at that moment to squabble so just let the boy go off with the trolley, cases and guitar and hobbled after him as fast as his swollen legs would carry him.
The lad took our cases to the coach but coming from Spain (we had to go from Spain to Manchester), we only had euros – I had some pounds but I wasn”t going to mention it - the lad did not really want to take euros as a tip but in the end he really had no option as I think he just wanted to get away from Mr. Fusspot who, had now (NOT) remembered the word for go away which is “Dar”
“Alk,” I heard, “Bas, Cof, Dim Erp” then of course “Faddywacca”.
I realized then he was going to go through the alphabet but it didn”t really matter as the lad had ran away.
Do not know why Mr Fussy is under the impression that nobody speaks English when all Goans do.

The Coach Trip
“Well, thank goodness we are getting on a nice air conditioned coach” he chirped happily (luckily he has a short attention span)
Who was I to tell him?
We finally got on the coach after him fussing and tutting about the guitar and was told that the air conditioning was the ability to open the windows (shock and horror on Mr. Fusspots face) who then, for some reason, started talking like a ventriloquist out of the corner of his
mouth.
“Look at the restaurant, look at the restaurant, dirty dirty, look at the cars, look at the buses, no left wing mirrors on cars, how old is this bus? why don”t the fans work? we will probably break down, did all our luggage go in ? look at look at look at.” On and on.
That did it – I collapsed laughing. Who is this man I am with?
So, now we are on the “air conditioned coach” and Mr. Fusspot is having a seizure. His guitar was put on the top of the coach (not in the luggage hold) He thinks it is going to bounce off somewhere so he is huffing and puffing but does not want to say anything to the driver in case he shows himself up………..
Urrghhhh too late!
We were going past small rag built houses held up with sticks - the up-market ones actually had corrugated roofs.
Mr Fusspot momentarily shocked into silence but is shortly laughing joyfully as we are bouncing up and down on the uneven road which he thought was incredibly funny until he remembered about the guitar being on the top of the bus. He had stopped talking like a ventriloquist by now but for some reason he turned into a gangster talking out of the other side of his mouth.
“Anyone messes with my guitar I”ll cut their hands off, nobody touches my guitar or I”ll cut their feet off” (I didn”t quite understand that one! ) “they”ll have to pay - (I did wonder when money would come in to it) “I mean it you know, you don”t think I mean it do you? I”ll wrestle them to the floor and stamp on them if they mess with my guitar so there” - snooty look on his face.
Oh dear, he has to stop watching television
By now, I hate this guitar
Once again he is distracted very easily by the sights outside of the, according to him, dirty dirty windows of the coach so very content for the moment just sitting there tutting, sighing and shaking his head.
Finally, after about three quarters of an hour we arrived at the hotel and once again, as we got off the coach loads of young lads grabbed our cases .
Mr. Fusspot, arms flapping about, was hanging around the coach until they got the guitar off . By the way, the guitar was in a major heavy case – if it had bounced off the roof there would probably been a three day traffic jam. I think it may have been noticed
Well, he wanted to carry his own guitar so we let him get on with it.
Our room was two floors up and Mr. Knackered Fussy was going up the stairs on step at a time with the guitar on his back - I think it”s because his legs were buckling – I forgot to mention he had to wear stockings on the flight as his legs swell up but he had forgotten to take them off so I think they were cutting off the circulation.
The room boys were hanging around waiting for a tip. I could tell Mr. Mean Fusspot. didn”t want to give them one because he figured he
had carried his own guitar and seemed to forget about the two cases
and flight bags they had carried up. I gave them a pound.
“A pound?” he screeched “a pound? where did you get a pound? why haven”t I got any English money? did you change euros? where did you change euros? did you have it hidden? why haven”t I got any?”
Anybody would think we were dealing with a fortune
“You don”t have an English bank account” I smirked
“Oh yes”, he squeaked “I forgot” then he was immediately jolly again as he discovered that the room had a fridge
Unfortunately, the fridge was on the floor and only around 2 foot high so when he got down it took him half an hour of creaks and groans to get up……….
Said to Mr. Fussy
“Look at this sink unit in the bedroom/sitting room – it hasn”t got a pipe”
“Just as well” he shrilled – “It hasn”t got a bloody tap”
Mr. Observant.
We collapsed laughing which was a bit painful as the bed had about an inch of mattress – the rest was wood but could not care less then
As had to have some sleep

The First Morning
Mr Fusspot wakes up really early with a stiff neck and creaked and moaned three times (that’s” routine anyway) it”s always legs, back and neck but not necessarily in that order. I think it’s a ritual that all his family do.
