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DB Lampoon! In A Tight Spot!

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Being trapped in small, confined spaces is definitely not Peter Sherwood’s thing. He has some crazy, claustrophobia inducing stories to share.

PHOTO COURTESY OF Adobe Stock

Thinking back to the pandemic, my fear was HELLO IN THERE! not the HK$5,000 COVID-mask fine, but the prospect of internment in a shipping container at Penny’s Bay. The juxtaposition of Disneyland’s Castle of Magical Dreams with container confinement made me think maybe the area was possessed by witches.

As a bit of a claustrophobe, I’d be a nightmare in the space station, not only because I don’t see the point, although it would be roomy compared to existence in a Hong Kong bunk bed. Compare that to a palatial 75-square-foot prison cell plus three free meals a day and I’ll take jail.

When I got to chilly London in the 60’s, wedged into a dank bedsit (too cold for frogs but mushrooms growing in the grimy carpet was a possibility), my only thought was sunny Australia. My “salary” wouldn’t even get me as far south as Surrey.

Not so for one Reg Spiers who said to hell with despair and hit upon the genius idea of airmailing himself back to Oz in a small wooden crate, with blackness, cramps, hunger and horror for company. At the time the London to Sydney airfare was the same price as the average car. The squashed Aussie made it in three days, which must have inspired a similarly-minded Welsh twit, Brian Robson, to repeat the performance the following year – in reverse. His box took the long route to London, taking five days to reach a warehouse… in Los Angeles. Upside-down, in a state of panic, and covered in excrement, workers released him. The airline gave him a free first-class ticket to London.

Robson and Spiers deserve nomination to the Pantheon of Dumb Ideas and Monumentally Mad Hall of Fame. Of his epic trip Robson said, “I know it was stupid, but it was London or die.” He almost scored on both counts.

For my phobic self, it was bad enough taking a skinny one-man tent to the mountains, and ending up sleeping with my head outside in the icy wind and rain. Next day was worse. I had to squeeze, terrified, through a tight dark rock formation dragging my backpack behind. Arriving on a ledge with a 500-metre sheer drop, the relief was euphoric. Like finishing a CAT scan.

For long-term voluntary imprisonment the mayor of Mijas in Spain takes the biscuit. Caught up in the ferment of civil war in the 1930s, Manuel Cortes evaded Franco’s execution squads by hiding in his little house while his wife fought dire poverty to protect him – for 30 years – with not even the gossipy villagers suspecting. Imagine, 1,560 Sundays; about 36 Italian governments; and the time it takes to investigate a traffic accident in Thailand. I get antsy after 15 minutes in the sauna.

The Cortes’ silence was a monumental achievement, particularly in a Spanish community where secrets last as long as ice-cream in the Andalusian sun. Instead of being chased around the country and racking up hotel bills and bus fares, the mayor emerged in 1969 to a world he could barely recognise and thinking maybe the Fascist mob was a better option.

Peter Sherwood has lived in DB for 20+ years. The former head of an international public relations firm, he is the author of 15 books and has written around 400 satirical columns for the South China Morning Post.

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