Try as Chuck Long might, it has been impossible to ignore the plethora of emails coming into the Reality Bytes inbox on a daily basis asking after the wellbeing of Madame Boodwah who suddenly went off the airwaves around November 2009. The Madame did manage one, last brave post from a smuggled laptop that an orderly managed to get into the sanatorium by stuffing it into an orifice but since that point communication has been limited. While Chuck respects his blog partner’s privacy, the readers who’ve been so loyal over the many years that Reality Bytes has been up and running deserve to hear her tale.
Late in 2009 Chuck began to notice a decline in Madame Boodwah’s mental and physical health. The vibrant woman with the ability to seduce multiple men in a room with her eyes and no spoken communication suddenly began to be clingy and overbearing. The elegant lady who set trends with her tasteful outfits suddenly began dressing like a cheap hooker. Never one to shy away from picking up the tab, Madame B began skipping out on restaurant bills and drink rounds.
Of course Chuck was perplexed at the sudden change in his dear friend’s state of being, yet no matter how many times Chuck tried to raise the topic, Madame Boodwah would raise her gloved hand and wave off the inquiry. Chuck attempted to offer support and direction but Boodwah was impervious to any assistance. The final straw came at a Sydney fashion event when Madame Boodwah in a drunken / Xanax induced stupor attempted to leave the soirée with a 15 year old boy that she was convinced was Daniel Johns from Silverchair. Chuck saw the 15 year old eagerly wave to his fellow wait staffmates, signalling that he needed a condom only to be rounded up by Madam Boodwah and pushed toward the exit. Realising that she was about to make a young mans evening / break the law, Chuck made a beeline for the Madame and tried to talk some sense into her.
“Madame, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” demanded Chuck.
“I’m going to show Mr Johns here how to make love like a rock star,” she responded.
Chuck looked at the kid and shook his head. Aside from being wafer thin, this boy looked no more like the lead singer from Silverchair than MC Hammer. The kid gave Chuck the old “please don’t fuck this up for me mate” look as Chuck reached for his wallet. Taking out two crisp $50 bills, Chuck handed them to the waiter and said, “this should more than cover for your lost wages, you now being unemployed and me cock blocking you”.
Chuck then hailed a cab, stuffed Madame Boodwah in and slipped the cabbie a hundy with instructions to take Boodwah home with no detours.
After that debacle, Chuck knew that the only course of action was an intervention. Arriving at Madame Boodwah’s abode at 7am, Chuck pounded on the door to no avail. Chuck was suddenly struck by the notion that perhaps in her stupor, Madame Boodwah had gagged on her own vomit Bon Scott-style. Chuck raced to the back of her house and forced his way through Kitty Farouche’s (Madames pet pussy) cat door. Chuck was relived and concerned that there was no sign of Madame Boodwah in her palace. Chuck went to put the kettle on and couldn’t help notice that the once fertile home was now a stripped down squat with little to no personal touches. Gone were the crushed velour throw pillows and silk sheets hanging from the roof that gave the place the “I dream of Jeanie” feel.
As Chuck was jiggling his tea bag, the front door flew open and in stumbled Madame Boodwah holding an empty goonie bag. Her mascara was smeared all over her face making her look like she’d just finished cleaning chimneys and her once impeccable hair was a dishevelled birds nest. As soon as she saw Chuck she burst into tears and collapsed. Chuck effortlessly scooped up his compadre and carried her to her bedroom that now consisted of an old futon, a half dead pot plant and a 6-foot bong. Chuck placed her into her manky futon, tidied up some of the detritus that littered the floor, locked the window, closed the door and set up guard just outside her room.
19 hours later, Chuck heard stirrings inside the room and gently cracked open the door. Once again upon seeing Chuck, Madame Boodwah broke down. Chuck went to her and grabbed her wrists. “Look Madame, you’re at rock bottom right now, Chuck’s seen you in some fucked up situations (remember when you tried to sleep with the entire Welsh Rugby Union team during the world cup?) but right now, you cant go any lower and you need help.
Madame Boodwah looked at Chuck through cracked makeup and said, “I don’t know what to do”.
Comfortable in his role as beacon of light, Chuck touched Boodwah’s cheek and said “trust your old pal Chuck”. Chuck then led Madame Boodwah to the front door. “Wait, I need to pack, I simply cannot leave the house without my feather boa” wailed Boodwah. “Where you’re going, you wont need much” replied Chuck ominously.