Then he went down to breakfast because he”d found out that before
11 o”clock that the breakfast is free (he”s from Bradford) he didn”t realize at the time it was only toast and jam that was free so, bless him, he woke me up with a room boy trailing behind him carrying a tray with eggs, bacon, toast, beans, sausage, tomatoes and a cup of tea, but when he realized he had to pay for all that he went into a snit and said he would never do it again as they were taking the piss.
It was only a euro (about fifty pence) but he still had no idea of how the money worked.
He had another room boy with him who I’m sure he eventually fell in love with because the room boy could make swans out of towels (don’t even ask - I will go there later ) all I know is he gave him the equivalent of about three months wages a couple of days before we left.
A Trip Into Town
We decided to walk into town. I turned round at one point and Mr. Fusspot is walking along the dirt track with a water bottle balanced on his head.
“Stop it” I hissed “The natives will think you”re taking the piss”
“Good for my posture” he smirked – now I”m bordering on insanity
He did try to nod at the few people that stared at him but the bottle kept falling off much to my delight. He soon gave up on that one
We got into town and then for some reason, he decided to keep a low profile as the bikes, scooters taxies, rickshaws, elephants, beggars, goats. chickens, cows, buses and coaches have the upper hand. I think that”s around the time he decided to pick on mosquitoes
Then……highlight of Mr. Fusspots holiday – he”s spotted not one chemist but two. They eventually knew him by the name of Mr. Mosquito because out of the blue he developed this “Lets Kill the Mosquito Agenda”. I swear from day one I don” t think he slept more than a couple of hours in three weeks because he was “Ambushing mosquitoes” By the side of his bed by the time we got back on day one there was a fire thing you have to light to ward off mosquitoes, a reserve fire thing, a plug in, a reserve plug in, a repellent just in case they get you, a repellent if they did catch you, a spray just in case, a spray if they did, a lotion just in case, a lotion if they did but,wait for this………………………when we were walking along the road we went into a supermarket and the electric went off so she gave Mr. Flappy Fusspot a bit of cardbard to fan himself – can you possibly guess what it turned out to be later that night? – you”re right – a mosquito swat. I think he smashed every black mark in the room at least ten times with the new sneery look he”s developed. (He thinks he”s brave now) He turned out the lights to trick the mosquitoes,, flicked the light on to trick them, then on and off to trick them, sitting up in bed, lying down in bed, sitting up very quickly, sitting up very slowly, now I am very worried about him.
By the way, I am not sleeping either while all this is going on. At least the mosquitoes have taken his mind off the guitar for now.
Forgot to mention, I am suffocating as all doors have to be locked and sealed in case “they get you” and he seems to be permanently walking around with a shoe, a spray, a towel or something in his hand peering at walls – at least he”s happy.
For me, in a perfect world, I would love a mosquito to steal his guitar,

The Mongoose Hero
Well, after tossing turning and swatting things again all night of course Mr. Fusspot is completely worn out
He went through the ritual three moans. “Oh my legs, oh my back oh my neck”
He still had the new sneery look on – now, how can I describe the sneery look ?
Okay, imagine someone so smug with little pursed lips that looks at people out of the corner of his eye, thinks they don”t notice and sort of nods slowly in that superior way that makes you feel like should know the person who actually thinks he has Annihilated the entire Continent of Goa of mosquitos
Mind you, he thinks he”s still blonde – hate to tell him he”s grey but that”s the kind of imagination we have to deal with.
I caught him peeping at a few crayon marks on the wall (made out I didn”t see) but in general he was content.
Now I discover he has a completely new ritual.
Get every lotion, spray, cream and anti-repellent and smother yourself with them from top to toe .
Well, the smell will actually keep the mosquitoes away and probably most of the Goan population. Oh ,and pack the ones in your bag to take out with you that you light up, plug in, spray, dab, and waft just in case “they get you”.
After breakfast we decided to walk into Calangute so after running the gauntlet of taxis (with only a couple of jik, lon, poz) outside of the hotel, we started walking down the dirt track.
It”s only about fifteen minutes away but Mr. Scaredycat Fusspot has spotted a mongoose that he swears is a rat.
Here my first fatal mistake came yet into play again
“Puccanacca (I don”t want to buy) he screamed to the mongooserat, “Niccarracca” I know he will learn maccanacca and dar sometime, and what they actually mean, but at the moment he is very pleased with his control of the Conkney language.
The mongooserat has run for its life of course but Mr. Sneery Fusspot thinks he”s protected me and chased the mongooserat away by telling it he
“Doesn”t want to buy anything”.
Delusional or what?
“Thank you” I said “Are you Crocodile Dundee?”
“Have I got a hat? are you taking the piss? did you see me get rid of that rat? did you see the size of it? I looked it straight in the eye,
they go for the throat here and then you”re dead. didn”t it move when I shouted?
Maybe the mosquitoes have reported to the mongooserats to beware of the ANNIHILATOR.

