Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Back in Blighty

For Sale: One penis, unused. Disgruntled owner has no fucking need for it.

I regain consciousness on the sofa in a Spanish living room. A girl from Leeds is telling me to 'Pick oop the telerphern forra chat'.

I squint and try to work out what is going on. Nothing Man and I had returned from our last night out as sexual titans. It was around 6:30am when he flicked on to Babewatch TV then retired to bed.
I want to make that crystal clear: My associate is the one who tuned in to soft porn, not me. And it's a particularly insidious form of soft porn; young girls in nothing more than garish make-up and thick underwear, encouraging men to call an 0900 number to talk to 'them'. It is phenomenally sad. I am only marginally less sad as I will never call.

I was sat watching a woman pretend to convulse with pleasure as she attempted to tug her panties up to her chin while holding a phone in her other hand, or else she'd repeatedly slap her clitoris, or at least the clitoral region (if memory serves), as these channels can't show front bottoms, so all fingering is done through a fuliginous pair of knickers.

So I'm sat there watching her face of faux pleasure, and noting the rhythmic, almost hypnotic writhing of her hips. This is a perfectly non-unpleasant, albeit creepy manner in which to wait 'til 8am when I was to leave for the airport.

Except I fell asleep.

I wake up at 10am, the TV still tuned to Babewatch. FUCK.

I yelp. My plane leaves in two hours and I'm in my pants on a couch. Perhaps drinking and going clubbing all night wasn't the smartest thing to do.

10-second shower.
Bag fill.
Kick Nothing's door and yell 'I'vefuckingoversleptandI'vegottofuckingleaveimmediatelyandI'mfucked!'
'Mwungh?' says Nothing.
Run out into bright sunshine with a wardrobe on my back.

I head for the main road. No cabs. I demi-jog towards town, thumbing every vehicle for a lift to the nearest cab rank. No-one seems to want to pull over and win themselves a large panicky red man.

This goes on for half an hour until I spot my first empty taxi.

'Aeroporto, pronto!' I yell, throwing my rucksack into his cab. Fortunately, the cabbie is a young guy and seems keen to be allowed to speed dangerously. In a strange way, I don't mind dying in a crash as I'm finally on the move.
'Soy Fernando Alonso, Formula Uno!' announces the cabbie as he swerves maniacally through lines of near-stationary rush-hour traffic.
'Si, Si, pronto, vite,' I reply, using as many words for 'Get a move on' as I can think of, regardless of what fucking language it is.
'Mucho traffico', notes the cabbie, which reminds me that Spanish is essentially English with O's on the end.

We screech to a halt at Malaga airport at 11:15am. My plane takes off in 45 minutes, and I manage to queue-jump in a blind panic, whizz through a mercifully short customs line, and board immediately.

To say 'I was sweating somewhat' would be an understatement. I can't imagine I'd sweat any less if I were taken hostage in Iraq.

And now I'm back in London.

Our last night, our Big Push over the top, was always going to be a big one. In fact, it's fair to say that for two single guys on their last night together in Fuengirola, staying in would never be an option.

We walked the mile into town, smelling fragrant and wearing our cleanest and most ironed of shirts (Non-white and non-100% cotton). In my pockets, a pack of chewing gum, some breath freshener spray, and a small vial of aftershave. Some lucky, lucky lady was going to get tongued into next week. The first bars we get to are the local Spanish ones, pleasantly Brit-free and with a nice vibe. We stop off for tapas at the best restaurant we'd found; buzzing and busy, although they'd always get our order wrong. We pop our food down with a couple of beers, Nothing allowing me the pork chorizo which he considered too raw for his liking.
'That's how Mozart died', he noted as I chose potential food poisoning over the shame of leaving a dish untouched.

We moved on to Modcafe, the pleasant pre-club bar which becomes a coffee and cocktail place midweek. We start with a pair of Gin and Tonics, then move on to Long Island Iced teas, a Dogs Breath, and finally a Caipirinha. Oh, and an orgasmo. Our inability to get drunk is still in evidence, although a strange thing begins to happen; we get drunk.
Perhaps it's the cocktails, perhaps it's my flying out in a matter of hours which creates a sense of mild naughtiness, but for the first time in the holiday, we begin to slur. Then gesticulate more often. Then laugh like drains.

