Book—Don’t Tell Mum I Work on the Rigs, She Thinks I’m a Piano Player in a Whorehouse

Now reading Don’t Tell Mom I Work on the Rigs: She Thinks I’m a Piano Player in a Whorehouse by Paul Carter.

So far, so hilarious.


Damn entertaining writer. I just have to repost this so it goes top of the pile.

There are several kinds of travel books: There are some that say “I-was-there-and-you-were-not-so-I-am-now-talking-down-to-you”; some are just National Geographic substitutes; and there are those that make you feel you are taking the adventure (and misadventures) with the writer. This book is the last kind. Paul Carter may have started as a roughneck but he sure can add colour to his tales.


NIGERIA: “Fifty feet square in size it read, ‘Welcome to Port Harcourt’. Most of the letters had long since fallen off, and the whole thing was riddled with bullet holes and covered in brown stains that suggested some strange explosion had occurred involving lots of hot coffee.Two huge black vultures perched on the top of the sign and a third was on the ground with his head buried inside what turned out to be the chest cavity of some unlucky Nigerian. My jaw slowly dropped, as I tried to take it in. That summed up Port Harcourt perfectly.”

BRUNEI: “Ambu flipped open the ammo box lid and using the tongs pulled out a big black scorpion. Everyone backed up a few feet, it looked so evil. The scorpion was placed in the centre of the bin lid, its pincers were raised and its curved tail, with the poisonous stinger, hovered over its body. Big enough to cover your hand, it could kill a man in a few minutes. Then from a small cardboard box in his pocket Ambu produced a tiny mouse and dangled it by the tail over the scorpion. It was just a little ball of fuzz with a pink tail, no bigger than a golf ball. ‘So you’re saying that puny thing is gonna kill the fuckin’ scorpion?’ one of the boys asked. Ambu nodded and waited for the boys to start placing bets. The kitty was up around a hundred bucks when he dropped the mouse in the lid.


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