ARE YOU REALLY JOHN WAYNE?
We started walking on the road to Calungute and Mr. Mosquito Sneery Fusspot then, wants a bloody hat . I know he”s still thinking along the Crocodile Dundee lines – well, he bought this big white cowboy hat (he totally got ripped off but thought he had a really good bargain) bargaining skills are a whole other chapter.
He put it on, put a roll up in his mouth, squinted his eyes and said in a drawl
“Who the hellll do I look like?”
“Are you Bruce Forsyth?”
“No, come on, I know you know, the hellll you dooo, get off my hoss – that”s a clue”
“Are you Long John Silver?”
“Did he have a hoss? he had a wooden leg, one eye and a parrot – he didn”t have a hoss though did he? , come on, who am I? getting a bit agitated now
He may even say liccajucca to me in a minute that would finish me off.
“Are you er, er, I do know you know I just can”t remember his name”
“Come on, come on” louder, legs sort of bandy and one hand on his hip. “who am I?”
“I know, I know ,hang on …………………..
“Are you Liberace?”
He didn”t think that was worthy of comment so just looked aghast and
off he went in a sulk.
“I can manage on my own” he grunted over his shoulder “I”ve got 300 rupees so there”
“It”s only 5 euros” I shouted (about three pounds)
He decided he”d gone a bit deaf then.
When I caught up with him he was muttering at the beggars “Yip, Gom, Jok, Gog, Dop”
I wish he would just say “Go Away”
When I looked at him he had so much mosquito repellent on his face the inside lining of the hat had sort of slipped down and covered his ears. He truly looked like a manic shiny bee keeper – I finally lost the plot!

Toilet Fun
I carried on walking along about twenty paces behind the “bee keeper” – no, of course I didn”t tell him what he looked like – I get my own back in small ways.
We decided to stop at a small bar opposite his favourite shops in the main street (the chemists)
I had to go to the toilet so left Mr. Fusspot sitting outside smirking and posing and thinking he looked like (not John Wayne he told me by the way,) he reckoned Clint Eastwood.
In reality, the sweat was dripping into the cream which was in streaks down his face and the lining of the hat was stuck to one of his ears (he didn”t notice) as he was far too busy showing off fanning himself with his mosquitoswat he had made out of cardboard. (He had added a stick to the lump of cardboard by now.)
I asked behind the bar if they had a toilet and the very smart looking lady made a big production out of getting a key and walking me around the back of the bar and opening the door of the toilet for me
Well! It was a hole in the floor and really really dirty (but when in Goa you have to do as the Goans do.)
Wonder what it would have been like if there wasn”t a key.
So, now I am so gleeful as not going to tell Mr. Fusspot what it was like as when he was Mr. Neat and Tidy in Crete he was washing everybodys floors (that”s a whole different story)
Mind you, Mr. Neat and Tidy creeps in a bit in Goa later on.
“What are the toilets like?” Mr. Sticky Looking Fusspot. said on my return
“The best I”ve seen in Goa” I replied
“Good” he says “I”ll go before we go to the beach” (still got little mouth sneery look about him).
He was sitting boring a mother and daughter about his new invention, the cardboard mosquitoswatfan and, I don”t quite know how, but while I was away he had also managed to get in that he was a musician.
Anyway, they have mentioned that there is a jam session in Baga the next town, that night
Mr. Fusspot is delighted, but knows better than to go on about it at the moment.
They finally went and we decided to go to the beach
“Don”t you want to go to the toilet before we go? “ I say”
“Yes, I had better” and off he trotted to get the key.
Well, he came back a lot quicker than he went, - he came round the corner at a hundred miles an hour with his mouth open (luckily no speech coming from it) I think the shock of the toilet had taken away his sense of speech – he was just opening and shutting his mouth like a fish gurgling
“Okay then” I said “Let”s go.
Unfortunately after a strangled grunt his speech came back in full force
“You said they were the best toilets you”ve seen in Goa” accusingly
“What”s wrong with them then?”
Don”t know how I’m keeping a straight face at this time
Open mouth, shut mouth, gurgle gurgle
“Have you been?” I asked innocently
“Aaaaaargh! no I haven”t how could you go? how could anyone go? what is that bucket of water for? is everyone blind? Why don”t they have any cloths in there? where are the towels? where is the bleach? did you notice what they were like? why is there a bucket on the wall? is it for sandcastles? (sarcastic) why is there no paper?
“Oh, did you want to read the paper then” I smirked
Aaaaaaargh! splutter, aargh! splutter. On and on and on and on
Best cup of coffee in Calangute there though not that Mr. Fusspot would know as he had hit the vodka.
As we got ready to go I heard him muttering something
I looked at him “What”s the matter?”
