Fairy Hanny

The Tapha, slight return.

I wandered up the back roads and into what could be central Sanur. Lots of resto/bars filled with Europeans and Aussies. I found a good supermarket which also has an ATM outside – 20 minutes’ walk from my hotel. I followed the road down to the beach, past the Holiday Inn and the Intercontinental; the kind of places you stay when you want a sanitised holiday. When I look at the pools and seating areas outside those sort of places I often think the guests could be anywhere in the world where the sun shines all day; Benidorm, Hawaii, Santorini, probably all look the same when you stay at those places!

Anyway I walked past Tapha because I’d already eaten at a Greek restaurant (which could have been anywhere!). On my google map I had noticed a bar a bit further along the beach so I went to explore. It is called Pier Eight Bali – turns out is part of the Intercontinental. I ordered a beer, which of course cost double what the local bars charge. I sat and listened to a guy playing bland pop on his acoustic guitar.

Two beers and the bland pop was enough for me.

I headed back along the beach. When I reached Tapha I realised the band was a Beatles cover, so I took a table and sat down to listen.

Kid Cock was there again.

This time there was a new lady fussing amongst the tables. The usual staff wear black T-shirts and black jeans, but this lady, maybe a Maître D’, wore a really nice red dress. The only downside was she had an arse the size of a small kingdom!

Sitting here, July 2026, listening to the music of a group that split up 56 years ago is just incredible. Every song seemed to be recognised by all the audience, many of whom were not even alive 56 years ago!

I chatted with the lads during the interval.

‘Yes I grew up in the 60’s so that is the music of my youth. No I never went to the original Cavern club, that was mostly rubble by the time I started visiting clubs in the 70’s. But Matthew street is still there, with a new Cavern, The Grapes, Flanagan’s Apple, and Cavern walks…’

They started their second set with If I fell, which is one of my favourites. They moved on from early Beatles until we got to Don’t let me down and I could only think of Aisha. Then a surreal moment – as the band played a group of a dozen cyclists rode across the front of them.

My mind shot back to Edge Hill College 1980 when we organised the Bootleg Beatles to play at the college. 46 years ago – I wonder if they exist now?

Nostalgia is all in the past!

For some reason there are still lots of Abba tribute acts – which reminds me of the wonderful Will Farrel movie Eurovision.

More beers, more dealings with beach salesmen selling gewgaws and bangles. Time for bed.

Tales from the poolside, Sanur

Old jokes.

That last post about Dr. Who reminded me of a joke I told my sister, but for many years she just didn’t understand it. I’m not talking about a sister as a child but as an aduklt professional nurse.

The joke;

‘What do Eartha Kitt and Dr. Who have in common?’

It was many years before she twigged. One time when I was visiting her and I had severe tummy rumbles I explained that I was dying for an Eartha, and promptly ran to the bathroom.

‘Eartha Kitt,’ she laughed as I returned. ‘I get it now!’

On another occasion I told my sons different old joke;

‘Did you hear about the guy who thought innuendo was the Italian word for a suppository?’

Two smiled, the youngest, Ben looked bemused.

‘I don’t get it!’

Many years later when I returned from one of my many travels I was telling them about how many Brits abroad will use shouty language to get food or drink. As an example I quoted ‘You-oh, get-oh me-oh, a beer-oh!’ as an example I heard in Spain.

Suddenly Ben laughed.

‘Innuendo!’ he said.

Finally, for now, am I the only one who recalls from secondary school, boys saying they were dying for a J. Arthur?

Dr Who?

Ramblings.

Watching the sun go down from the Resto restaurant on Sanur Beach. I suppose that having recently celebrated a birthday that puts me into my seventieth year on this planet, it is inevitable that I will reminisce.

A former colleague likes to post on Facebook about his love of Doctor Who, the epic sci-fi series from the BBC. I have vague memories of the first series with William Hartnell back in November 1963, the day after JFK was assassinated. If I remember rightly, the first series there was something to do with Cave men and apparently I hid behind the sofa because I was scared… Anyway it became a firm family favourite viewing for Saturday evening.

