Outskirts Press, INC.

A nine-month-old baby is dropped on its head...

...on the floor of a concrete swimming pool. It’s 1948 in Southern Rhodesia. And from the baby’s ensuing convulsions emerges a figure who has become a much-beloved actor of stage and screen. Colonels, Cads and Charmers follows the real-life adventures of Miles Anderson. From his childhood in (now) Zimbabwe (including his father Major General Jock Anderson’s historic dismissal from the army for resisting Ian Smith’s regime) to his award-winning stage career and his popularity on British television. In the African tradition of vivid storytelling, moments of hilarity mix with poignant tales of loss and thoughtful provocations. There are perspectives on acting and insights into the entertainment industry - from the original House of Cards to the ever-popular Soldier Soldier, along with the impactful Cry Freedom and the improbable Sky Bandits. The tales travel the gamut. Talking to a bear in Malaya. Diving from the skies in Singapore. Playing a dog at the Royal Shakespeare Company. Quitting the West End to become a Greek fisherman. Cremating a friend in a hysterical funeral. Each story shimmers with a dramatis personae of charismatic characters - and not a few romances...

from CHAPTER 20: 'Thou Shalt Love Thy Neighbour as Thyself' (Bears n'all!)

As you can imagine, I was causing quite a furore. And the next thing I knew a policeman was standing on the veranda and he was looking very, very cross.
    ‘Tuan! Tuan!!’ he barked.
    ‘Yes?’ I replied.
    ‘Dato Pike! See Dato Pike now!’
    Silence fell.
    And suddenly my head cleared. Cleared from the tuak. Cleared from the marijuana. Cleared from my instant love-affair with the beautiful Iban woman, and my revolutionary ambition to protect them all from venereal disease… The game was up. And I headed over to where a cross-looking Vic Pike and a very cross-looking Headman and an even crosser-looking chief priest – along with the last stragglers from the ceremony – were awaiting me with hardened glares. My poor dad was looking straight down at the ground; he was too shame-faced to look at me.
    ‘Miles!’ said Vic Pike in a fury. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is a very, very serious ceremony. You’ve upset the Headman. And first thing in the morning, he would like you to leave. In the meantime, I suggest you sober up. And tomorrow morning before you leave, you pay him a sincere apology.’
    ‘Okay,’ I said.
    ‘And I think you should make yourself as scarce as possible,’ concluded Vic.
    One room in the long house had been vacated for the guests to sleep in and that’s where I sheepishly wandered, after saying, ‘Goodnight’ to all the kids, who were rather upset that I had to leave. I lay down on my sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.
    Next morning, I woke up and went down to the river to wash some sense into myself. Then I was told to come upstairs...
    They had all assembled. The entire long house had assembled. The Headman was looking very, very stern. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he was going to chop off my head – just execute me – in front of everyone. But there was Jock… My ever-understanding dad. He understood what I’d done. He understood that I’d grown bored with the hours-long ceremony and had obviously smoked too much dope and drunk too much tuak. (And sure to God, my head was killing me.) And he was also a man of great honour.
    ‘You’ll have to apologise,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ve actually ruined this whole stay. They’ve got very upset and you’re going to have to apologise.’
    So, I stepped forward, and through Vic Pike (who spoke Malay), I said, ‘I’m very, very sorry for disrupting the ceremony. I had no idea it was so important. I’m just a stupid White man, who knows nothing – like most White men. I’ve dug a grave for all of us and I’m truly sorry.’
    There were serious, but appreciative nods all round. Which gave me a kind of fortitude.
    ‘However,’ I continued, ‘there’s something else I’d like to say. I’d like to ask the Headman if he knows that all these young men, whom he sends down to the oil fields, come back and spread gonorrhoea, syphilis and Heaven knows what else around this community. And half these poor bloody women in this long house are suffering from VD!!’
    Vic Pike’s face went into spasms. He couldn’t believe what I was saying – and what I was asking him to translate.
    ‘Apart from the fact that, if the Headman thinks that becoming civilised is wearing white sports bras, he is fucking insane and ought to be shot –’
    ‘Right!’ said Vic Pike. ‘That’s enough. Come on! We’re off!’
    My dad, by this time, was incandescent with rage. He’d given me a chance and I’d used it to express my social indignation.
    Vic Pike said something in Malay to two of the policemen, a Chinese sergeant and a Malay sergeant. And they each grabbed me by an arm. The rest of our party bade farewell to the Headman and disappeared ahead. And the young women and children all laughed and waved goodbye to me, as I was manhandled into the jungle. I wasn’t in any particular rush, to be honest, and as the rest of our party marched ahead of us, I gradually slowed down to an amble. The two policemen – who spoke no English to me – were growing more and more angry at my lack of speed, and before long we lost sight of the rest of our party. I knew we had a three-hour trek ahead of us through tropical heat and I was in no mood to go at any speed other than my own.