“I want to go to the toilet” whispered Mr. Fusspot.
“Didn”t you go then?” trying not to laugh
“Aaaaaaaargh “ he screamed.

A Happy Day At The Beach
We finally start to head off to the beach even though Mr. I Would Rather Wet Myself Fusspot has a look of agony on his face
but once again he got distracted because he remembered he had to stock up at the chemist, as during one of Mr. Fusspots conversations around the pool someone has told him about another 1001 remedies for mozzies. Is that all he talks about when I’m not there?
Oh, no, I just remembered, one day I was watching him talking to a great big tattooed bloke and I did wonder what they could possibly have in common and when I finally got there the discussion was about the best tray to put a Yorkshire pudding in – again that”s another story.
He thinks they are his friends in the Chemist as they say, nudging each other.“Ah……grin grin, Hello Mr. Mosquito” Cannot stand the smirky look he gives me because they recognize him.
He soon forgot them though as on the way he spotted the shop that gave him the piece of cardboard so he had to toddle into the shop to brag about the mosquitoswatfan he had made and he was soon merrily prancing about with that silly hat balanced on the top of his head.
It didn”t even fit, and I’m not sure how he kept it on I think the mosquito cream was keeping the hat lining attached to various parts of his face.
Finally make it to the beach having stopped several times for him to insult the locals.
“Can you go to the toilet in the sea?” he asked me
“I suppose people do, just don”t tell anyone”
“Got any paper?” he screamed hysterically laughing “Huhgotchya
Huhgotchya you wasn”t ready for that one was you?” triumphantly jumping up and down.
I think holding wee in is now starting to infect his brain.
Mr. Fusspot very happy now as has a bag full of mozzie annihilators, he”s caught me out and has spotted the beach huts, so of course, it must be time for a vodka and a little snack.
Off we head to the nearest one, and he loves it when a young lad runs out and gets us an umbrella, a cushion and a towel and asks what we want to drink. The lad then brings us a little table to put our drinks on -
He was in his glory.
Mr. No Friends Fusspot now thinks he has a “Brand New Best Friend”…..along with the chemist people.
Eventually he decided he would like a little snack, now, Mr. No Friends Fusspot loves making curry and thinks he knows everything. We went inside the beach hut and he read the menu nodding his head murmuring “mmm….yum yum…..mmmmm yum” like he knows what he”s reading but he hasn”t got his glasses on for a start so he can”t see a thing anyway but bluffs it by saying to his “New Best Friend”
“What can you recommend?”
New Best Friend is advising him on this and that, explaining what things are but then I notice the prissy look coming on Mr. No Friends Fusspot” face
“I curries make too you know” (sneery look back on) “Do you know the jars of Pataks?” pompous smirky Fusspot grins
“Pataks jar? What is Pataks jar?” perplexed boy replied.
“Pataks is Indian curry paste” Fussy said very slowly as if he was talking to somebody backward
“Oh no,” I thought, here we go,
Puzzled boy says “Pataks? Pataks jar?”
Mr. Fusspot Know It All, voice rising “Yes Pataks you no know Pataks?
“Pataks who?” says confused boy
“No Pataks who” screeched Mr. Know All “Pataks paste in jar for to make curry”
“We make our own curry” the boy smiled “we no have jars, we use spices”
Mr. Skeptical Fusspots” top lip went up
“Oh really?, Well, so do jars of Pataks”
Mr. Rude Fusspot turned his head to one side, put one finger up to his head and whirled it round as if to say he”s nuts.
Luckily the lad was already walking over to the other side of the beach hut
Mr. Thinks He”s Won Fussy soon found some sand in his shoes to entertain him for a while so forgot about his “New Best Friend”
Then halfway through Mr I Haven”t Got a Clue What I’m Eating But Pretending I Do” meal, his “New Best Friend” keeps comes up asking if he would like to come and see his Own Personal Shop. Mr. Fusspot all made up now as he”s the one whose been invited round the back of a beach hut to see A Personal Shop (he hates everyone else that says “Look in my shop look in my shop” but not his “New Best Friend.” – he thinks he”s honoured as I haven”t been invited – they know who to pick eh? )
Off he trots for his private invitation.
I go round the back of the beach hut about an hour later and he”s sitting on a lump of wood humming and aahing over these elephants made out of stone. The boys` “Personal Shop” was in a holdall.
“Well,” (stroking his chin) err, umm, I think 2000 rupees (About 30 pounds) is a bit much and I don”t really want three elephants” I hear him saying.“I just want this one so how much?”
“Okay you can have that for 1000 rupees” (15 pounds) New Best Friend looking pained
“No, says Mr Thinks He”s Clever Fusspot firmly,
500 rupees and that is my final offer – looks over to me, with a sly nod and winks. Sooooooo full of himself.