That was in the days when a typical Saturday was playing/watching football for the school or swimming in the morning, then Everton live or listening on the radio, then Dr. Who early evening. It was followed by some variety show like Morecambe and Wise or The Two Ronnies, or something like that. The evening would finish with Match of the Day (with hot pasties), and if lucky we were allowed to stay up to watch The Midnight Movie; and then TV shut down.

The point here is that we got to call Dr. Who Na Noo Na Nan as that was how the title music sounded to us! Mum would actually shout to us if we were in the garden or playing in the street ‘Na Noo Na Nan is starting!’

Halcyon days? – people still wore callipers from Polio, had smallpox scars, and seatbelts did not exist as standard.

Food glorious food

Just a Restaurant, Sanur, Bali.

I suppose they like to call it an Indonesian restaurant, and the menu has many Indonesian meals on offer. Though the breakfast menu is mostly offering variations on the Full English breakfast, albeit with chicken sausages and turkey bacon, which is my normal offer back in Oman. Yes they also offer things like Avocado with sourdough bread, though to me that is more of a western alternative breakfast for rich kids.

Back at the same place a few evenings later I tried Beef Rendang, a sort of spicy current made with coconut milk, and served up with steamed rice. I remembered why I don’t eat rice very often…

Around me the International Travellers, Influencers, Kite Surfers, and Digital Nomads, are ordering Indonesian delicacies like Fish and Chips, Burgers and Fries, and Bangers and Mash (only to be disappointed at the leathery beef sausages).

Am I being too judgemental?

Then looking down the menu I see Nasi Goreng with variations, depending on whether you want chicken, turkey bacon, seafood or vegetarian variations. It takes me back to when I worked at the Royal Hospital School, which at the time was a full boarding school in the UK. About once a month they had Nasi Goreng on the menu, and we all thought it was some kind of exotic creation from the kitchen chefs. It turns out Nasi Goreng is just Indonesian and Malay for fried rice.

An evening with…

Tapha

I just had to write this one.

I am at a ‘Beach Party’ at a restaurant called ‘Tapha’ on Sanur beach. I have just celebrated my 69^th birthday and I am probably average age for this gathering! There is a band playing all sorts of covers of well-known songs, including ruining Smoke on the Water and Sunshine of your love.

The band is a three piece, with a guitarist and a guy on electronic drums and a synthesizer for bass and things. Plus the singer, who has a great voice, is as wide as he is tall.

I couldn’t help but laugh when they played Knocking on heavens door, as most of us in the audience will probably be doing that for real very soon!

Of course they topped off the set with Sex is on fire, which had me giggling even more. For most of us old folks the sex would probably cause friction burns due to the lack of lubrication! I am reminded of the line I put in one of my Fairy Hanny books, when they described a leather skinned, older sunworshipper as having a minge like a dried-out crab shell.

As the crowd slowly moved there came from the shadows a rumpled version of Kid Rock, though this one had missed the six-pack and replaced it with a beer barrel. He wore that same sort of faux leather pork pie hat too – I nicknamed him Kid Cock.

It really was an entertaining evening and I am sure I will return.

69th Birthday reflections. I’m a grumpy old git

Sanur July 2026

Watching the world today I see the beauty in nature and the sadness in humanity. Sitting at a restaurant on Sanur beach at the Retro restaurant. The wind in the trees that are part of the canopy of the restaurant; beautiful flowers offering us insights to nature; and dogs chasing their ball in the sand.

Then I notice couple sitting, not talking, living their lives through smartphones. Would they notice an earthquake unless it registered on social media?

And in the background, fascism raising its ugly head.

Trump.

Farage.

Miller – they’re all deformed, he says, as he looks like a Temu Nosferatu.

Then a secret smile; Trump means fart in England, a passing of gas which will dissipate in the air.

Sadness – Netanyahu murdering children in self-defence.

