A Fool In Paradise - George Thinks of Home

Of course this is all true and I know George is not a writer because he cannot spell. When he signs his name he spells it with a ‘J’ and the ‘spell checker’ software on his computer refuses to have anything more to do with him. When sending e-mails he has to sign in using an assumed name to try and confuse Microsoft.

I apologized and led my defence by saying that I was only trying to protect his identity from an adoring but envious public. I also wanted to hide his true ‘profession’. He scoffed at the idea. “Och! Don’t worry about it. Tell it like it is, mon. I doon ’na care what anybody thinks.” (Did I mention George is from Scotland?) So, if the truth must be told then I am the one to tell it. The fact is that George is a Global Gigolo, a Carnal Consort or, as described in the 1999 movie Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, a Man Whore. He is not one of those cruise ship haunting ‘escorts’ nor does he comb the obituaries column of major newspapers looking for recent widows. His ‘client list’ has developed by word of mouth and personal recommendations to such an extent that, like the old adage, he has awoman in every port.

And not all of them are elderly, according to George. For instance, he has a ‘client’ in South Africa who is the fifth wife of a village chief. The story goes that while touring South Africa as companion to a rich English widow, George met the village chief who had just recently married his fifth wife, a twenty-two year old native with a face only a mother could love. The chief admitted to George that the marriage was purely a political union and, in fact, he couldn’t stand the sight of her. The two men came to an arrangement. With the chief’s knowledge and blessing, George visits the remote village once a year to perform ‘nuptials’ with the chief’s marital castoff for a couple of days. Wife happy; chief happy; and George gets an all expenses paid three week annual holiday to South Africa.

A lonely American widow enjoys cruising the Caribbean but doesn’t like doing it alone. Every year she sends George a plane ticket to be her companion for a two-week cruise on a five-star ocean liner. A Dutch woman sends him a first class return ticket each year to join her in Pamplona for the running of the bulls. He said she doesn’t actually run with the bulls, but she likes the town, Spanish wine and paella.

George always manages to fit a few trips to Pattaya into his busy schedule. He has no ‘clients’ in Thailand but uses Pattaya for his R&R. He says it is nice to look at women who don’t have blue hair or take their teeth out to sleep. But George’s life is not all wine and roses. He is quick to point out his lifestyle is not for every red-blooded male and requires a special state of mind. “I have great respect and empathy for these Bar Hostesses in Pattaya,” he says. “I mean, look at what they have to work with. None of us are Brad Pitt lookalikes are we? Old, fat, hairy and ugly is the norm … and yet they can keep smiling and pretend we are something better.” I felt mildly insulted by his words but that failed to stop him labouring the point.

“When you get home tonight, take off all your clothes and stand naked in front of a full-length mirror. Then ask yourself, ‘Would I jump into bed with that?’ Answer truthfully.” Now he was getting personal. I started to reply, “Well, maybe ‘jump’ is not the right word … ‘crawl’, ‘sneak’ or perhaps ‘slither’ may be more appropriate verbs.” “It doesn’t matter,” he continued, “because even though you’re not the most attractive fly in the custard, you’re probably a nice person.” Being described as ‘probably a nice person’ was the closest thing to a compliment I got from George all night, but I didn’t quite get his point. “You see, mate, none of that … the appearance side … matters as long as you are a nice person on the inside.

That is the first lesson these girls and men in my line of work have to learn in order to survive. I have been approached by some very attractive widows and divorcees who are total snobbish arseholes. I refuse to have anything to do with them no matter what they offer me. On the other hand, I have one lady in New Mexico who looks like Methuselah’s mother but she is a wonderful person and fun to be with. “Almost seven billion people in this world and all the older ones want is to be appreciated and loved.

Their children are grown up and indifferent and they probably can ’na stand the ungrateful bastards anyway. Most of their true friends are dead. What do they have left? The luckier ones have money put aside but what good is money to you when you’re dead? Until then, going to bed each night alone and cuddling up to a sack of one hundred pound notes just isn’t appealing. That’s where people like me, and these girls, come in. We’re there when nobody else wants to be. We become their companions, carers, confidants and, in some cases, lovers.” “So what do you do, George, when one really ugly ‘client’ slips into bed and wants you to … you know?” “Well, mate,” he said lifting his beer glass, “I just pop a little blue pill and think of Inverness.”