An Idiot Abroad. Karl Pilkington
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saying if I wanted to buy some goat again. That’s cost me a quid.’
Karl
‘Even if you don’t answer it or retrieve it?’
Ricky
‘If it gets to my phone, I’m charged for it. That is it. So don’t start sending pictures of your head and that.’
Karl
‘You’re an idiot then, because now I’m gonna send you a message or an email every couple of minutes. Why do you tell me these things?’
Ricky
‘Dunno.’
Karl
Ahmed took me to the Cairo Museum today. I hated it. It was exactly what I thought it would be like. I’ve never enjoyed museums. I had also seen a lot of this stuff at the Millennium Dome when there was a King Tut exhibition on. I didn’t want to go to that either, but Suzanne, my girlfriend, had arranged for us to see her brother there. It was like the Cairo Museum. Box after box of some old ornament painted gold. Even the corpse of King Tut was in a box. Most people were more impressed by the fact that Jilly Goolden, the wine critic, was having a tour.
Ahmed told me they were expanding the museum so it could fit more tourists inside, but I think this will just encourage the museum people to put even more old boxes on display. It’s interesting to see that people had so much clutter even thousands of years ago. The only way to get rid of it all was to bury it, and then some archaeologist went and dug it all up. Humans have always been hoarders of tat. I think that’s why lofts were invented; it’s somewhere to stick all the crap we collect in our lives rather than bury it.
Ahmed explained how many of these items were made for the kings to take into their next lives. This would annoy me if I lived back then and people kept saying, ‘Hey, King Karl, I’ve got you a lovely gift.’
‘Have you? Let’s have a look.’
‘No, it’s for when you’re dead.’
‘Well, I’d rather see it now, if I’m honest.’
‘No, it’s all wrapped for when you’re dead.’
‘Will you stop going on about me being dead!’
Surely I should choose what I’m going to be surrounded with in my next life? At least then I’d have time to have a chariot boot sale to get rid of my least favourite things. I left the museum, as I couldn’t take anymore. It was too busy for me, with people pushing and shoving. There were even some people there with babies in prams screaming their heads off. It’s not a great place to take a baby, is it?
I noticed there was a KFC outside, so I had one, as I needed something that reminded me of home. I went to place my order, but the girl behind the counter pointed to a note on the counter. The note informed customers that it was a deaf KFC. I was confused. Did this mean they only served deaf people? The girl behind the counter pointed out the menu. There were instructions on how to place an order, which basically involved pointing to the items you wanted, which is the way I normally order my food when I’m abroad anyway. It was quick and easy and quite a good idea, as I was worried that no one would speak English and I wouldn’t be able to order a Zinger Meal. It turned out that not speaking meant life was a lot easier.
It was nice to be in a fast food restaurant that didn’t have dance music blasting out of the speakers and staff yelling at each other like they are working on the floor of the Stock Exchange. Service was fast and friendly, due to the fact the staff weren’t stood around gabbing by the milkshake counter as they normally do in most fast food chains. I saw a man using a videophone to chat to someone using sign language. I’ve never thought about videophones being used for the deaf. We used to watch a lot of TV with subtitles when I was younger, not ’cos anyone in our family was deaf but ’cos my dad worked nights so we all had to be quiet.
Suzanne called today. She was annoyed, as the boiler was playing up at home and she asked me to sort it before I left. I always have problems with boilers.
Ricky sent me a text that just read: ‘70p.’
I wore the jellabiya that I bought for Ricky last night. I wanted something comfy to relax in so opened it and tried it on. I ended up sleeping in it too. That’s the good thing with the local dress – it’s so light and comfy. If you lived and worked here you could wear them as pyjamas and then just get up at five to nine, roll out of bed and go to work in them. I think this is the reason you see doctors wearing those light blue pyjamas. Same thing – wear them in bed, and if you’re on call and get woken in the night, you can go straight to work.
The only problem with wearing a jellabiya is there is no waistline, so it’s impossible to know if you’re putting on weight.
Steve called last night. I told him the museum visit was a waste of time. He was annoyed with me but said he had arranged for me to go on a Nile cruise. I can’t say I was looking forward to it. I don’t like the idea of being trapped in a space with a lot of other people and having no way of leaving. I told Steve it sounded too much like organised fun, but I had no other plans, so I went along with it.
I met the manager. A smart man in his late fifties or early sixties with jet-black dyed hair and mascara, he gave me a quick tour of the massive boat, which was set over three floors. He introduced me to his captains and cooks and then finally to a quiet man whose job it was to dive into the Nile to collect any items that are dropped by the guests. The manager explained how he has dived to collect cameras, watches and jewellery for careless guests. As the manager spoke about other items he has rescued, he stood there all in black with his polo-neck jumper tucked in his trousers like a baddie in one of the Bourne Identity films. I asked if I could throw something in the Nile for him to collect later. The manager agreed. I was quite excited about it and went to eat.
The food was good. I had soup to start then turkey and veg, followed by some chocolate cake.
The entertainment I had to sit through consisted of a man who whizzed round on the same spot for fifteen minutes, an Egyptian comedian who had an annoying voice, and a belly dancer. I have never been into this sort of entertainment. I’ve never been to a strip club or lap-dancing place, so I didn’t know what was the best thing to do. Is it more polite to look at the woman’s babajangers and arse, as she dances around shaking everything, or is that pervy? But if I just kept my head down and showed more interest in the turkey on my plate, would that be an insult to her? In the end I did a bit of both.
Once the dancing was over I went to find the manager and his diving friend. I asked if he was sure it was okay for me to throw something in. He said yes, it was, no problem. I asked the manager to check with the diver that he was happy, but the manager just said that if he asks the diver to do something, he does it. I said I wanted to throw my Egyptian mobile phone in the river, but the manager was not happy for me to do that. We ended up agreeing that we would throw in a salt-and-pepper pot. But before we threw it in, he wanted to wrap it in bright pink gaffa tape so it was more visible in the dark, muddy waters of the Nile.
I started to doubt the man’s ability to retrieve the salt-and-pepper pot and asked again if the diver was happy to do this for us. The manager spoke on his behalf again and said, ‘Of course.’
I was just about to chuck the salt-and-pepper pot when the manager asked me to wait, as the boat needs to stop nearer to the edge where the current of the river is not as strong and the water isn’t so deep. It all started to sound like a made-up job. The baddie from The Bourne Identity then got off the boat and pointed to where he wanted me to throw it. So, hang on, the diver can only retrieve items if passengers drop them overboard close to the edge where the current is not strong and if they happen to have wrapped them in pink gaffa tape and have let the diver know before dropping them?
An argument then broke out between the manager and the diver. I asked what was wrong. The manager