Shakespeare Tourettes

Sunday October 30th

The case of the missing cat peeled any hesitancy left in my mind. I pursue an eagerness for truth and a fulfilment of justice with bald bastard transparency. So far my time in Thailand has aided my call for guidance, I am free, I am here, I am willing to help and willing to solve.

Waking this morning was an ordeal as my sleep had been three short drunken hours. Still my responsibility outweighed any lingering thoughts of fun and Astrid did get her morning swim. The pool proved refreshing and to play with my daughter is a pleasure that can brighten the dirtiest of hangovers.

It was about 1 o’clock and I was just making thoughts of a sneaky afternoon nap. Carolyn and Astrid were playing hard and I felt my morning swim had earned me enough points to doze off uninterrupted for about 25 minutes. ‘I’ll give that a go’ I eagerly considered. Phone rings just as I’m about to drift off.

“Will, it’s Bob”. Bob was a Canadian war veteran (I assume) who moved to Thailand a few years ago. He had a Thai wife with which he ran his rental business and I have a truck and a moped rented from him at the moment.

“Bob…. How’s it going?”

“Good, listen, I need the truck, I need to tax it.” I knew this, He rang a month ago and told me the same thing but he never pursued it, just rang and told me he needed to do it. Today was obviously the day to tax.

“Cool, well when can we get that done?”

“I’m outside your school now!”

 I told him I’d be a minute. I liked Bob; he seemed a good man, spontaneous, in it for the right reasons, laid back and never too afraid to thrust a threat if needed.

Taxing took no more than 20 minutes and that is quick considering the Thai people love to take their time and fill in as many forms as are possible. Bob asked my plans for the afternoon. Being the ever adventurous man I pride myself on I replied by yawning “sleep”.

“Well, if you fancy it me and few of my buddies go to this open mic afternoon in East Pattaya just off the railway. It’s the only damn place I can find with any decent music.”

The music in Pattaya is horrible. There is plenty of it; most bars entertain but mainly with an out of tune Thai murdering an already hated song.  I’ve been here for almost three months and whilst my nights have been among the finest experienced, music has never attributed to that. So naturally I was intrigued, I knew Bob liked his music and judging by the posters (Pink Floyd, Clash, Jimi Hendrix) on his wall at his home, maybe this open mic gig wouldn’t be bad, fill my musical void? He gave me directions and times and I told him I might be there.

I was going. It started at 4pm so I had a few hours to knap, shower and prepare (with liquor). Upon hearing my plans Carolyn accepted my plea for her company and the three of us (Astrid included) set off to attend an open mic afternoon. What might we expect?

The room was dark, big and full of peeps. We arrived as a western man sat mid stage on a stool picking away at some ballad. I didn’t know the song but the 100 strong people in attendance didn’t make a sound and were obviously appreciative. I liked the atmosphere, in my experience it is so hard to find a venue and fill it with people who are there to enjoy the music rather than their own voices. The man continued to play, each song as well received as the previous. He was good. When he finished he spoke and introduced the night as compare. His name was Richard, I later got talking to him and he told me the origins of the event, borne from the same frustrations many music lovers may have living in Pattaya.

The afternoon progressed nicely, after Richard a poet held some pretentious readings, then a Thai comedian had a go. “They foun dead Israeli man in hotel room…… They suspect hummuside” was his funniest joke. He was followed by a band, then another band, then man with a guitar, then another poet, then a solo artist with a backing track, then a viola player, then boogie wodge on a piano. Diverse enough but I was still feeling more could be done and the alcohol had started to convince me I was the man for the job. I had put my name down at the start and had plans to either cover a classic and get the crowd going or do a funny song and hope they get the humour.

It was my time. “Can we have Milk on the stage please?” I was comfortable calling myself Milk at this point, which, means I was hammered. I took to the stage still unsure of what was best for the event. I wanted to present myself in a good light but had an unsurpassed urge to mess things up a bit. The performers had been so clinical and the audience so receptive, I/the beer wanted anarchy.

I started with a song of my own called ‘Husky Idea’; it is a favourite of Astrid’s and a nice little ditty but neither funny or that good to be honest. Still the crowd were happy with what was performed and greeted the ending as they had with all the previous acts – warmly. I didn’t want warm, warm frustrated me, and damn near pissed me off. I wanted boiling fucking hot, or freezing shitting cold, I wanted an extreme. After the generous applause calmed down I addressed the spectators.