“Okay” said the boy but only because you are like my Father”
Mr. Puffed Up No Friends Fusspot smirked and flourished the 500 rupees.
By then I was starting to loose control as when he had been stocking up from the chemists I saw hundreds of them in the next shop for 50 rupees. (about 80 cents)
I am definitely not going to tell him that at the moment
“It”s a memory of Goa” he told me with that horrible smug look on his face.
“Look at the work, this lad did it all himself, carved the holes out of the elephant and put a little elephant inside. I wonder how he did it he”s so clever. He found the rocks in the village that he lived in and carved out these elephants. He”s the only one that can do it in the village.They are so special he doesn”t tell many people about them – he told me he only tells people that remind him of his father
“Do you think that”s a compliment then?” I asked
“Yes” contentedly nodding “Because his father used to play the guitar.”
“Did you tell him you played the guitar?”
Shifty look back on again
“No, he guessed because he recognizes guitarists”
What a liar
I can hardly breathe now.
“How does he do that? Is it because his father was Val Doonican?”
“You”re only jealous” becoming obnoxious now “because he didn”t ask you to buy any elephants”
By now I was choking
“I told you, you smoke too much” he said.

The Jamsheshon
Well, we got back to our hotel after another eventful day and, after running round the room swatting any little black bit he could find, he got ready to go out which entailed smoothing out his new white Goan cotton shirt and new white Goan cotton trousers, putting on his aeroplane stockings (which were black,) as, by now, with all the mosquito hunting, his legs had swollen up again and he put on his new sandals.
He liberally sprayed himself with mosquito repellent (would not let him wear his hat) and decided he was going to the bar as I wasn”t ready so he picked up the guitar, stood at the door and sprayed the room with mosquito spray then backed out quickly.
It took me half an hour to stop choking then another half an hour to find little black bits and put them in his bed.
That will keep him amused when we get back.
When I got down to the bar he was surrounded by waiters, I thought he was playing a bit of guitar but, no, he was showing them his mosquitoswatfan
“Are you ready then”. I said
“Yesh letsh go”
“Talking Gobbledegook again” I thought – I was wrong
He downed his vodka in one and picked up the guitar. (it weighs quite a bit in the case) Shook all the waiters hands like he had known them all of his life and went out regally waving to everyone who was sitting in the bar and restaurant with that “I know you all know who I am” look on his shiny sticky face
At this point, I wasn”t sure who he thought he was The Great Anihilator?, Clint Eastwood?, An Inventor of Swats? Possibly The President? The Great Elephant Negotiator?
The Great Dick Head more like.
“Are we going to get a choof choof?” Was he slurring a bit?
“A what?” I’m a bit confused here
“Or is it a pooph pooph?” puzzled look on his face
“Oh no”, I thought “he”s trying to speak the Goan language again so he could be saying anything”
“Look” he squealed as we walked out of the gate “there”sh a choof pooph”
Well, no he hadn”t actually learned any new words it was his own word for a rickshaw.
We got into the rickshaw, guitar and all (rickshaws are really cheap which makes him so happy ) so he then starts patronizing the poor rickshaw driver.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
The rickshaw driver replied but Mr. Fussy is a bit deaf so he didn•t hear what the driver said and looked at me with a pained look on his face waiting for me to interpret
I didn”t
“Do you live in Goa? how musch is petrol? why are there no lightsh in the shtreet? how far is Burger ? (Baga) what do you do in the rainy sheason? are there a lot of moshquitoes when it rainsh? do you play the guitar?
He looked at me out the corner of his eye as knew he was pushing it then decided to change the subject “are you married?, why aren”t there any pavementsh?” On and on.
Is it my imagination or is he putting sh on a lot of words?
When we finally got to the restaurant in Baga I asked how much he had heard
“Nothing” he said “but he wash a really nice bloke”
How would he know?
We were first in the restaurant so decided to have a meal.
He ordered a curried fish platter, I ordered a steak.
“You schouldn”t have shteak” he muttered
“Why is that then?”
“Becaushe you”re in India”
“What”s that got to do with it?”
“You schould curry have when you in India”
All of a sudden he”s talking to ME in this funny broken English know accent
Decided to play with him
“We are not in India though” I said smiling
Look of horror crossed his face
“Where are we then” he shrilled “Ischland I shuppose? brrrr cold eh? rubbing his shoulders brrrr coldy pops, brrrrrrrrrr
So sarcastic.
Of course I”d created a monster as he started clicking his fingers at the waiter who finally came over.
“What Country am I in?”
There was a look of disbelief on the waiters face.
“Where am I?” louder “am I in India? which Country am I in? tell her where I am?• head going from side to side
The waiter looked at me and saw me stifling the giggles
“Don”t you know where I am?” he was shouting now “where am I? am I in India?”
