Bruce Wayne, Auf Wiedersehen, Dirty Harry make my day…

Or “Here are a few of my favourite things”

Parts 1 to 5

Originally posted 8/8/12 

OK gang.  I've had a few weeks where everything has seemed hard and tiring and I've made a conscious effort to try and be at peace, to rest, to meditate and to be in touch with my inner-hippy.  I have purchased some books on Zen, the thoughts of the Dalai Llama, aromatherapy, healthy eating, herbalism, Reiki and so on, a veritable mish-mash of different concepts and beliefs to be sure but I want to keep my options open.  I also want to re-join the gym and do yoga.  My body is a temple!

Until the temple is open however I thought I’d expand upon the introduction part to my website by talking about some of my favourite things; after all, what could be more positive than talking about stuff one likes?  I don’t expect everyone to agree with anything I say, that much has changed about me since I was younger and I am now happier being friends with people who don’t like everything I like, it leads to more interesting conversations!

Some of these things may seem really obvious, some less so, some a little surprising and some you may find quite crass; I apologise in advance if any of this makes you feel any less of me.  So, let’s get started with…

Calvin and Hobbes

Calvin and Hobbes was a cartoon strip which was written and drawn by Bill Watterson, it ran between 1985 and 1995.  It was syndicated to over 2,400 countries worldwide, including The Daily Express in the UK, which is where I first discovered it.  We never read the Express in my house but whilst at school I did a variety of paper-rounds to get some spending money and would take time out to read the funnies, check out page three, et cetera. 

Calvin was a six year old American boy and Hobbes was his cuddly toy tiger.  The main theme of the strip was that to Calvin, Hobbes was real and in frames not featuring any other characters he was drawn as such, not actually real tiger sized, cuddlier and anthropomorphised, but clearly different to the obviously stuffed tiger toy that appeared in other frames.  The “real” Hobbes had a very well rounded character, with his own foibles and imperfections and a love of tinned tuna. Other characters included Calvin’s long suffering parents, Calvin was portrayed as a very real six year old boy with a talent for getting himself in to trouble, and his friend/enemy Suzy Derkins, a school mate who was often used to give a balanced, female perspective on situations.  Though Calvin was a child and was thus imbued with the appropriate sense of innocence and wonder, he was also a flawed and sometimes selfish male human with a sense of cynicism that was a dichotomy to the rest of his character and this is where the real skill of Watterson is clear, he has used this six year old boy to vent his frustration with an increasingly cynical and harsh world. 

Watterson would sometimes, particularly in the longer, Sunday strips, indulge in flights of fancy which showed off his artistic talents.  These would usually be based on the day dreams of Calvin, often based around his Spaceman Spiff alter-ego where Watterson could pander to his fondness for 1950s style sci-fi or frequently around dinosaurs, the Tyrannosaurus being a particular favourite.  Occasionally Calvin would be portrayed as a Chandleresque private eye or he and Suzy’s games of “let’s pretend” would be drawn in a realistic style, the two protagonists as adults yet juxtaposed with their childish dialogue, eventually the premise falling apart in the last frame.  The genius of Watterson was in the writing.  The storylines are not only frequently laugh-out-loud but also contain moments of pathos that are tear-inducing.

In 1990 I was given my first Calvin and Hobbes book, “Yukon Ho!” by a girlfriend of the time and over the next few years I went on to buy everything that was available.  I love Calvin and Hobbes and could sit and read all of the books over and over again; if I still had them.  For once the reason I don’t have something anymore is not because I sold it, my reasons are much more altruistic in that I passed the books on to my nephew that he may also appreciate them.  I miss them very much and he had better look after them or I WILL rain down upon him in furious vengeance.

Over the years I've met various people that share my enthusiasm for this cartoon strip and it’s probably no coincidence that I've always got on with them, I think Calvin and Hobbes appeals to a particular type of person; intelligent, sensitive yet with a reluctant cynicism because of the hardness of the modern world and a very dark, subtle sense of humour.  If you haven’t read the strip, please do, just Google it, if you are already my friend there’s a good chance you’ll like them.

Star Wars

By the above I mean the original trilogy of “A New Hope” which we always just called Star Wars (and I will refer to hereafter as Star Wars), The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.  Not the new films, I think they are poo.  I’m not trying to look cool, I really don’t like them at all but as this is a POSITIVE blog I’m not going in to my reasons why, let’s just say it goes far beyond Jar Jar Binks.

When Star Wars came out in 1977 it was always episode four, this was not added to the later re-mastered versions as some believe.  I am very suspicious about the idea that it was always intended to have a back story that would later be made; it is much more likely that George Lucas, director and producer, wanted it to look like one of those Saturday matinee pictures that he grew up with that were made as a series of films.  It was this mystery that only added to the allure of this film for the five year old me.  It was one of the hottest summers on record and my parents took us all to see Star Wars, which I’m fairly sure I’d not heard of.  This isn't so strange; at the age of five I was not really aware of anything beyond my home and school and several years later when I went to see the SECOND Indian Jones film I was not aware of the first one and had no idea who Indian Jones was apart from he was played by the bloke who was Han Solo.

So, roughly 35 years ago, when I’d had one year in education, I went to see a movie; do I remember anything about it?  A surprising amount actually!  I’m not 100% sure where I saw the film but the chances are it was in Havant, the old Empire (later Cannon) in East Street.  I saw a lot of movies there as a child as it was slightly nearer than the Granada in Chichester, which will be mentioned when we get to 1980.  We only briefly had a family car before my teens so usually travelled by train, Havant is definitely most likely.  I do remember the “ A long time ago, In a galaxy far, far away…” and then the thrill of those opening notes from John Williams’ score blaring out over the rolling text, disappearing back in to a space-scape, then the Imperial cruiser following the rebel ship, firing laser cannons as it went.  I was hooked.  I loved every second of it and felt something akin to genuine grief when the movie finished.  This was back in the days when a film may not appear on one of our three television channels for years (I can’t be sure but I think I’d seen Empire before I saw Star Wars again), nobody yet had a video recorder and even if they did, Star Wars was not officially available for a long, long time.  We spent that summer playing at Star wars, I always wanted to be Han; Han was cool because he had a waistcoat and a side blaster which at that time I mistakenly thought was cooler than a light-sabre.  Then came Star wars figurines and toys.  My brother and I had a few; Mark Palin who lived across the road had loads.  We’d make every excuse to play in his house and always wanted to play Star wars.  He had the Millennium Falcon, which was Han’s ship and I coveted beyond anything else.  Mark was an only child and sometimes said he wished he’d had a brother.  I’d have swapped him mine for the Millennium Falcon.  It was three years before the next installment of the Star Wars saga and if that seems like a long time now, consider how long it was to a five year old.  You liked Star Wars did you?  Well, in just over half of the life you've already lived, you’ll get to see part two. Or part five.

