Delve into the archive Information about me List of collected quotations My poetry sites Other links: The ineffable Michelle Infinite Fish The Echelon Project The 80s (my era) Move to Mars See Ann Widdecombe dance The Yarn |
The first thing, evidently, that happened, was that the plane landed at Palma. Now, I’m not the best of flyers, but I’m not generally a nervous person, and so I was concentrating my efforts into making sure Becky was OK, and that she knew when we would touch down. I was getting my info from a screen in front of me, full of mindless statistics about how high we were and so on, and I told her, when the bloody screen said that we were still 300ft off the ground, that it would be in about half a minute’s time. Dumbo here didn’t actually take into account the fact that the screen was at least a minute behind where the plane’s real position was, so when there was a huge bump at seemingly 300ft, I was a little taken aback. OK, I was fucking terrified and thought we’d hit the control tower while Becky sat there laughing at me. So we get in, and are helpfully informed that there is no transfer arranged for us. Ah. Time to put the old bullshit skills into use, then. So I talked to this rep and explained that there had to be some mistake blah blah blah. After turning on the charm a little, she said that she would check again and meanwhile we should go to our coach, destined for Magaluf (VERY lucky we got that – built for young people...) It never ceases to amaze me how far a little bullshite can actually get you (those of you who know me will already appreciate that I will teach a cow to shit bricks if I think it’ll help me) – I didn’t lie to her at all, and yet we managed to get the transfer and a really nice hotel thrown in. Quite how, I don’t really know, but by the end of the holiday, Jane and I were convinced we were not actually meant to be staying where we were, but of course we weren’t complaining. The first morning, I very keenly got up far too early than is healthy and went down to the pool for a dip. It was freezing and I didn’t stay long, but over the course of the stay, we got used to the temperature. It was lovely in the hot midday sun, but perhaps 9.00 was a little too early, even for me. Jane cooked us all a lovely meal in the evening, spicing up the pasta by memorably telling the saucepan to stop talking to her. So the next day someone had the bright idea of hiring a pedallo. I was all up for this, and went down to the bloke renting them out and managed to get one with a cool-slide bit going off the front-left side sort-of-thing. Anyway, Mike and I started pedalling whilst Becky and Jane sat in back watching and laughing at us, and we were all having a dandy time. We got reasonably far out and Mike announced that he was going to have a swim, and what was more, he was going to slide down our slide to get into the water. This again, sounded like a good idea at the time. So Mike gets in the water, tipping the whole boat horrible, and doggy-paddles about a bit, and we sit there sunning ourselves and generally having a laugh. That was until I noticed the boat. Or should I say, fucking whopping big ship-style boat, headed our way very, very swiftly. I told Mike to get back in the pedallo because we needed to haul arse – but not only did he look chronically unconcerned, he didn’t even look around to see which boat I was talking about. After about a minute of me trying to calmly convince him to get the fuck back in and help me pedal, I told him we were moving, and we were moving now. Still no action, no panic, no ‘Yes Mark, I see you are the voice of reason, let’s get out of here before we get capsized.’ After another agonising debate, I managed to get him to actually turn around and proverbially introduce the shit to the fan. He got out and we hauled arse. I managed not to let on that there was also water coming into the fucking pedallo as well at this point, as I presumed it wouldn’t help matters. It was evidently a bloody bathtub, just with more holes. So that was Tuesday’s brush with death. Essentially, apart from such diversions, we spent our days lazing either by the pool or the beach – sunning ourselves, reading, swimming, the usual. Then of course, there was the nightlife. Generally, we’d have supper in the apartment and get reasonably sloshed while doing it, generally over several unforgettable games of truth or dare. Luckily, we all agreed that everything said and done was STRICTLY classified, so my secrets are sort-of safe, I guess, like, for example, my unusual and disturbing passion for either slapping my leg or banging the tabletop (like, with my hand, you dirty people) when laughing. And of course the fact that the people on the balconies around us listened to every word meant that it wasn’t quite as private as it might have been. But there were large exceptions to this routine – like the night we all ended up in each other’s clothes: me wearing one of Jane’s tops and her sarong, Becky looking like a frighteningly convincing office dyke in my pink shirt and jeans, Mike in Jane’s tight denim shorts etc. etc. And, then, yes, of course, we had to do makeup as well. Needless to say, we didn’t go clubbing that night because we wanted all of our limbs left in tact. Another interesting chain of events was those which led up to Becky blurting out something along the lines of ‘So boys, exactly WHY is it that you’re dressed up as Mrs. Goggins and hitting each other on the head with a frying pan?’ Draw your own conclusions. Actually no, don’t. Mike bought a headscarf that made him look like Baboushka, and in a combination of that and my glasses he looked like the randy postmistress from Postman Pat. Somehow, he discovered that he liked the noise that banging a frying-pan on his head made, and so I was just helping him make it… Having said that, everyone managed to make various bizarre and unexplainable comments throughout. There was my huge Freudian slip regarding Brad Pitt when I said that I’d like to see ‘Mate Joe Black,’ and Jane’s strange comment about her future children: ‘There’ll be nothing left by the time I’ve finished polishing, shaving, plucking and moisturising them!’ Personally, I found this last one the most alarming, although at the same time, screamingly funny. But perhaps the classic of classics came from Becky, who asked Mike, rather unfortunately, to sit on her face rather than her case. Whoops. Anyway, as I was saying before I went off on that Himalayan-scaled tangent, we generally cooked for ourselves in the evening until we realised about Thursday that none of us could be arsed to wash up. So we went out for most things, because Magaluf is quite cheap. Perhaps one of the most memorable was the shitty pizza we had in Pizza Hut, not because of the food, but because of the light that shone in Mike’s eyes when he found the ‘del Horno’ section of the menu. Then there was the equally interesting Chinese towards the end of the holiday, where Jane managed to set me off into uncontrollable fits of giggles by comparing childbirth to shitting watermelons, and Mike’s badly-timed ‘God, they’re HUGE!’ while staring into the breasts of our waitress, but talking about something completely innocent, as far as I can remember. The beach was lovely, especially at night, when it was quiet and the stars hung over it. On the second last night, we went down at sunset and ate a(nother) pizza sitting on the sunbeds with Becky and Mike providing the entertainment with their combined efforts at X-rated Jackanory. Becky managed particularly well to make the story as fucked-up as possible, coming out with the interesting ‘And then we buried Hilary then transsexual in the cabbage patch’ at one point. It goes without saying we got strange looks wherever we went. So, reluctantly, we got back on the coach on Sunday night, and predictably, our names weren’t on the list to be there, but we managed to get the transfer. Anyway, there was bugger-all to do at the airport, and after about an hour of waiting after checking-in and looking in (both) the shops that were open, we decided to go through passport control. Becky, Jane and I walked through, and carried on towards the gate, when we suddenly realised that Mike was no longer with us. We looked around, and for a minute my heart stopped as I thought he was being led away. It turned out that his bag was to be searched in a sealed-off area; goodness only knows what they thought he was carrying. Jane started to giggle remorselessly, explaining that this sort of thing always happened to Mike, and we were all having a good snigger as his expense when I saw the walls of the search-area begin to vibrate, and I heard Mike’s loud, pissed-off voice saying something undoubtedly foul. A few moments later, he stepped out with his bag and a face like a slapped arse (his words not mine), muttering quietly to sue, maim or otherwise aggravate the security staff one day. We arrived in the departure lounge without incident and sat down. I expect we did actually look like normal people for a little while, until we (Jane) decided that it was time to do some leg-stretches, while, erm, sitting down. So we sat there, raising our legs in sync as high as we could, doing something that must have looked like a combination of the can-can and a vigourous yoga session. Needless to say, we were in fits of giggles again within seconds and attracted some very strange looks. So that was that. We all had a fantastic time and I’d drop everything to do it all again now if I could. I now keep going around and smiling to myself, and sometimes even laughing, about what we got up it. While this is embarrassing, especially in public (my hairdresser came dangerously near to slicing my ear off the other day when I randomly started chuckling), but I don’t care. They can wonder and gawp, and join the many ranks of people over the last fortnight who must have thought that I was some sort or other of deranged nutter. Trouble is, they’re almost right. Back |