“No”, waiter has sussed out what is happening now
“NO” screamed Mr. Very Frustrated Fusspot “What do you mean NO, W H E R E………….A M…………….I?” slowly
Of course he is now drawing attention to himself for a bloody change.
People are looking at him like he”s from a loony bin.
“You are in Goa, smiled the waiter, “a Sub Continent of India”
He paused for a few seconds while he worked that one out, eyes going upward then squinting then nodding then turned and triumphantly screeched at me
“I TOLD YOU SHO ”
Wish I hadn”t started it.
He was getting a bit crumpled now with the guitar on his lap, so he put it under the table when he had calmed down a bit and had stopped bragging that of course he knew where he was and that he knew I was winding him up blah blah
Then the waiter came over and asked if we would mind sharing the table a bit later as they were going to be busy
Mr. No Friends Fusspot is highly delighted (some new victims to show that bloody mosquitoswatfan to)
When the food came, a fly started landing on him, he didn”t flinch, just tried to casually swat it, he missed. For some reason the fly took a liking to him and stayed with him for the whole meal. He was almost exhausted and catonic by the time he had finished his meal what with swirling round in his chair every couple of seconds then swirling back, then swatting the air, then swatting the ground. Head going up and down and from side to side
“Huhgotchya” he finally smirked picking a lump of ash off of his by now, grubby crumpled trousers.
“I feel a bit dizzy” he grumbled
He looked a bit cross-eyed but that was either the drink or swirling backwards, forwards and up and down for more than an hour.
By now the place was really filling up and a fellow who I think must be a sort of resident there started playing the guitar. Now I see the jealous look creep over his face.
“Who do I shee to play then?” he whispered
“Shall I guess?” sarcastic, “There”s only one bloke up there – and you don”t even know if you are allowed to”
“I used to run jammsheshons back in Bradford”)
“A jammsheshon is a jammsheshon” I thought it was another one of his new words so didn”t pay any attention.
By then a young couple had joined our table so Mr. No Friends Fusspot put a grimace on his face that he thought was a smile and started frantically fanning himself with the mosquitoswatfan looking out of the corner of his eye and sighing, hoping the couple would mention it so he could tell them all about how he invented it. Swish swish swish faster and faster
They ignored him totally.
Then he started frantically fanning the girl who waved him away.
He thinks he has an in now as he is convinced she is fanning the mosquitoes away
“They are a problem these moshquitoes aren”t they” benevolently
“No” the girl answered and looked away
He looked at me a bit aghast and back came the ventriloquist
“What did they come on holiday for? Don”t they know how to enjoy themselves?”
Then another man joined the other one on stage so he got distracted by them and shrilled,
“How”d HE get up there?” (He had paid no attention at all to the music)
“I’m off to the toilet, where is it? do you think it”s a hole? have you got a tissue in case they have a bucket on the wall? Is it a unisex toilet?” will there be a queue? do you reckon there will be a towel? how far is it (This by now is all out of the corner of his mouth behind his mosquitoswatfan) “Look after my fan” and off he staggered.
I was talking to the young couple on the table, and, when I looked up, Mr.Take a Bloody Liberty Fusspot was sneaking up on to the stage behind the two guitarists. I nearly died. He picked up the spare guitar that was there and started playing. Luckily the two playing were professionals so after looking round totally shocked, kept on playing but when they realized Mr. Take a Liberty Fusspot could actually play they relaxed – they even let him play a couple which I hate to say went down really well (his jokes didn”t)
I don”t think anybody understood him – and, for his grand finale he decided to sing Postman Pat in German (he normally does this with a German hat on which one day will get him thumped)
But was he happy!
He didn”t realize he”d carted his heavy guitar all over Goa for nothing at that moment.
He came swaggering back to the table with this really funny pompous obnoxious grin on, but only until nobody was looking then he slumped over the table out of breath
“Schaall we go now” he was definitely slurring
“No, I said” Just because you”ve got up there you want to go and I haven”t finished.
“Well, I’m hot so I’m going outshide” (We were in an open air place anyway but no way did he remember that)
“Don”t forget your guitar” which he didn”t want anything to do with by then as it was too heavy for him in his delicate state – he thought if he wandered off, I would have to carry it about
He got under the table to get the guitar but fell on one knee. There were lots of stones on the floor which I know must have scraped his knee as he went down because I definitely heard a moan, but I knew he wouldn”t say anything at that time in case he drew attention to himself. Mr. Not Macho Fusspot.
I thought it was hilarious watching him try to get up with dignity. He staggered out with one dirty, torn, crumpled black knee on his crumpled white trousers (at least the knee matched his stockings)
I finally got the bill about an hour later and went looking for him.