To be truthful, I don’t think it occurred to me for a moment (notwithstanding the fact that at five not much occurred to me ever) that there would be another Star wars film.  It seemed very neatly wrapped up; the Death Star was destroyed, Peter Cushion (sic) was blown up, Daft Vader (sic) was spinning around in this Tie-fighter forever, Han got a medal… all done.  By 1980 I must have been aware though as I was getting The Empire Strikes back comic before I saw the film, I don’t remember at what point the realisation dawned on me but I can only have been delighted.  In the summer of 1980 I was eight years old, I was at Junior school and was only slightly more world-aware than I had been three years earlier.  Every Monday I had to hand my dinner money over to Mrs Plested, my teacher, for the week.  One Monday I forgot it.  I brought it in the next say but Mrs Plested didn't ask for it and I was too shy to say anything.  I was so worried about it that I hid it in my room.  I’m not sure but I think it was £2.  This came in handy later as when my sisters announced they were taking me and my brother to see The Empire Strikes Back I wanted my friend Graham Nash (not the one from Crosby, Stills and Nash, that would have been weird, this one was another eight year old boy) to come with us and managed to produce the £2 required for the train and the ticket in.  There was all round suspicion from both families as to where the money had come from (we told them we’d found it in the street) but as they couldn’t prove any wrong doing they eventually let us go.  There, now you know!

This time it was the Granada in West Street, Chichester that we went to.  What I didn't realise until today was that The Empire Strikes Back was the last movie shown at this Cinema, so we are part of Chichester history.  At the end of the run The Granada closed and was empty for a number of years before it became a McDonalds in the late eighties and is now a very swanky branch of Next.  The movie was of course ace, loved every minute of it.  I was halfway through the story in comic form so the ending was still a surprise to me, I loved the Hoth battle and was both frustrated and gladdened by the ending as though it was a very dark way to finish the installment with Han missing and Luke bereft of a hand, there was no doubt there would be another installment.  It didn't occur to me it would take another three years.

Empire did provide me with some valuable references in life.  First of all I could use Yoda to describe any old and withered yet wise person I encountered (such as Miss Boon, my first English teacher at secondary school), describe any traitorous or treacherous person as a “Lando” but the best one ever involved a fairly minor creature, the Tauntaun; the bipedal, camel like creatures that the rebels use as transport in the snowy wasted of Hoth.   Years later, in a restaurant in Paris, my wife ordered Andouillette, which our guide book described as a chitterlings sausage.  Unfortunately neither of us knew what chitterlings are.  Tripe, that’s what.  The scene in Empire when Han slices open the tauntaun with the light-sabre and then spreads it’s guts over Luke to keep him warm is a perfect simile for the first time Becky cut in to the Andouillette.  “I thought they smelled bad on the outside”, choked Han.  I concur.

Return of the Jedi, the third part in the trilogy but episode six in the saga came out in 1983.  This was the summer between leaving junior school and starting secondary school, my childhood really did end this summer and Jedi was a good metaphor for this.  I would have been 11 when I went to see it, I can’t remember who I went with but possibly my Sister Carolynn.  Of course I enjoyed it a lot, even at the time the Ewoks who now sicken me.  There are some great aspects to the film; Leia in a gold bikini, Jabba becoming the go-to humorous reference for any fat person subsequently encountered, The Emperor getting a proper speaking part… but it wasn’t the best part of the trilogy.  There are now certain parts to this film that set my teeth on edge.  The Ewoks being cute.  Ugh.  Chewbacca doing a Tarzan style holler as he swings on a vine.  The bit where Leia is Luke’s sister seeming tacked on (and then the realisation that she snogged him once… ewwww!).  And the delivery of the line “You rebel scum” being the worst since “Mummy a naked American man stole my balloon” (American Werewolf in London) which at least had been delivered by a small child.  Yoda is better produced than in Empire, but dies.  They also kill off Boba Fett who was the second coolest character after Han.  I enjoyed it and even played with some of my brother’s Jedi toys (the speeder bike was especially fun) but with a sense of… well, I was getting too old for this really.  And I did have a point.

Jedi was the first of the films that seemed to be made for children.  Though the first two appealed to kids there was no obvious attempt as cuteness in them.  The Ewoks buggered all of that up.  I don’t hate them like I do Jar Jar but that scene in the Endor battle where an Ewok tries to rouse his friend after an explosion and realising he is dead, weeps over his body… well, you’d need a heart of stone not to laugh.  I’d still rather watch Jedi than any of the first three episodes though, I really would.  I went to see all of the “new ones” when they came out at the Cinema, having watched the original trilogy I felt I had to, but they all failed to immerse me more deeply in to the Star Wars universe.  That is not to say there are not some excellent elements to the later films; the pod racing set piece, the three way sabre dual with Darth Maul, Yoda fighting.  But there is so much that is wrong and some appalling acting from people who should have done better (“You were right about one thing master, negotiations were short”, smirk).  But enough of this moaning.   

Subsequently, George Lucas has vandalised the original trilogy by re-releasing them in a re-mastered form.  He just had to add little bits in and the part where Han steps on Jabba’s tail particularly rankles, surely Han would have been executed on the spot?  I cling dear to the memories of how it was and remember when we recorded Star wars off telly one Christmas (it was followed by a Duran Duran concert which we had the first half of, my brother accidently turned the video recorder off whilst kicking a satsuma across the room), watching and re-watching it over the following summer holidays whilst playing a ZX Spectrum game called Penetrator (!) and pretending it was a Death Star assault:

“You’re too high.”

