The Holy Grail

“Anybody seen the Holy Grail around here?” said Sir Percival as he clanked into the Dollhouse.
    A few customers glanced at him, then switched their attention back to the girls without giving him a second thought – why should they? There were lots of farang-wierdos in Bangkok – beggars, fake monks, and assorted nutters who had lost the plot, so why should a guy in a suit of 14th-century plate armour be any different? The girls were equally unimpressed, except that they noticed that the armour looked expensive.
    Sir Percival sat down, and in a trice he had a bottle of Singha in front of him. He looked disappointed when he saw that there was no chalice – or even a glass, just a foam beer-cooler around the bottle. He was even more disappointed when he tasted it. It was no match for medieval English ale (or even modern English ale for that matter).
   “Been in these parts long, pal?” said the Mancunian next to him.
   “Where is this?” said Sir Percival, looking confused, “and why are those girls naked?”
   “This is the Dollhouse in Bangkok, pal.”
   “I was in the Land of Lyonesse a moment ago on a quest for the Holy Grail. Then that vixen Morgana waved her magic wand at me, and…”
   “Well you’ve found it, pal!”
   Sir Percival looked at the sponge beer-cooler around his bottle and shook his head.
   The Mancunain continued: “This is the Holy Grail! Well it is for me. It’s what I’ve been looking for all my life! See those girls there? All young, all beautiful - and I can have any one I want!”
   “Of course you are speaking metaphorically when you speak of the Holy Grail?”
   The Mancunian racked his brains trying to think back to his school days. In the end, he gave up.
   “Nope, we don’t do metaphor in Manchester.”
   “In any case, I have taken a vow of chastity – I must remain pure to achieve the quest.”
   The Mancunian shook his head in disbelief. “All young, all beautiful…” he repeated musingly.
   “Not true,” said Sir Percival.
   “What!”
   “Well outside there is a sign that says 50 beautiful girls and one ugly one.”
   The Mancunian suddenly choked on his drink. “And she’s here now!”
   Sir Percival turned to see a woman sitting beside him. She looked at least 50, her hair was lanky, she had several teeth missing, her breasts were sagging, and her belly sagged even more. ‘Ugly’ would be putting it mildly.
   “She's like the back end of a trackless* - as we used to say when I was a lad,” said the Mancunian. "Send her away."
   But Sir Percival could not do that. He was a knight, and had been trained to respect the code of chivalry.
   “Hello hansum,” she began, “My name Nok.”
   “Good madam Nok, how may I serve you?” he said.
   “Buy lady dlink.”
   Sir Percival waved his gauntleted hand at the waitress. A lady drink was served.
   “Is there anything else, good madam?”
   “Pay bar and take me back hotel.”
   “Very well,” said Sir Percival reluctantly, “but I have to warn you that there will be no…er.”
   “Boom-boom?”
   “If you mean relations of a sexual nature, yes, because I have taken a vow of chastity.”


Thirty minutes later Nok was sobbing on the bed and Sir Percival was standing nearby still dressed in full armour.
   “You think I ugly,” she cried. “That’s why no boom-boom!”
   “No, Madam Nok, I assure you. It is because of my vow of chastity!”
   “I close the light – then I beautiful!”
   “I cannot have sex with you because I will lose my purity. Then I must abandon my quest for the Holy Grail.”
   “What Holy Grail?”
   “A chalice – a very special chalice.”
   “What chalice?”
   “A cup.”
   “I have cup in my loom – you can have that.”
   “You don’t understand…”
   Nok hid herself under the sheet and cried her heart out.
   Meanwhile, Sir Percival clanked up and down wondering what he should do. He was in a terrible dilemma. It was not that he was tempted – he wasn’t. Nok was ugly, and he felt no desire for her, but by spurning her, he was breaking his Chivalric vows. He wished she was young and sexy – it would be an easier battle then, and he’d win something either way, because even if he sacrificed his vow of chastity and his quest, he would gain a night with a sexy girl – but as things stood, he would lose whatever he chose to do. So what was it to be?  Chastity and the Holy Grail, or Chivalry and a night with 'the back end of a trackless'? He recalled his vows and the moment when King Arthur laid the sword on his shoulder, and knew that there was only one right course of action. So he steeled his nerve and said, “As a true knight I must help a damsel in distress. Therefore tell me what you want me to do.”
   “Make boom-boom,” came a little voice from under the sheet.
   “Very well.”
   And with a heavy heart he started to unbuckle his armour. He thought of the quest he was abandoning, and wondered which knight would win the honour – Sir Gawain perhaps?
   Then, naked at last, he pulled back the sheet and… she was beautiful! It was the same face, but with the hue of youth sitting “on her skin like morning dew” (as the poet says), perfect white teeth, and gleaming ebony hair. Her body had that intoxicating look of ‘first fruit’ that is called ‘nubile’ – sleek and slim where it should be, and invitingly plump where it should be – and nowhere else at all. Now he desired her. There was no vow now that could hold him back. The Mancunian’s words echoed in his mind as he leapt upon her: “This is the Holy Grail!” He murmured the words again and again as he explored the chalice of her mouth and the chalice between her legs. He was lost in ecstasy. Ecstasy then sleep.
   Grey dawn peeped through the curtain of the Nana Hotel. He sat up in bed. Noi was standing there in her clothes – still beautiful – it was not a dream after all!
   “What happened?” he muttered.
   “I was under a spell,” she said. “You broke that spell when you treated me with compassion and courtesy.”
   “I’m glad the spell is broken,” said Sir Percival, but there was sorrow in his voice.
   “You showed yourself a true knight. You were sent here as a test. You passed the test, and this is your reward.”
   She handed him her bag. “Look inside,” she said. “I brought the cup from my room.”
   He drew it out. It was much more than a cup. It was a chalice – and a much nicer one than in that film Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
   “The Holy Grail!” he said in awe.
   “There is more,” she said.
   He looked up at her again. She was naked.

           The moral of this story
           Is not too hard to see:
           It pays to treat all bargirls
           With proper courtesy.

*trackless - northern dialect for trolley bus

© Bangkok Byron, 2010.