He had captured yet another poor rickshaw driver whose hand he was shaking, patting him on the back, high fiving him (don”t know when he started that) and was frantically waving the mosquitoswatfan at him.
I told the rickshaw driver he had to go back to the hospital after the weekend. Finally got back to the hotel and the bar was still open.
“Letsh have a drinky winky (where did that come from) shall we?”
“No”, you can have one when we get back into the room”.
A subdued sulky Mr. Fusspot dragging his guitar and mosquitoswatfan behind him, followed me up the two flights to our room.
“Ow ow ow my knee hurts my knee oooow oooow” I ignored him
This was because he couldn”t get down to the small fridge so I would have to. I did anyway because by then I needed a drink
We sat on the balcony (he had totally forgotten about the mosquitoes) as was trying to get his aeroplane stockings off. Huff and puff huff and puff. Finally all his lovely black, white, torn crumpled dirty clothes were all on the floor in a heap as normal and he then forgetting everything else, merrily assumed – (dressed only in his underpants that were about ten years old) - what he thought was a sexy pose..
I thought he looked more like a mad professor (the hair that he has was going in all different directions over the top of his head and standing up where he”d taken his shirt off) And his knee was all scuffed.
“Hey babe” he said in this really deep voice
“Oh no”, I thought, “here we go, in a minute he”ll say who am I”
“Who am I?” he slurred with his lip going up at one side. I couldn”t stop looking at the top of his head.
“What you looking at?” he was looking up in the air sort of swizzling his head about “Come on….Who am I? Why are you looking up there? Who am I? Why are you looking at the top of my head?”
“Are you Tommy Cooper?”
“No” he screeeeched “Come on, Who am I? You know really don”t you, you are just having me on, do I look like Tommy Cooper? – he wore a hat I haven”t got a hat on have I? come on, look at me, who am I?
“Are you Tiny Tim?” I left him screaming.

The Huhgotchya Chant
I woke up to the chant of,
“Huhgotchya”, “Huhgotchya”, “Huhgotchya” - swat swat swat .
He certainly made a good job of killing all the little bits of tea leaves and lumps of dirt that I”d put in his bed. He didn•t realize he”d been rolling about in them all night
Then, spray, swish, grunt, swat (no three moans as normal) spray swish grunt “Huhgotchya” spray “Huhgotchya”. spray Not sure which is worse. This new morning ritual of the “Huhgotchya” chant or when he was just a misery guts with the oh my neck, oh my back, oh my legs chant
“What you doing staying in bed all day then?” he winged..
All very well for him to say, he”d been in a happy sleep tossing,turning
and laughing while he was killing ball point pen dots in his dreams and I was awake listening to mumbling, gurgling, laughing, singing, snoring and now I realize the “Huhgotchya” chant.
Oh dear. Will he ever recover from this holiday.
I’m quite happy at the moment though as he hasn”t said muccadicca or wacconucca to anybody after the mongooserat
He toddled off for breakfast, remembering just in time to give me my half hour choking fit with the big spray. Could hear him talking very slowly in a broken accent outside the room and realized he was talking to the room boy who had left our towels in a different shape every day.
“You make swans with towels? I do too swans with towels” Now, this is in a broken Bradford accent but sounded a bit rastafarian
“Two swans with towels? ” confused room boy in a broken
English/conckney accent
“Si” (voice ten octaves lower, he always does that when he tries to talk Spanish but only knows the word Si anyway and, oh yes,he can count one, two three)
“I can do snakes too with towels” he always has to go one better
“How you do two snakes with towels?”
I peeped out of the room and Mr. F. was looking at the boy as if he was a creature from outer space.
”I no do two snakes, I do too snakes ”
I threw myself on the bed bordering on hysteria once again – not really sure how much more I can take
He looked a bit scornful at the poor lad but gave him a cheesy grin, tossed his head and told the room boy that we were going to hire a car and drive to India. Well, not quite told him, there were a lot of gestures for driving a car and a lot of nonsense being spoken. Along the lines of:
“Me no get rickshaw, you know car? I have car in Spain, big car, no rickshaw. In Spain, many scooters like here, I have pedal bike before (this was demonstrated with great difficulty as he has so much to carry with all his lotions, sprays, swats, bag, hat and everything else) and he also suddenly remembered his scuffed knee so decided he didn”t really need to show the room boy a bicycle and just carried on “but have now car – we hire cold car, me no like hot car, too hot in hot car. Cold car better . We go get car, we not go Goa, go India, we in Goa now, so we go India, brumm brumm”.
“I will pray for you” the little room boy said
He didn”t quite get that but off he trotted glancing back over his shoulder with that horrible cocky look that he”s developed on his face
I closed the door.