    After about forty minutes, without a word being spoken by the Malay policeman or the Chinese policeman, I’m walking along and I’m still feeling pretty high and pretty spaced out. All of a sudden – like something from a nature documentary – a honey bear bounds onto the path about fifteen yards ahead of us. I knew it was a honey bear because I’d watched enough David Attenborough programmes and I knew what honey bears were.
    Bumf, bumf, bumf, it comes – through the jungle and bang into the middle of the path.
    ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s a honey bear,’ turning to the Malay policeman. To the Chinese policeman.
    But policemen were there none. Not a policeman to be seen. They’d disappeared. You couldn’t even see where either of them had gone. Just jungle. The jungle had swallowed them up.
    So I stopped. And I looked towards the bear.
    The bear was on all fours. And the bear looked at me and I looked at the bear. And I said, ‘Hello, bear.’
    The bear stared at me very oddly for a moment. And then it started ambling towards me. 
    Wumf, wumf, wumf. 
    ‘Oh, that’s very nice,’ I said. ‘You’re a very nice bear, aren’t you? How lovely to see you!’
    And as I was talking to the bear, it drew closer and closer. Until it started to sniff at my feet. 
    And as it was sniffing at my feet – going wrrumph, wrrumph, wrrumph, wrrumph – I looked at it as you might look at a big Alsatian dog. And you know how, when you see a big dog, you grab hold of it and go, ‘Grrr! Grrr! Grrr!’ with your hands through its fur? Well, I had the overwhelming desire to do the same to this honey bear.
    ‘Fuck it!’ I thought. ‘Why not? What can it do? And what does it matter?’
    And in that split second, I was overwhelmed with curiosity, ‘What’s it going to do? What’s it going to do?’ After all, I’d already said, ‘Hello, bear.’ And the bear wasn’t afraid of me. And I wasn’t afraid of the bear.
    And so, I did.
    ‘Who’s a bear?’ I said, as I plunged my hands into its fur. And I rubbed its back and its bum, just like I was giving it a good scratch.
    And the bear went ‘Shnufff, shnufff, shnuffff,’ as it wiggled itself all the way around me. And all the while I’m going, ‘Who’s a bear? Who’s a bear? Who’s a bear?’
    As the honey bear finished its circle around me, it suddenly stood up in front of me – and an upright honey bear is about six feet tall – and it looked at me with sheer astonishment on its face, as if it was thinking, ‘I don’t believe this! Normal humans shoot me or run away. They never say, “Who’s a bear?”’
    Then it plopped down onto all fours. And off it went – wumf, wumf, wumf – back into the jungle.
    I was absolutely over the moon.
    I was Saint Francis of Assisi! I was pretty near God! I was on Cloud Nine, just floating.
    And I stood there, thinking, ‘That’s the way to deal with bears. You don’t have to shoot them. You don’t have to run away from them. Just give them a good old stroke and a pat – and look what happens! A tickle and a scratch – that’s all a bear wants!’
    At that moment, the Malay policeman came out from the jungle with his hat all awry. And then the Chinese policeman came out of the jungle. He looked at me, but he wouldn’t touch me.
    ‘Honey bear!’ he said, in a heavy Chinese accent. ‘Very dangerous! Very
 dangerous.’ And he stood there looking at me and slowly smiled, ‘But his paw make very good soup!’
    ‘Oh, why don’t you fuck off?’ I said.
    As the two policemen tried to grab me from behind, I said, ‘Don’t touch me!’ And for the next two hours of walking, they never said a bloody word. All they did was keep their distance from me, both slightly in front of me. Every now and again, they’d look at me as if to say, ‘Where does this strange guy come from?’
    When we reached the rest of our party, they told their fellow policemen. And their friends began laughing and looking at me very oddly. Then we climbed into the canoes to head back to Kuala Belait, but every time we had to get out of the canoes to navigate the shallows, they wouldn’t let me help. By this time, I was special!
 
    It was maybe twelve years later that my brother Colin happened to go back to Kuala Belait on business. And he happened to go to the police station and meet some officials. He knew about my story, so he mentioned it to one of the policemen.
    ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes!’ the policeman nodded. ‘There was this very strange orang puteh – White man – who came here years ago and spoke to a bear in the jungle. Very strange man. Very special.’ Word had got around that I spoke ‘Honeybear.’
    Whenever I tell this story to friends, they don’t quite believe it. They think I'm exaggerating, but absolutely every word of it is true. I once told the story to my actor-friend Clive Russell.
    ‘Well, I know what your epitaph’s going to be,’ he said.
    ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
    ‘Who’s a lion?’ he said, with his mischievous Scottish twinkle.
    Yes. ‘Who’s a lion?’ I’ll ask, as I bury my hands in the lion’s mane.
    ‘Aaaahaw!’ the lion will reply.
    And the rest will be history.