Putin watching his young men slaughtered so he can avoid going to prison.

A theme there – three nasty old cunts who are killing the world to avoid responsibility.

And July is the anniversary of the battle of the Somme, with 57000 British and Commonwealth casualties on day one.

I am in a down today…

Then they switched the lights on, and I am reminded of Bilbo’s eleventy first birthday party, with lights hanging from the trees. I see squirrels cavorting in the trees above my head and happiness returns.

Puberty

When I was in St. Kevins Roman Catholic High School back in the 60’s and 70’s, we had 2000 adolescent boys. Sex was the dominant chat.

Puberty included the joke;

‘What did one leg say to the other?’

‘I see shorty’s growing a beard!’

We longed for the site of that first pubic hair.

One day after games when we were getting showered – if you weren’t dirty from the game Mr. Murphy would pick you up and drop you in a muddy puddle – what would they call that in the liberal 21^st Century?

Anyway, P1 and P2 had games at the same time. Now there was a kid who seemed to have hit the hairy bollocks stage well ahead of the rest of us. So as we were showering, someone put the put lad on the spot by shouting ‘Stench, show us your knob!’

The rites of passage…

Jimmy B.

Writing about R.A. Ladd took me back to some of the other daftness of growing up in Kirkby in the 1960’s. Some of the reflections still have me crying with laughter, especially things like my brother thinking Nightation meant a bad gas, as in a fart, until I clarified his error as Nitrogen.

Then other silly things came back.

The famous Jimmy who misheard everything. There was a song released in 1965 by the soon to be specially noted Rolf the Nonce Harris (we had no idea at the time that he had an eye for kids like us). Anyway, the song was called Jake the Peg, which Jimmy decided was Jake the Pake – he refused to be corrected. Was that my first encounter with Narcissism?

But he had other classics too. If you asked him a question he would reply onya a tonya – then when you said what he would reply ernie meh a leh.

Pure nonsense.

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My favourite was when he was trying to sell his tent after he quit Scouts. For context, we didn’t have dome tents or geodesics in those days. They were basically ‘A’ frame tents – two upright poles and a ridge pole. One advance was to add a rounded section at the back of the tent for extra storage; I once had a tent that even added extra wide flaps at the front to create an entrance porch!

Anyway.

The sales negotiation. The potential buyer was asking for details before asking for the tent to be set up for inspection.

Buyer – ‘Is it a bell end?’

Jimmy – ‘No it’s in good condition.’

R.A. Ladd – my father and farts

I am tempted to use this as a pen name for some of my writing in honour of my father. His name was not R.A. Ladd – it was one of his expressions, though I might have to put that into context in the Liverpool of the 1970’s.

My father had the misfortune in those days to have three overly flatulent sons living at home. This means for a couple of years he had three teenage boys at home, all three of which had awful tummy troubles. Being the oldest, my own situation was being conflated by my new addiction to beer and with it the impressive gut-wrenching wind that accompanies such taste.

One of us, usually Keith who later gained the nickname ‘Your Eminence’ or the ‘Cabbagey Kid’, would emit a disgusting stench, silently; a smell that would conjure up all the demons in hell collectively farting fire and brimstone.

Dad would suddenly look up and say, ‘Ah hey lad!’ which sounded like R.A. Ladd.

It would usually be followed up with one of the following;

‘Did a rat crawl up your arse and die?’

‘Kinnel! Nothing smells like that and lives!’

‘Have you shit yourself?’

Again, to put things in context, we lived in a relatively small three bedroomed mid terrace house (1950’s new build in Kirkby). The lounge was just about big enough for a three-piece suite. Two armchairs, occupied exclusively by the parents, and a sofa that sometimes had to deal with five children. I also remember these weird ‘pictures’, which were nails punched into a black background, and then different coloured strings between them to create clowns.

In the winter the gas fire would be on and a fug of cigarette smoke would be emitted constantly from the mother and father. It was always impressive when a fart was pungent enough to attack that fug and get the reaction,

“R.A. Ladd!”