“Ok, Ok, bit over the top eh?” Small chuckle. ”Right I’m thinking no matter what I do you guys will like it so I’m in the unusual position of considering what’s the best for me.” I deliberated. “Pssst, you.” Aiming the pssst at a drummer in one of the previous bands. “Do you mind coming up here and playing some beats?” before he could answer I introduced him to the crowd. He was clapped on stage giving me evils all the way to the kit. “Okay, drums, can you hit me with just a simple 4/4 hip hop Kinda funky thump?” It didn’t matter what beat he played I just wanted him to start, bide me a bit of time whilst I figured out what I was going to do. Surprisingly his beat was exactly what I had in my head, I filled it with a small guitar lick, and it was funk.

After a few bars I had to commit to something, sing or speak but my mind was blank. Then like a tide of certainty a flash of the unconscious burst through to spare my blushes. I have recently been studying literature, primarily Shakespeare and having been through his works with a fine comb my mind sought to regurgitate its finest parts. Brilliant. To the audience I beamed clearly.

“Thank you everybody, fantastic audience. I’m MC Shakesalot and this my band.” I allowed for a few more bars, then, began to rap with perfect clarity.

“Uh, uh, O, throw away the worser part of it, and live the purer with the other half. Good night: but go not to mine uncle’s bed; assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, of habbits evil, is angel yet in this,-- That to the use of actions fair and good he likewise gives a frock or livery that aptly is mother fucking put on, uh.”

The audience were perplexed but tapping their feet. I could see Carolyn was clearly enjoying herself holding Astrid aloft. I then took advantage of another blast of inspiration.

“I would like to introduce my wife Carolyn, AKA Sue-tube. Sue-tube, get up here.” By this time Carolyn was as hammered as I and held no hesitation in joining me. I must tell you that Carolyn is an experienced performer and if you haven’t heard her sing before then let it be known she is good. Taking to the stage she grabbed the mic and belted straight in with a beautiful tune that complemented the guitar lick and beat. The lyrics varied but the general point of chorus was “You think you know Shakespeare, then let it be rapped in here.”

We were set. Astrid front row, Mother chorus, Father Rap master. We continued.

“ You dig Hamlet huh? There’s plenty more where that shit came from, huh, huh. Y’all wanna hear a little bit of A.M.S.N.D? Yeah? Yo, yo, check Lysander. I am my Lord, as well deriv’d as he, crinkled cut Golden Wonder, As well possess’d in my tight knight, love is more than his; My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d, if not with curdled rose fanny vintage, which is more than all these binocular bicep boasts can be, I am belov’d of that beauteous whore Hermia; uh, uh bring it in!”

Carolyn “T’was my Lord”

I “Is’t fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood; discharge, ass, and, to speak troth, I have forgotten our way; we’ll rest the fuck up, Hermia, shit, if you think it good, then tarry for the comfort of the mother fucking day.”

Carolyn “T’was my Lord”

I “O, take the sense, ripped Anglo dirt, sweet of my shit innocence; wrinkled spurge; Love makes the meaning in loves back passage, conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit like the egg suffering throat dancer.”

It got worse, my mind recalled fewer passages and my mouth replaced them with cuss words. The more I forgot, the more I swore. Shakespeare Tourettes. I managed to destroy parts from Hamlet, A Midsummer Nights Dream, Macbeth, The Tempest, As You Like It and The Taming of the Shrew, by which time the drummer had stopped due to sheer confusion. We lasted 15 minutes with him then dragged ourselves to a resolution once it was just the wife and I. On the whole the audience were baffled but a small smattering of younger people acted a little differently. They cheered enthusiastically and clapped generously, I gave them a knowing nod as we were ushered off stage. I think they liked it.

As it turned out we were asked back next week.

“Certainly something different and that’s why I started this.” Said Richard. “I mean, try not to be as drunk as that again, you scared a few of my regulars but by all means come back and give it a go.”

‘Give it a go!?’ Patronising sod! We just opened the genre ‘Shakespeare Tourettes’ to a world clearly in need of it. “Give it a go, pffft!’ I don’t think we’ll go back. As nice as it was to hear people play and to perform ourselves, my urge to mess things up and be the centre of attention doesn’t allow me to enjoy it. Maybe one day I’ll be able to sit and take pleasure from others and their unique skills but at the moment unless I’m bowled over my inclination is to do the bowling. Damn. Home and sleep followed.

Another fine day in Thailand and the case of the missing genre - solved.