The Laughing Spy

I've just had a near fatal incident when I almost ran out of toilet paper.

I tell you, now would not have been a good time to run out of toilet paper.

Sheeeeet.

The smell... worse than my cat's breath after munching down a bowlful of bbq meat.

So anyway...

I have been fired twice.

Probably even three times if you include the time I was fired from my Saturday job on suspicion of stealing.

Actually let's make that four times.

I got fired from my paper round for non-delivery of papers. Took them about six months to realise though.

I used to dump the free papers I was supposed to deliver and piss off into my local town centre for an hour or two of hanging out in music stores, or staring at the front covers of porn mags - too embarrassed to reach up and take them down off the shelf.

The newspaper distribution company were paying me a penny a paper - which even back in 1984 was some way below the International Minimum Wage. Slave labour it was and I, young Lord Lazy Arse, was having none of it.

My last job was slave labour also.

I was working 80 hours a week on average. That's twice the number of hours I was being paid for.

One night I worked until 5.30am the following day, then slept for one hour and a half before returning to the office for a full ten-hour day. I was off my head from exhaustion and stress even before I got to go down the pub.

The travel was interesting though.

Emerging markets - Eastern Europe, the Middle East and West Africa.

Part of my job involved Fieldwork, no not working in a field. That's something different.

Fieldwork research.

Primary research.

On-the-ground research.

Basically it was lots of running around (actually me being Lord Loafer it mainly involved being driven around) wide-eyed with stress - desperately trying to find someone who might be willing to talk to me even if they are mad and haven't got a clue about the types of questions I needed to find answers for.

Questions included - how much demand is their for new housing in the area? How much supply is coming through and when will it be completed? Who is buying? How much rent are people willing to pay? Can you name a good place to pick up prostitutes that won't kill you with their diseases?


One encounter I had while in Africa involved driving out to an industrial zone which looked like it had been repeatedly nuked. The driver did raise an eyebrow and give me a look when I first suggested we go out there.

On our way we passed a lot of people standing around on the sides of roads. Most of them lacked limbs or teeth, some lacked both. There were lots of rusting trucks and cars littering the place also.

When it came to finding the location for an interview, I was always the one having to do the phoning. The people I was interviewing didn't seem to want to talk and give directions to the driver, a silly status thing.

But the drivers knew the city several million times better than Lord Loafer, so a lot of time wasted and a lot of confusion caused by this silly status thing. My UK phone couldn't get through to most local numbers anyway, so a local mobile phone chip was bought from a street hawker.

That afternoon, me and my driver eventually found the place we were looking for. It was called A.A.R.S.Y. Holdings or something similar. Unintentionally hilarious but very difficult to ask with a straight face, "Excuse me, is this AARSY Holdings". Thank Christ it wasn't AARSY Wholesale.

A very understated African guy sort of introduced himself to me. African men have quite low voices and mumble a fair bit so it can be very difficult to understand what they are saying. You end up having to say, "Pardon","Sorry", "What did you say?" quite a lot.

It wasn't long before this guy starts getting a bit AARSY with me, saying, "Don't you understand English then. Why? Your country invented it!"

At least I think that is what he said.

Anyway, I tried to do the interview with him, but the milk had been well and truly soured. He was very suspicious of my questions, wanting to know why I needed the information I was asking for. He suggested I might be a spy engaged in some sort of industrial espionage.

That made me laugh out loud. Me, a spy?!

Then the power cut happened.

They happen a lot in West Africa. Usually when you are travelling between floors in a lift.

This power cut was at just as awkward a moment.

We were sat in a windowless room and then the lights went out.

Just after I had laughed at this slightly scary, suspicious man.

My laughter bounced back at me from walls that were suddenly very dark.

The whole building went quiet.

In the middle of this darkness, I heard the leather on his chair creak as he got up out of it. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was walking around the side of his desk towards me.

I was sure then he was going to do me some harm. My bottom emitted the same smell then as it did earlier this morning.

He was going to strangle me or stab me with his stapler while yelling, "Do you understand this then?!"

Instead, he walked past me and opened the door.

A shaft of African sunlight poured in from the corridor outside.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and my bottom squeaked gratefully.

"Hey William," he said to one of the many thousands of people loitering outside, "Can you get me and Lord Loafer some tea please."

From somewhere nearby the back-up generator could be heard whirring and clanking into life and all the lights reluctantly came back on.

I needed something stronger to drink than tea.