“Stay on target…”

“You’re too high!”

“Stay on target”

Kablooie!!

“The force is strong in this one”

“I have you now!”

Kablooie!

“What?!”

“Woo-hoo!  Okay kid, let’s blow this thing and go home!”

Oh, happy days.

Epilogue:  The trailers for the new J.J Abrams directed film looks amazing… and I never use that particular superlative unless I am amazed by something.  Role on Chrimbo time!

These are a few of my favourite things… continued (originally posted 9/9/12)

This time ‘round I’m not going to write so much about each topic as there is a heck of a lot to get through, so let’s get going…

The smell of strawberries:  

Strawberries taste fine, they are OK, nice with clotted cream on a scone, sure.  But they smell divine, absolutely wonderful.  I grew up in a lane with a strawberry farm at the end of it so there is an element to the smell as being evocative of nostalgia but it goes beyond that.  I’d rather smell a strawberry farm than eat a strawberry and the former does not necessarily make me want to do the latter.  I do have a very delicate proboscis, not to the extent of Grenouille in Perfume but enough to make smell actively enjoyable and fresh strawberries, preferably still growing, on a warm sunny day are my favourite.  Other favourites are rain on fresh cut grass (bit of a cliché I know), freshly baked bread, freshly brewed coffee, peaches and the perfume Kate wears with a hint of redcurrant’s, the name escapes me right now but hmmmm… I tried to get me good lady wife to get some but she hates to be “told” what to do so I have to surreptitiously pretend I need to talk to Kate every so often at work so I can get a whiff.

Chinese Food: 

King Prawn Chow Mein

If I could only have one type of cuisine ever again I would chose Chinese.  I couldn’t chose between Cantonese and Szechuan which are the two most common in the UK but as these do tend to be generic terms for a much wider spectrums of taste it would be churlish to go down that road anyway, I’d look like a pretentious fool (even more than usual).  My earliest exposure to Chinese food was when my parents would occasionally get a takeaway at my childhood home in Southbourne.  I’d like to think they got it from the Golden Chopsticks (still there) but my father being who he is I think he decided the best Chinese takeaway was in Havant and went there instead.  I don’t remember getting Chinese food of my own, we probably got chips or something, my mother though always had the same; a King Prawn Chow Mein and I would get to finish off her noodles and beansprouts.  I loved it.  It was years before I got a prawn of my own but the taste was developed from there.  As I got older I adored Chinese food more and more and it has helped me become the gargantuan oaf I am now.  Chinese food is not generally very low fat, not in the form we get it in anyway.  I am so fond of Chow Main, Chop Suey, Foo Yung, Crispy duck, Beef in Black Bean… even Chinese curry sauce that it played at least a small part in wifey and I choosing China as our honeymoon destination.  

We went on a tour that took in Shanghai, Suzhou, Beijing, Xian, Guilin and Hong Kong.  The food was lovely… mostly (some of the soups looked as if the washing up had been done in them) but it was largely generic tourist fare and we were too scared to go far from the unknown on the few occasions we could choose what we ate and less often just couldn't understand the menus.  In a market in Beijing for example there were several small cafés we could have tried but the menu was in mandarin script and I did not want to accidentally order a thousand year old egg (a dish I have NOT made up, it sounds foul... no pun intended).  I did get to have chow-mein for breakfast most days on Mainland China.  By the time we reached Hong Kong I was only slightly fed up with Chinese food and I had an Indian (curry) and a Malaysian (curry).  It was in Hong Kong that I had the most disgusting meal I’d ever had.  We inadvertently went to a vegan restaurant where I ordered fake prawns with fake egg fried rice.  The fake prawns in particular were just little lumps of pink jelly, presumably gelatin free.  I was so astonishingly bad that I took a video of it, which I may link to later if I can be arsed to get the old PC (where it is stored) fired up.

On our return from China I’d ordered a Chinese takeaway within two weeks.

Music:

Billy Duffy of The Cult

There is of course lots of music I don’t like.  But there is so much I do like.  I like music that is about music, not about being cool, popular or famous.  I like music in the way I like books and films; it could be sad, happy, romantic, sexy, violent or so many other things.  I've already blogged about why I don’t think music can be depressing but still people disagree (they are wrong and I am right).  What I don’t get, more than anything else, is people who only like one sort of music; whether that be rock, pop, indie, dance or whatever, I like to keep an open mind on most things.  I like a lot of alternative rock and pop music but I also like rock, metal, ambient, techno, folk, country… well, here are just a few of my favourites:

Abba, AC/DC, Aerosmith, Air, All About Eve, Beasties, The Beat, Beatles, Belly, Bjork, Black Crowes, Blur, Alfie Bowe,  Bowie, Kate Bush, Buzzcocks, Chemical Brothers, Clash, Cocteaus, Cowboy Junkies, Cranes, Cult, Cure, Curve, Damned, Dexy’s, Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, Ian Dury, Echo and the Bunnymen, Erasure, Eurythmics, Faith No More, Fields of the Nephilim, Foos, Goldfrapp, Guns ‘n’ Roses, Hendrix, Kristin Hersh, Human League, The Jam, Janes Addiction, J&MC, Joy Division, Led Zep, Madness, Mamas and Papas, Manics, Metallica, Motorhead, Alison Moyet, Mumford and Sons, Muse, New Model Army, New Order, Nirvana, Gary Numan, Orbital, Pink Floyd, Pixies, Placebo, Portishead, Pretenders, Primal Scream, Prodigy, Public Enemy, Queen, Queen Adreena, REM, Radiohead, RATM, Ramones, Ride, Rolling Stones, Saint Etienne, Sex Pistols, Simple Minds, Siouxsie, Sisters, Smashing :Pumpkins, Soft Cell, Soundgarden, Smiths, Specials, Stone Roses, Suede, T-Rex, Teenage Fan Club, Thin Lizzy, Throwing Muses, Tindersticks, Van Morrison, White Stripes, White Stripes, Who, Weezer and all the ones I've missed out.