Sunbeds, Sunbeds Everywhere
When I finally went down to meet him he was happy as had fiddled some extra toast. Said he was exhausted (why?) so had to lay down for a bit on a sunbed. Then he noticed that all the sunbeds had the same blue and white towels on them. (You can get a towel from the hotel if you want and use it on your sunbed.) but nobody was on any of them and there were no free beds.
Head started going from side to side and the ventriloquist appeared again, hand over his mouth
“Are they all Germans here? what time did they put their towels on those beds? bet they were up all night waiting, selfish selfish, they can”t put a towel on a sunbed and wander off. who gave them permission, look over there, left a book so they can go back, look there,I”ll stay up all night and put a towel on every chair” on and on .
Then his eyes lit up, in the far corner he had spotted a bed without a towel, jumped up (forgot about his swollen ankles and scuffed knee) and strolled round the pool looking left and right under his eyelashes just in case anyone was going to beat him to it well, (nobody was there, they were all having breakfast)
He looked really sly
He must have thought he looked really casual and cool in that silly hat and his new sandals that his feet kept slipping through catching his toes on the hot floor, so that he had to stop every couple of seconds to put his foot back in.
He waved over at me with the bad smell under his nose look and laid on the sunbed.
He jumped up mouth open in a silent scream (for fear of showing himself up) – not him eh? - as the bed was made of plastic and burning hot. He pretended to wave over at me again but I know he was just trying to cool himself down with his hand as he”d left his mosquitoswatfan on the table. Watched him try to pretend nothing had happened as he slowly hobbled, which I know he thought he looked like he was sauntering, to the shower (with sandals on) and then jumped into the pool.
Was another shock to his system so I watched him for a while gurgling and spluttering something to me and trying to to get his breath back.
“Are you Moby Dick?” I called out
“Gurgle, gurgle”,
Okay, “Are you a Jellyfish?”
“Aaargh, gurgle gurgle splutter”
“Oh, I know who you are” couldn”t stop laughing by then
“You”re A BIG PINK CRAB”
“I’M A CRAB?” he shrilled but he opened his mouth too wide and swallowed another mouthful of water
“Yes, you are” I smiled.
It got boring when he finally did get his breath back so I decided to let him get on with it and go for a walk.
I came back about two hours later and he”s still on “his sunbed”
I”ve got it so I’m not leaving it look on his face. “Mine mine mine”
He still did not have a towel but he doesn”t dare move from the position he is in because if the sun gets on the sunbed it would have burnt him again. He was so stiff he creaked his neck round to look at me.
“Where have you been? You took my mosquitoswatfan”. charming
“Guess what I”ve just seen?”
Wasn”t my mosquitoswatfan was it?”
Smartarse
“No, I”ve just seen an elephant walking up the road”
He rolled on his back (only winced a little bit) with an incredulous look on his face
“Are you drunk” he whined “What colour was the elephant, pink I suppose?”
“No” I corrected him, “It was a green African elephant and it had a Prince on his back.
“How do you know it was a Prince – did he have a diamond in his turban?, you don”t know if it was a Prince it could have been an elephant trainer. what colour was his turban?, was he wearing a long dress? what colour clothes did he have on? different coloured turbans mean different things you know (where he”s getting this information from is beyond me) – the only book he has ever read is called Sammy the Fish and it has six big thick pages and drawings on. He was 39 at the time
Not “What do you mean a green African elephant”. I give up………..

The Spider Invasion
Later that night I decided to give him a spider invasion.
I wear individual false eyelashes so picked them out of the box one at a time and put them on his pillow and in his bed. I honestly thought I was going to have a seizure or a heart attack muffling my laughter when he pulled his top sheet down and spotted them all
Swat! Swat! “Huhgotchya huhgotchya” (voice rising hysterically higher and higher) as all the eyelashes did was bounce to another place on the bed
“Swat swat yaccapunca,” (oh no) “miccamucca” (I”ve decided he only says he “doesn”t want to buy anything” when he”s under stress”)
“Why are you lying there? Look at the spiders in my bed do you have any?, Why have I got them? Spray spray. Why don”t you have any? They kill over here you know the spiders? Why aren”t you scared? Look at the size of that one------ swat swat spray spray. “Huhgotchya ,Fub, Pec, Swa, Punkawalla. “Huhgotcha”
He”s getting out of breath now so pulls all the bedclothes off, opens the balcony door and shakes the bedclothes over the balcony.
“That fixed them” he crowed
He remade the bed, got in, turned off the light then sat up quickly.
Light goes on again.
“Guess what?” he whispered
“What” I whisper back
“They”ve got me” an even quieter tragic whisper
“Who”s got you?”
“THE BLOODY MOSQUITOES got me while I was getting rid of the spiders he screeched scratching furiously “THEY ARE ALL IN IT TOGETHER”
I had to run to the toilet as was wetting myself.