The Irish Tales

Second Life (13) Part 1
　
　
As you can see, I ain’t superstitious. Not much, anyway.
I may make the sign of the cross now and then before embarking on some risky business like crossing the road at rush hour or handing over my debit card when I know I’m well over-drawn, but that’s religion, not witchcraft.
(You may debate the difference elsewhere, please.)
Even so, even so.
I still clutched my lucky knee-slider* before the start of last year’s Gold Cup at Cheltenham and sure enough, Kauto Star pissed it.
And when I first jumped out of a perfectly serviceable aircraft at 5,000ft, next to my skin was the decaying brush of the fox I was first blooded with, so many, many years ago now.
But neither were to hand on the one day I really needed them.
We were filming in the South China Sea, 600 miles from Manilla and staying on a tiny island which the tourists’ brochure would describe as idyllic.
And so it was, if you forgive the faulty plumbing, the eccentric electricity supply, the fact that rebel terrorists were kidnapping and beheading any western employee of the big oil companies they could find and the appalling lack of single malt.
(If you have been a regular reader of these columns, you can probably guess which oil company I refer to.)
There was a lot of soul-searching and furrowed brows before we got the nod to go ahead with the shoot; quite rightly, as it turned out. But hind-sight is a beautiful thing.
We insisted on a low profile and no publicity and were assured by the company that this would be the case. Ha!
I made the outward journey alone, for some reason or other. A lovely flight from Gatwick to Manilla, then a fairly horrid one in a Fokker Friendship to a remote island air-strip. And then, an amazing voyage in what I would describe as a krall, but which is probably incorrect. It was essentially a large barge, with a kind of sail, but mostly propelled by oars wielded by bronzed and noble savages.
I say savages, but that notion was dispelled rapidly by a conversation with one them about Manchester United, Laphroaig and Tony Blair. Boy, did I feel stupid.
After an age, we approached this magical island and I was horrified. Hung across the landing stage was a huge banner reading : WELCOME SH*** AND FILM KREW!
I automatically ducked, hearing in my head the explosion of small arms fire and mortars.
(A true coward knows instantly when to duck and when to look brave.The truth is easy; always do both.)
Once I landed and got over my fit of terror, I was delighted. A hut on stilts, approached by a wooden bridge, complete with air-conditioning, fully stocked fridge, large, comfortable double bed and a balcony looking out over the sea as the sun went down, was all mine.
As was the sumptious restaurant and bar, which never closed. I started to feel a lot better about the whole trip.And for many a day, I was justified. Leaving aside the toilet which over-flowed every day, the phone which only worked if one spoke to it nicely and the air-con which turned the heat on at night and didn’t work at all during the day, it was all rather lovely.
The shoot went very well indeed and the client, who wasn’t much liked, was taught a valuable lesson when swimming off a beach infested by jelly fish.
I realise that one of us should have warned him, but human nature doesn’t work like that, you know ?
In the interminable delays between turning the cameras over to film, there was snorkelling, scuba diving, wind-surfing and other jolly stuff for the energetically inclined. The rest of us relaxed in the shade of the coconut trees, sipping milk Plus (a mixture of fresh coconut milk, rum and ice) and amusing ourselves by trying to capture the small species of turtles which were everywhere on the islands.
I had this magnificent idea, if we could catch a few of them, of staging the inaugural South China Sea Derby, with each runner handicapped according to size by the simple expedient of strapping film cans to their shells.
We got as far as marking out a small but perfect replica of the the Epsom Downs racetrack, complete with the camber on the run to the line, when the idea was gently but firmly squashed by the Sh*** rep for those parts, "The natives would be terribly offended," he said to me.
Hmm. The natives actually seemed very disappointed that whole thing was called off and I had to return all the stake money.
And so, the shoot progressed, with remarkably few problems and came the day when we were due to leave.
A boat trip first to the nearest island with something approaching an airstrip, then a flight in a small plane to Manilla, then connect with BA for the flight home to London.
We all assembled early in varying degrees of grumpiness after the wrap party the night before.
(At least two people were so drunk they missed their fotting on the narrow walkway and ended up in the swamp beneath and another crew member had to be forcibly dragged from the hut of one of the local ladies in his underwear.)
The sea air and a little local rum helped to perk us up on the trip and we approached the island in reasonably good spirits. Which is where the nightmare began…..
To be continued…………..
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* A "knee-slider" is a piece of protection worn by lunatics who ride or race motorcycles around tracks which enables them to put their knee to the ground to ascertain the angle of lean, when riding around corners. If used correctly it bears the scratches and scars of the tarmac and is seen by some as a badge of honour. So sad. So true, though.