Adult female human breasts:

Eva Green owns some of my favourite boobs

I make no apology for this.  I really like lady-boobs.  And before you call me a perv, it’s not just a sexual thing.  Believe me, as a naturist I have seen more boobies than you've had haircuts, possibly, and I don’t get the raging horn every time.  Yes, as a mostly heterosexual male I do find a nice pair of breasticles sexy but it’s more than that, I find them beautiful.  Breasts come in all shapes and sizes, most women have one slightly bigger than the other and nippleage varies hugely in size, shape and colour.  I like them all.  Of course I have my own particular favourites (It could be you!) but never have a bad word to say about any mammary glands I am lucky enough to get a gander at.  Best feeling in the world? Hugging a lady and feeling boobage held close; not sexual, just nice.

I only have the following to add:

Ladies, check your breasts regularly and support Breast Cancer Awareness:  http://www.breastcancercampaign.org/page.aspx?pid=610&gclid=CNXBtIP7p7ICFUNTfAod5GYAww

Why can men go about shirtless whilst women feel they can’t when the latter is so much nicer to see? Support top freedom:  http://www.tera.ca/

And finally, they really are lovely, up to you what you do with yours but if I had some I’d have them out all the time.

Holidays In The Sun

Holidays in the Sun  (Ibiza 1996)

Originally posted 17/3/15...

In early 1996 I was 24 years old and my life was very different to how it is now.  I was living with my parents, had been working for over two years, had no major debts and access to credit.  I was single.  I was never too happy about the single part and it is fair to say I was probably preoccupied with the fairer sex around this time, most notably the fact that I had no success in persuading any of them to go out with me or just to get their clothes off for me, either would have been good.  To be fair I’d lost a bit of what was me, I was dressing in a casual manner that was far removed from the demi-goth/grebo style I’d been in to as recently as two years before, lots of sports clothes with jeans and trainers.  This was the time of Blur and Oasis so I was hardly a chav but was as near to one as I have ever been.  I’d only the previous year cut off my long locks which had been on-going since I was 18 but later decided to grow them back for the holiday. But I wanted to fit in a bit more than I did and had started occasionally going clubbing and listening to more mainstream music.

I’d only once been abroad at this time, a school trip to France when I was 11 years old, and had only two holidays in the UK with my family.  I decided I had to go somewhere.  I started browsing through brochures looking for somewhere where it would be warm and sunny, there would be plenty of drinking, there would be topless girls and partying.  I eventually settled on San Antonio, Ibiza, because it filled all the boxes and seemed best value for money.  Now I just needed to rope a couple of others in to make it affordable.

I thought three single lads would be the best option so I asked my friend Harry and also asked him to see if his friend Ian would be interested in going.  Ian seemed ok, I knew he was single and I knew he was working so would be able to afford it.  Though I didn't know him well I’d socialised with him a few times and though a bit nerdy he seemed like someone I’d get on with.  In any case, with Harry there as a go between we should all get on fine, nobody would have to feel like a third wheel if somebody wanted some time to themselves. 

So, I got it all booked up and paid on my credit card so it was all done.  In typical Darren fashion I didn't save for the holiday at all, I decided that the others share which they would pay me in cash would be my spending money so effectively the whole thing, two weeks bed and breakfast (more on that breakfast later) for three was on tick.  If I was to pinpoint where I started going wrong in life regarding finances it was almost certainly here.  The wait for the holiday started in earnest.  A bloke at work told me “If you don’t get laid in Ibiza there is something wrong with you”… fantastic!  I was very eager for my longest sexless spell since I was 18 to come to an end even if it was by some loveless, grubby encounter in a foreign hotel room; hell, on the beach or behind a skip would do me.

Then disaster struck.  Harry came down with glandular fever and wasn't fit to make breakfast let alone go on a grueling two week regime of partying.  By this time Harry had also rather selfishly got himself a girlfriend so wouldn't have been available for the shagging element of things anyway but as he went on to marry her I will forgive him.  We started looking in to alternatives to fill his place but he agreed he’d pay if we couldn't find anyone.  We never found anyone, he paid.  It was just to be Ian and myself.

Ian was a year or so older than myself but more importantly he was shorter, fatter, at least as unattractive, had less hair on his head and more hair everywhere else.  For once I’d be the good looking one if we met a couple of chicks!  We met up once before the trip to just talk through arrangements and before we knew it, September arrived and we were off.  We’d gone for end of season as it was cheaper and gave us time to pay and also the weather would be slightly less oppressive but still hot enough for lady breasts to be out.  I had plenty of money, plenty of clothes but had failed in my hair growing as I had that mid-nineties indie mop-top, not long and not short which really did nothing for me.  And so it came to pass that one weekday evening in early September, 16 years ago, I climbed in to a taxi from my parent’s house with a bloke I didn't know and was about to spend two weeks with. 

We arrived at Gatwick suitably early; I have issues on punctuality and will always arrive somewhere long before I need to just to avoid any possibility of being a tiny bit late.  We checked in, probably the first on our flight to do so, and went off to the pub.  I think I’d had three pints before we boarded our flight.  I spent the time nervously looking at the other passengers.  Everyone looked cooler than me.  Everyone.  I even saw a girl who’d been in my younger brother’s year at school and I think fancied me back then who pretty much turned her nose up when I gave a gesture of recognition.  Oh dear.  My confidence started to ebb.  By the time we were in the air I was already starting to think I had made a massive mistake.  Everyone was so boisterous.  I like a drink and a chat but this was just so loud, everyone shouting and cheering like they were already at a rave.  I realised that a lot of people had started partying before they got to the airport and quite a few probably had stimulants other than alcohol in them already.  I felt horribly out of place, like the geeky boy in a room full of jocks.  How was I going to do this?  I just wasn't as outgoing as seemingly everyone else on the plane, including Ian. 