Havanas. We are the only ones at the main bar, and I am pleased to see that the gorgeous barmaid with the full-bodied figure and the waves of dark hair cascading down to her chest is there that Monday. I feel a bit ashamed as for the first time, I am getting visibly drunk and swaying slightly, and I don't want her to notice. A couple of beers are had. I tell her I'm leaving on a jet plane tomorrow, and she beams a goodbye and leans in to proffer cheeks which I kiss. I feel very continental and a little bit in love.

Then we decide to go Guiri and make for the British cattle markets. We head for Tramps looking deliberately confused until a kid from Hull or Scarborough or Hastings hands us a free shot token. This works twice and we're now two schnapps and two beers further into the night. I am starting to feel merry. Some dancing and grinning in a dark tacky hell-hole. A cute blonde looks over. I look back. She looks over again.
Dammit, if only I had balls.
I go to the toilet. A Mexican gives me free cocaine. This is tremendously sordid and wrong. I head back to the main bar. In walks Not My Type lady with her friends, and Nothing Man and I panic a little. Almost instinctively, I turn to the cute blonde girl and say 'Hello!'
So that's how it's done.

Cute blonde girl is only 19 and, unusually for the British, had teeth braces which I found really sweet - and afforded me the chance to feel guilty about coming on to her. Then I'd told her I was 33 and that seemed to spook her somewhat and we didn't speak much after that. Later on I discovered that that fucking toad Nothing Man, two years my senior, told her he was 26, and she seemed happier with that false age gap.

We moved on to the godforsaken London Underground nightclub. It was here that things finally got hazy. I walked off to chat to women. In the most part, they weren't too repulsed, but no good ultimately came of it, even though I was regularly retreating to the gents to spray holy fuck out of my breath with the unfortunately named Retardex. I gave a young couple a piece of chewing gum each, reasoning that if I can't pull, then maybe I could help others to instead. But my anti-Midas touch simply ensured that nothing happened for them but chewing. I danced like an angel. I vaguely recall some women ramming their buttocks into my groin which is a bit of a social enigma; do you hold their hips and sway with them? Or not touch at all? Or attempt to stick your tongue down their throat? I went with the hip tactic, but the women in question seemed to get bored of this, and moved on to place their buttocks into the groins of others.

I stop dancing and chat to Nothing Man. We lean against a bar. Cute blonde with braces is here and keeps a wide berth. Nothing Man says he's off to the toilet and to 'Wait here'.
Half an hour passes. I get bored of waiting, go to the toilet myself, then find Nothing in another corner of the club.
'Where the fuck have you been?' he bellows.
'Waiting where you told me to wait, you drunk.'

He is now irritated, despite having snogged one of the buttocks girls. He puts this down to his line: 'Can I have a kiss then?' when she made to leave. I wish I thought of saying something like that to someone, but the fear of hearing 'Not even if the fate of mankind rested on it' is too strong.

We leave the nightclub. I didn't want to leave, as it would finally set the seal on the evening, the holiday, and any chance of my pulling. Once outside, I suggest that we move on to Heaven's Gate nightclub, but Nothing Man is now vomiting onto his shoes, and I revise that stratagem to Going Home instead. I have a plane to miss.

So the holiday ends as it started: with no snogging and certainly not a shag in sight.
As Nothing is wretching tapas onto the floor, I take stock of my life; I am 33 years old. I have a career and a partner to find. I have a handful of wrongs to right ~ smoking, eating crap, not moulding my body into a nice, hard attractive package. But ultimately, life is good and we're all alive.

Nothing Man is crouched over his knees and moaning. I shout 'Dammit, the bloody holiday is over', and punch the nearest wall. The End.

My hand is still swollen.

7 comments:

Angela-la-la said...

You are a plank. Sweet as a nut, but a plank all the same.

la fille mariƩe said...

Interesting. The one who lied and ended up puking in his shoes actually snogged someone. Nice. Should this not be a lesson to you, ducky?

Bianca in L.A. said...

Absolutely brilliant. That should be chapter 1.

chopperbomb said...

At least you kissed a beautiful girl's cheek. That would be a winning evening in my book. A pretty shit book, but there we go...

Peach said...

*shakes head in utter disbelief while restraining hysterical laughter*

stephen with a ph said...

Priceless!

fwengebola said...

Ang ~ I think that 'plank' is a more than accurate twattism.
LFM ~ Hmm yes, lie, cheat, steal. Thank you.
BiLA ~ Thank you. I see what you mean. It does lend itself to some kind of opening. I wonder how to end it though?
cb ~ Both cheeks. Oh yeah, I'm da man.
Peach ~ Ta. And yet again, another evening that ends in a swollen hand.
Swaph ~ Better to read than live through, methinks.