Chuck put an emergency call into Mrs Long who raced to the garage and yanked the dustsheet off the 1973 Datsun that Chuck had procured the week before for this very occasion. Knowing Madame Boodwah’s fragile state, Chuck decided that the intervention would require special equipment and the orange ‘Dato’ was the cheapest road worthy clunker that Chuck could find.
Madame Boodwah immediately baulked when she saw her mode of transport, “I’m not getting in that thing!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been inside worse things my dear” Chuck retorted with a sly wink. Madame Boodwah fanned her fragile face with an old Chinese takeaway menu that she was clutching for some reason and shot Chuck one of her infamous ‘looks’. Chuck bundled an uncertain Boodwah into the Dato, closed the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. As the engine roared to life and the old beast jolted ahead, Madame Boodwah leaned forward to enquire as to their destination.
No sooner had Chuck responded “rehab” did Madame Boodwah clamour for the door handle despite the fact that they were now travelling at 60kph. Fortunately there were child locks, preventing his friend from leaping from the vehicle. Boodwah began howling maniacally as Chuck concentrated on the road and headed for the Australian bushland.
At this point Chuck needs to halt the story. Madame Boodwah has now been at Sydney’s leading sanatorium for more than 3 months and Chuck has only been able to visit his dear friend on an ad hoc basis as her privileges allow. Fortunately, Chuck is a man of meticulous detail and has kept detailed diary entries around each interaction with his troubled compadre.
November 24th, 2009.
The two and a half hour drive to the facility was excruciating as Madame Boodwah howled the entire journey. Her cries tugged on my heartstrings as she begged not to be sent away to rot in some ‘loony bin’. I tried to reason with her for the first hour, imploring her to see the benefits of taking some time out, to confront her demons and find her once bright inner light. When it became clear that she wasn’t interested in reason and began offering me road head (a blow job delivered to the driver) in exchange for turning back, I turned up the radio and blocked her out.
Upon arriving at the bucolic facility, the Madame went deathly silent and I could sense her already plotting an escape. I rolled the Dato up to the front door and was immediately greeted by 3 orderlies and a doctor. Boodwah refused to exit the vehicle, which prompted the largest orderly to remove his coat (revealing a chiselled torso) in preparation for physically removing her. Fortunately (or unfortunately) the sight of his well-defined physique had another effect on Boodwah who seemed to think it was the orderly coming on to her. The Madame began fluttering her makeup caked eyelashes and extended her hand so that the orderly could escort her out of the car.
I shook the Doctors hand - he introduced himself as Dr Clark - and wished him luck. Turning to leave, I tried to make eye contact with my friend who by now was whispering in the orderlie’s ear causing him to recoil in horror at whatever it was that she’d said.
I started the Datsun, praying that Madame Boodwah would be ok and the car would make the journey back to Sydney.
December 1st, 2009.
I arrived at the sanatorium excited to see what progress Madame Boodwah had made after a week of treatment. As I approached the front door, Dr Clark rushed out to meet me.
“Chuck, I’m afraid that Madame Boodwah’s visiting privileges have been revoked” an anguished Dr Clark blurted.
“Already? Fuck, I expected her to take at least a week to do something stupid,” I responded.
“Something stupid?” Dr Clark said incredulously. “In all my time in rehabilitation, I have never seen such an act of gross misconduct from a sex addict” he continued.
My interest was piqued, my friend had led an interesting life so for her to score this highly in the Doctor’s books, she must have done something that not even I could imagine her doing. “Do tell,” I asked.
“In the first 4 days of her stay here, Boodwah has performed fellatio on every male patient in exchange for cigarettes” a dejected Dr Clark offered.
I shrugged, she did try to sleep with the entire Welsh Rugby league team during the world cup after all. “How many durries did she collect?” I asked.
Dr Clark ignored the question and continued, “in addition to that she also provided oral pleasure to every one of my male orderlies and 2 junior psychologists, all of whom I have had to suspend pending further investigation.”
I smiled, I had to admit, that was impressive. She was using her skills to bust herself out.
“One positive out of the whole situation is that she did rouse a long term patient out of a catatonic state with one of her blow jobs. The man had not moved from his spot in more than 15 years. One of my nurses walked in as Boodwah brought him to orgasm at which point he clapped his hands, smiled and asked for a chocolate biscuit. The woman has a remarkable gift,” Dr Clark said as he shook his head in wonderment.
To be continued