I forget how long the flight was, a couple of hours or so, and apart from the level of shoutyness from the passengers it was fairly uneventful so at least I knew I could fly though.  It had been a night flight, as was the return journey, so it would be some time yet before I found out how terrifying I find taking off when I can see what’s out there.  We disembarked, found our party and set off for the hotels in similarly loud circumstances to the plane.  The holiday rep on the coach was telling people to be careful with what drugs they took because there’s been some bad Es around.  I knew there would be drugs on Ibiza (or so I thought… more on that later) but was not aware of just how openly the reps would encourage the taking of them. I had less of an issue with the inherent suggestion that promiscuity was ok.

At this point I need to mention the name of the holiday group I was going to Ibiza with.  It was called 2wentys which was holidays especially for young people, in the Club 18-30 style, under the Thomson umbrella.  The hotel we were going to would be exclusive to 2wentys so there would be no old farts harshing our buzz and we could all have a wicked time.  We’d all become best friends, probably after having huge amounts of sex with each other.  This sounded great… I just wished the noisy fuckers would shut up then, I had a headache.  We reached our hotel after 2am and the bar was throbbing, playing very loud dance music and full of other hotel guests who presumably had just come back from a club.  I expect they were just winding down now before going to bed.  Checking in to the hotel seemed to take forever, one grumpy looking Spaniard processed each of us one by one before giving us a room key and telling us which floor we were on.  By the time we reached our room, third floor, it was gone 3am.  After unpacking and freshening up we assumed we’d get some kip but at 3.30 it was still banging so we went down for a drink.  I think we eventually went back up at 5am and slept for a couple of hours.  I say slept, I laid with my eyes closed and listened to the throbbing bass below.

The next morning I stepped out on to our balcony on to what was a half completed building.  It looked like a car park with no cars.  The sky was heavily clouded and it was muggy.  We decided to partake in breakfast and then cut our losses regarding sleep and see what was out there.  Breakfast turned out to be some cut bread, some jam and the off piece of manky looking fruit.  I was ravenous so had some bread and jam but didn't bother with it for the rest of the two weeks.  In fact, I didn't take breakfast for two weeks and I like breakfast!  On every holiday I've had since finding somewhere to get a good breakfast has been paramount, possibly because of this one.

In the harsh light of day the hotel looked revoltingly cheap, as did most of the buildings in San Antonio.  Clearly it was a report that had come to life in the last decade or so, and was littered with a sequence of ugly buildings and uglier half completed buildings.  It was clear that hotels generally needed to be functional and not to take up much ground space so most were at least five stories high.  I imagined one monstrous but average looking hotel that had been knocked up by a municipal building from Moldova and was now stomping Godzilla like around the resort, endlessly discharging it’s progeny of tacky hotels and bars. Few were made in anything other than a bland, square shape; there were no contoured shapes and curves to add a gentler look to the harshness of the area.  It looked like a ghetto.  It later transpired that since Ibiza had become big business some nicer hotels had been built down on the bay but that was quite walk from where we were, just off the centre of San Antonio.

As we explored we soon realised that we had arrived just after a very short period of biblical weather.  On the coach they had mentioned that they’d just had the biggest storm for 50 years but now we could see upturned boats and thousands of palm leaves littering the sea shore like so many dead, oiled up gulls; it was clear just how big this had been.  Speaking later to a fellow guest at the hotel I was told that during the heaviest rain it was like looking out of the window to see another window behind it and another behind that and so on.  This was bad news, what if the weather stayed like this?  I wanted a tan.  More than that, I wanted to see tits.  Sue me.  I was 24, horny as hell and I liked tits.

We returned to the hotel to meet our rep, a lovely girl called Sharon who did turn out to be very reliable and helpful.  There were a couple of reps that I liked, Sharon and Spencer (Spencer ended up coming back on the same flight as us when he resigned after being heavily fined for being drunk on duty!),  A couple of reps joined her and together they performed a presentation which in effect was designed to panic everyone in to thinking they would have a shit time of they didn't sign up for all of the excursions and group activities on offer.  They actually used the term “Billy No-Mates”.  Did they really think something like that would work on us?  Well, it did.  I got out the credit card and signed up, as did Ian.  I forget how many excursions there were but most them were an absolute waste of money, some little more than a glorified bar-crawl.  One I do remember was a foam party at Es Paradise, but this turned out to be a lunchtime engagement when the club was not in normal use and had no atmosphere.  The only one that was any good at all was the boat trip, which I will mention in more detail later on.  I’m not saying excursions are always a waste of money, I signed up for several a few years later in Crete and they were fantastic, but these were garbage, just a way of Thomson getting more money out of us and they should be ashamed of themselves.

We went out for lunch after that, it is one of the few meals I remember as it was a hamburger and the burger actually tasted like it was made of ham.  Very odd.  We got chatting to a middle aged couple who seemed quite nice and then we had a few beers.  I think the first evening ended in one of the organised bar crawls and it we ended up back at the hotel around midnight.  The music was still on and it was very loud.  It stayed on.  I did not sleep.  I don’t like not sleeping, I get very grumpy.  Over the next two weeks the music in the bar at the hotel stayed on very loud until around 4am every night except one.  Now, I know San Antonio is a clubbing town.  I know people stay up late and like dance music.  But… the town is full of bars and clubs that play loud music in to the early hours, with proper light shows and so on.  Why is it needed in the hotel bar where people want to sleep? Or perhaps it was just me?  The long and short of it is that I managed no more than 2 hours sleep a night for the next two weeks, I drank and smoked far too much and I ended up with an extremely heavy cold that turned in to a chest infection. 

The weather did get better.  I got a tan.  I saw lots of topless girls, two naked girls, one naked man and got very naked myself.  I danced with a couple of girls in bars.  I enjoyed the sunset from Café Del Mar more than once. I made a few friends, none of whom I kept in contact with after but if they ever somehow see this I’d particularly like to say hello to the Dudley lads and the extremely scary looking but bloody nice Barnsley lads. There was also a very nice bloke, very good looking but extremely shy, who thought I’d said my name was Daryl and I was too shy to correct him.  I was fairly surprised someone that dishy could be shy but by the end of the trip he was spending a lot of time with a nice girl so maybe it turned out ok for him.

There is so much more I could say but I've tried to get out the main memories.  I can’t give you a day by day account of what happened over the next two weeks as I slowly mentally unraveled over the first week and only really enjoyed the second fitfully, depending on how annoying Ian was being, so I am going to split up in to little sub sections now!  Starting with:

Ian

It took about two days.  There were little glimpses in those first two days but by day three I was sure.  Ian was really fucking annoying.  It was mostly the way he talked.  Some would call him a story teller but to me it was just being a big, fat fibber.  He told anecdotes endlessly, many that seemed unlikely but who was I to say?  Then he started to talk about things that had happened while I was around and I realised it was if not all then largely bollocks.  The anecdote would start off, on the first telling, as mostly true but with his part in it emphasized beyond what it had actually been.  Then with each retelling, Ian loved talking, it would become more and more fantastical until it was all about him and everybody in it saying how great he is.  It wasn't just that.  He spoke like he was trying too hard.  Like everything he did was part of an act.  He just never seemed genuine or natural, always trying to impress somebody.  The final straw was when he asked the barman at the hotel, brother of the owner, if he could take his sister out to dinner.  Just not done.  Badly done Ian, badly done indeed. I started trying to avoid him after three days.  Oh yes, after the boat trip he stank of Tabasco sauce.

The Boat Trip

The boat trip was the only excursion I remember that I enjoyed and the only one that seemed to be worth paying for.  We went out on a boat.  We stopped at an island for lunch and then played some games by the pool.  Then back on the boat, more games on-board, finally to another island for some karaoke.  There is a real possibility here that there were actually two boat trips and thus two excursions that weren't shit, but for the sake of narrative and because I can’t remember I’m going to make it one.

I was pretty hung-over on the boat trip so for the first half of the day I didn't play much.  Ian though was his usual self; wanting to be the centre of attention and taking part in all of the pool games, mostly because he got to lick whipped cream off the crotch and boob area of some girl’s swim suit.  He actually fought with another competitor, literally trading blows, to get there first.  My favourite game though was Endurance, which Ian won.

You may remember the Japanese game show, Endurance, in which competitors either endure various methods of having unpleasantness meted out to them or they surrender, losing the game.  Last one in wins.  Ian won.  I was very glad as that meant he took the maximum level of nasty because I couldn't stand the sight of him by now.  Of the tortures he endured the ones I remember are eating sand, having Tabasco sauce poured over him in the sun, having pegs on his nipples, eating raw squid (I actually quite fancied some of that) and being hit in the balls with a table tennis paddle.  I loved every minute of it and wish I’d bought the video, I’d still be watching it now… with one hand.  His prize was an edible thong and a pint, which he downed in one to clear the sand out of his throat.  The pint that is.

Ian partook in some of the drinking games on the next part of the boat ride but thankfully not the one that ended in a much fitter bloke walking naked around the boat.  And he was fit; could have had me on the turn but instead induced in me that feeling of self-loathing about my own body shape that has become so familiar over the years.

By the time we got to the second island most people were a bit pissed, not me though as I’d just had a few alco-pops, my hangover had subsided but the thought of more beer was anathema to me.  Ian and I performed Crocodile Rock, which is actually quite hard to sing.  A huge cheer went up during our rendition which I thought was nice until I realised that it was actually for some poor sod who had just erupted all over himself like a volcano of sangria sick.  Nice.

Alcohol

Of course I drank a lot in Ibiza.  I was 24 and single and had some money and frankly there was bugger all else to do.  I think twice in two weeks I was really, uncontrollably drunk.  The first time was early on and I had to get Ian to take me back to the hotel because I couldn’t remember the way.  I then decided to dance naked around the room and the balcony, insisting Ian take photos.  Sadly I don’t still have them, which is a shame as I was slimmer back then. The next day I was sick, the only time I was for the two weeks.  There was a lot of that going around, one morning I went out on the balcony to see a huge pile of vomit on the balcony of the lesbian couple in the next room.  There was another on the stairs, so copious I suspected the culprit had eaten a manky bear.

The second incident was set off by Nelly, who we shall come to later.  I had no plans to get drunk but after talking to her I stayed in the hotel bar all day.  This was at the beginning of the second week and marked the beginning of 15 years of not being able to drink San Miguel.  I’ve only recently had it again… it’s ok!

After going off San Miguel I would occasionally have a bottle of Bud but more often stuck to alco-pops or sangria.  I never got seriously drunk again while I was there.

Drugs

There weren’t any, the place was dry.  Seriously, we never went looking for any (I’d dabbled in the past but didn’t know how Ian felt) but we had dealers asking us if we had any.  It was end of season and they’d had a good summer.  Nobody at any time offered to sell us drugs and I’d imagine that, being with Ian, at times I looked as if I needed them.  That or a crossbow.

Food

On our first full evening Ian bought some chips and gravy.  Perhaps it is the born and bred southerner in me but I find the idea of putting any sort of sauce over chips horrendous.  One may dunk a chip in sauce or mayo or even splash a little vinegar on them but to make them go all soggy like that seems like a waste of a good, crispy chip.

We got fed up with chips very quickly and Ian decided he wanted a meal with potatoes.  I don’t think we ever found that, but there were plentiful alternatives to chips.  We had Chinese food several times, pizza, curry… but San Antonio in 1996 was not the best place for traditional Spanish fare, fresh fish, vegetables… anything like that.  As a renowned fat person subsequent holidays have largely been based around food  so this holiday has a rarity value for me in that it was a case of scrabbling to find something we liked.  There were several Chinese restaurants but only one curry house, which may have been called The Curry House.  It was run by an English couple but the curries were as near as dammit to British style Indian cuisine and a blessed relief, even if I did over-reach by having the Vindaloo and burning both tongue and bot-bot.  The Curry house was right next to…

The Rock Club and Unplugged Bar

I’m not a clubber.  I wasn’t a clubber in 1996 but I somehow thought I could be.  I’m not. Never was.  That’s not to say I don’t like “dance music”.  I do like various aspects of ambient, techno and so on.  I’m not an expert by any means but I like quite a lot of it.  I’m not a dancer though.  I feel very self-conscious dancing.  I don’t think I had such a problem with dancing so much in 1996 which was just as well as it was often obligatory.

For the first few days we stuck to the larger bars in San Antonio which were like small clubs, usually with a dance floor.  They all played club music.  I remember that Tori Amos remix, Professional Widow and Underworld’s Born Slippy were both big at the time, the irony of the latter being completely missed in most instances.  I didn't mind those but there was so much stuff I was hearing far too much; a club remix of Wannabee by the (new on the scene) Spice Girls particularly rings a bell and soon I was getting sick of hearing the same old tunes all the time.  If it was just for dancing it would probably have been ok but I can’t help listening to the music.  I was actually grateful for Wonderwall by Oasis which was played every so often and that’s saying something.

Right next to The Curry House and to each other were The Rock Club and Unplugged.  The Rock club was a large upstairs bar which played modern (in 1996) rock music.  Having drifted away from the genre over the past five years I wasn’t up to date with post grunge rock, I recognised the odd bit of Smashing Pumpkins or Metallica but there was a lot I didn’t know.  Still I liked it and I insisted we came back a few times (actually, I wasn’t too bothered if Ian didn’t come).  There was also a girl who stripped naked at a certain point every night which I didn’t object to at all.  The music was too much for Ian, too loud, too heavy (he likes Heart and All About Eve) so we then tried Unplugged.

Unplugged was a bar with a stage and a bloke that sang and played guitar.  He was good and very friendly and it was a nice atmosphere for people who weren’t wanting to boogie all night long.  He played mostly fairly mainstream rock/pop, REM, U2, Oasis, Crowded House and so on but it did make a change.  One night Ian disappeared off on his own so I went and had my Vindaloo, then came to Unplugged, couple of drinks and then back to the hotel to find that the sound system was OFF!  It stayed off all night, for the only night we were there.  I was woken after a solid night of sleep by the hotel manager insisting I had to get a taxi.  In my confused, just woken state I thought Ian had arrived in a taxi and had no money so rushed down to find that no, he wanted me to get a taxi to the airport.  Due to a mix up on paperwork he’d thought we were only at the hotel for one week and that I’d missed my transfer.  We’d been entered in the register, by him, for two separate weeks instead of one fortnight.  The stupid cunt.

Ian turned up half an hour later, saying he’d walked a couple of girls back to their hotel in the bay, stayed for a drink and then walked back, which had taken all night.  I just think it was a massive coincidence that this happened the day after Spencer had pointed out a brothel to us.

Carl Cox:

I spent 16 years thinking I’d met the DJ Carl Cox at a pool party but I checked the photo against pictures on the internet and it isn't him.  We didn't go to any of the big clubs because we couldn't afford it.  It turned out our “exclusive” hotel had a large party on a trip organised by Kiss FM who all had tickets to the big clubs included in their package.  If I’d gone to them I’m fairly sure I’d have had a much better experience of clubbing and possibly would have had some drugs as well.  And life may have been VERY different.  2wentys suck.

Nelly

Nelly, not her real name which I can’t remember, was a girl we sat next to on the coach on one of our excursions.  She was short, a little tubby, wore bad glasses and had a very heavy cold which meant at most times she had snot visible in her nostrils.  To call her plain would be to overlook several alarming irregularities in her complexion.  My heart did not skip a beat.  Ian though took great interest in her as she was on her own and seemed possibly achievable even to him.  I didn't really partake in the conversation but heard enough to suggest that Nelly would be challenged intellectually by the average house-cat, which for Ian is another plus because he probably seemed impossibly interesting to her.

A couple of days later Ian told me he’d bumped in to her in the street and had gone back to her hotel where she had let him use her shower.  That was awfully nice of her, our hot water was solar powered and ran out very quickly so I’d been having cold showers for a week and the smell of Tabasco still pervaded, no matter how many Ian had. 

Then, the next day I was sitting in our hotel bar when she banged on the window behind me.  I waved and she came in.  It turned out that Ian had omitted to mention a few things from his trip to her bathroom.  Apparently Ian had asked Nelly out and when she said no he told her I liked her too which was an idea she was very on board with.  She had now come to tell me she was up for it.  I may be wrong to this day but I’m fairly sure she was offering me a shag, there and then, well, not there but in one of our rooms.  I said no.  Actually, with every ounce of tact and discretion in me I explained that Ian was mistaken, that she was indeed a lovely girl but I wasn't looking for anything like that but that I’d be delighted to maintain contact with her.  I didn't even ask to use her shower.  She went away quite happy and I got pissed out of my face, not sure if I’d just dodged a bullet or given up my only hope of ever having sex again.

A few days later Ian used Nelly to mock me in front of some other girls so I was forced to point out that he had been turned down by her and that he was a total shit.  Nelly called me at home a week or so after the holiday and frankly I’d have had a more engaging conversation with the speaking clock.  I dodged a bullet,

Coming Home

I spent the last day in the hotel watching movies and drinking Coke.  Ian went down to the beach with a girl who went topless and let him take photos of her.  Or so he says, I never saw the evidence.   Ibiza had really not been for me, I’d realised I just wasn't a very cool person and was looking forward to going home.

I didn't get laid in Ibiza so maybe there was something wrong with me.  Notwithstanding the possibility that he used a ‘Ho, I don’t think Ian got laid either and I’m damn sure there’s quite a lot wrong with him.  I managed to get a seat away from him on the flight home and when we got to Gatwick made a dash for the luggage reclaim and then all but ran to the train station to catch one before Ian had finished saying goodbye to all his new “friends”.  I missed it by seconds and had to spend another 90 minutes on a train with him.

We then didn't speak for six months.

Bucket List

Originally posted 9/2/14... and I have knocked a few of these off the list now... debt management plan is paid off, I've changed jobs (but not employers), seen Throwing Muses, seen Simple Minds, I did publish a book and sold all of about ten copies (now unpublished again).

Except I don't want to have the target of doing things before I die, this is a case of ASAP so it's more of a "Oh, fuck it - list".

I have had a few visitations from the black dog lately but my thoughts are not turned towards death but rather change; possibly change by choice, possibly not. Either way, the past four and a half years I've been in a state of Limbo.  No, not bent backwards, trying to maneuver under an increasingly lowered cane but rather as in the church version used to frighten the willies off everyone and make them do as told.  My version doesn't involve dying first, it merely involves getting so screwed financially I couldn't function and then spending five years paying it all off and having very little spare dosh.

Finally there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  The debt management plan WILL be done this year.  I'm not going to suddenly become mega-rich but I may have a little more wriggle room to at least think of some of the things I want to do in life.  There follows hereafter a list of things I have in mind; some are big, lifestyle choices, some not so big and achievable more quickly, possibly as quickly as this year. So, here goes!

1: See Throwing Muses live.  Hopefully achievable this year as they are touring the new album pretty soon, I hope.  TM are one of my top ten favouritest bands ever but one of the few I haven't seen live; I've seen Kristen Hersh solo but had been resigned to missing out on TM as they had been inactive for so long.  And they have a song called Limbo which seems most apt.

2: See Simple Minds live.  I know some may snort in derision at this one but Simple Minds were my first favourite band, when I was 15, and I really adored them right up until I got in to The Cure and got all poncey on myself.  I still genuinely love the first six albums released between 1979 and 1984 and have a "fondness" for the stadium pomp stage that got me in to them in the first place.  Annoyingly, Simple Minds played in Chichester in 2006.  I lived in Chichester in 2006 but had decided I didn't have any interest in seeing them.  I could hear them from my kitchen window.  D'oh!

3: Ride on a train pulled by a full sized steam engine.  Again, very easily achievable, there are a few options fairly locally.  I don't need the Orient Express but a nice sunny day, a ride on the train through some beautiful countryside and some nice food.  I'm easily pleased.  I expect my fondness for steam trains is linked to having had a Hornby train set as a child and my predilection for all things retro and vintage.

4: Go to Italy, preferably Florence and Sienna.  It's not just for the food, honest.  Me ol' mucker Chaz was lucky enough to go to these two cities with his parents and everything I've ever read about that particular part of Italy is so evocative; I just want to be there on a mildly sunny day eating  anti-pasti, ciabatta and olives and drinking a good local wine.

5:  Have at least one book published.  My novel is under way but needs a lot of work.  I need a lot more time than I actually have.  I'm also looking at some way of self-publishing some of my blogs but hey - I have enough trouble getting people to read them for free!  I may have to try something more obviously comedic and this could quite possible be the hardest item on the list to achieve.

6:  Get a different job.  The thought of staying where I am for the rest of my working life is anathema to me. I have already started looking around but it's still not the best time to change careers and even when debt free I can't afford too much of a salary drop.  It is a shame as I do believe in the principle of what I do; there are still those Daily Mail reading reactionaries who believe that I my role is just a pointless waste of hard working tax payers' money (of course I don't pay tax, do I?) but I say bollocks to them; I don't consider their opinion worthy of argument. Sadly I don't believe that the politicians and managers in my department have a clue what they are doing and would rather be out of it.

7: Learn to drive.  I have been mentally scarred by the obnoxious and abusive behaviour of my first driving instructor, I won't name him but he lives in Southbourne, West Sussex and is a colossal wanker and a shit photographer. I don't want to say too much about this one but I will say that it is already in my thoughts but that I am looking at doing it in an Automatic next time as it is clearly my clutch control that is a huge issue.  If it's good enough for the majority of drivers in the USA it's good enough for me!

8: Go to the USA.  I don't particularly mind where so long as I can go to a traditional diner and have a burger and a shake.  If the diner could be an old style prefab or wagon type and the waitresses be dressed in 50s garb, even better.  You can thank Bill Bryson for this one!  There are many, many things I'd like to see in the USA but a New England Fall comes quite high up. 

8: Go to a naturist resort; preferably somewhere warmer and sunnier than England.  I know some people have an issue with my attitude to non-sexual, social nudity but I neither encourage others to join in or to see me in that state so I don't know why.  I'd say if even the thought of another person naked bothers you that much you have some issues there. I would say that I can separate nudity from sex is actually one of my better qualities. Anyhoo, I'm not going to bang on about it but a week wondering around in the buff sounds fine to me.

9: Move from the crummy little village of Westbourne, West Sussex to the crummy little town of Emsworth, Hampshire. Obviously much of this depends on where I work, et cetera but yes.  I'm not keen on where I live.  Westbourne itself is a nice little village but I've never really managed to fit in here and in almost eight years of living here I've only ever been in one other persons house and that was the vicar. Perhaps it's me but my efforts to fit in have never quite come together. I once had a dream; the kind of dream where when you wake up and realise it was only a dream one is gripped by a desperate sense of disappointment. In that dream I was living in a lovely little cottage on a waterfront.  I've identified that since as the Mill Pond in Emsworth and though I may not get a cottage on it somewhere near would suit me fine.  Emsworth also has several nice pubs, a butcher, a fishmonger, a greengrocer, two Indian restaurants, three Chinese take-aways, a fish 'n' chips shop, an off licence, a bike shop,a train station and is on a main bus route.  In short, small enough to feel homely but big enough to be able to get by without leaving it often if needs be.

10:  Act in a film or television programme.  Not as unrealistic as you may think; I am related to someone training to be a film maker and I'd do it for free.  I'm not talking about a starring role, just a cameo (or whatever a cameo for a not-famous person is called) and I can carry off a little simple acting; just don't expect Meryl Streep.  And I'm willing to consider for nude scenes if they are integral to the plot.  Failing that, I'd like to do a proper play.  I did a pantomime a couple of years ago and mostly enjoyed that so would like to stretch myself to something a little more professional (if only in attitude rather than the strictest meaning of the word, I don't expect to get paid!).

11:  I'd like to get together everyone who's ever humiliated or pissed me off, put them in a room and fill it with vomit.  Only joking.

Or am I?