Tenerife: Day Two

KALTES KLARES WASSER

I probably should’ve have remembered that it’s not the 1980s and that it’s probably okay to drink from the tap in a foreign country, but out of all the things I learnt when I was a kid, my fear of foreign water is one of the most prevalent (along with the seven times table, I’m a whizz at the seven times table).  Anyway, the day before I’d consumed three glasses of Champagne, several beers and a bottle of red wine.  In the good old days I’d have had that as a starter before I went out to the 333 to see Selfish Cunt or whatever, but this is 2011 and I’m 31 years old and I can’t handle it quite so much anymore.  The persistent heat and humidity, my moderate alcohol consumption and my distrust of Spanish tap water I think explains the dream I had where I was on a quest to find a Calippo.  Any flavour would do, but I found a freezer full of the lime variety.  No matter how many Calippos I shoved down my dry throat, they did nothing to quench my thirst.  Of course they didn’t – I was having a fucking dream.

Ever the early-riser, I awoke at 8am and braved the breakfast buffet.  Although not on the same scale as Spanish tap water, buffets give me the fear.  Look at that cunt next to me using those tongs to pick up some sausages.  He looks like the sort of chap who doesn’t wash his hands. I’m not using those tongs.  And how long have those sausages been sitting there?  Probably yesterday’s leftovers.  Better skip the sausages and try to find an apple or something. 

Billy No Mates, eating an anaemic fry-up on his tod.  I’m a big fan of my own company, but the novelty of sitting at a table in a crowded place and eating a meal on your own wears off pretty fast.  I sip some of my tepid, watered-down orange juice as I spy the couple on the table next to me downing glasses of Cava.  Urgh, alcohol.  My best friend and my nemesis.  Fuck this, I’m going back to bed.

WATER AEROBICS AND NICK CAVE

It’s 2pm and the half-sleep of my hangover is broken by a fucking Venga Boys song screaming out from the pool area.  ‘It’s kids on pills who are here to drink and fuck!’ I say to myself and no one else.  I skip out onto the balcony (probably the first time I’ve ‘skipped’ anywhere since I was made to in P.E. at school) to witness a bunch of morbidly obese pensioners waving their arms around in the pool.  Dammit.  At first think they’re all having some sort of fit in unison, kind of like a gaggle of telepathic epileptics, but then I realise they’re being guided by a pretty girl in a neon blue outfit.  Water aerobics.  I have a good laugh at this for at least five minutes before my hangover kicks back in and I retreat into my room to swallow two more paracetamols. 

I’m wasting my time sitting inside and feeling sorry for myself.  I need to get some sun.  I need to GET. MY. TAN. ON.  Might even take my shirt off today.  I pack a little bag with my iPod, a couple of books and my Ray-Bans.  I’m in the process of getting changed when the maid knocks and then, without hesitation, comes straight in.  I’m not going to lie here, she saw my cock.  Wouldn’t have been so bad, but she looked a little like Gollum.  She gets my ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and puts it on the door, slamming it after her.  Considering all the wrinkly old pricks she must stumble in on every day, I probably made her fucking year.  Happy birthday, Sméagol. Good job she never saw my ring... 

In the process of getting my shit together to go out, I decide to slick my hair back like Nick Cave.  Now, I’m not a huge fan of his and I’ve never really investigated that much of his work.  This is primarily because I used to live with this ketamine-addled cunt of a housemate in Clapton several years ago who would constantly ram The Birthday Party down my throat, pretending she really liked it and that she was, like, really, like, out there and pushing, like, you know, the boundaries, man.  You know the type.  Still, one can deny that Nick Cave is a cool motherfucker.  And what do you know?  I look alright with my hair done like that.  I’m embracing my thirties.  Justin Bieber killed the fringe.  It’s time to move on.  I am now a man.  Finally.

Posing in the bathroom.  Hipstamatic, obvs.

You’re welcome, Tenerife. 

So I hit the pool.  I’m the sort of man who looks better with clothes on.  This is partly due to my nice wardrobe and partly because I’m a pasty, skinny motherfucker.  I’m flanked by two Stathams who both have barbed wire tattoos around their biceps.  One of them has passed out with a copy of The Sun over his jelly stomach.  I put my iPod on and lie back.

OBLIGATORY FLASHBACK SEQUENCE

It’s 1991, I’m 11 years old and the most exotic place I’ve ever been to is Wythenshawe.  I’d like to think that my parents waited this long for a family holiday because they didn’t want to take any babies on the plane (very wise), but in reality it was probably due to financial constraints. 

Anyway, where do we go for our first holiday?  Tene-motherfucking-rife.  Playa De Las Americas.  I fell in love for the first (and some would argue the last) time on that holiday.  She was a sexy little thing called Sarah and she was 1 year my senior, which is a mammoth of a gap when you’re that age.  Sarah and I hung around all the time, playing table tennis and looking for lizards.  She taught me how to play pool.  Badly.  Obviously, only being 11 years old, I didn’t really think about fucking her over the Space Invaders arcade game in the foyer or anything like that, but my heart did beat slightly faster when lovely little Sarah was around. 

My soundtrack to that holiday was Stop Making Sense – the seminal live album from 1984 by Talking Heads.  I’d borrowed the tape out from Eastleigh library. It cost me 30p. The kids at school, one in particular (I think his name was ‘Stuart’, but I could be wrong) gave me a very hard time for not listening to MC Hammer and instead trying to put on the six minute live version of Life During Wartime during some classroom party.  Fuckin’ gay music.  I think he’s an estate agent now.  Anyway, here I am, lying in the sun, 11 years old, listening to this classic record with this gorgeous girl beside me.  Life don’t get much better.

TANNING

Mr Statham to my left, Mr Statham to my right, some old dear who’s having breathing problems in the pool, straight ahead.  I flick on Stop Making Sense and listen to it from the start to the end, thinking about my first love and where she is now. 

Stop Making Sense has been re-released time after time and I’m now listening to the remastered, extended version, which is about twice as long.  However, I still get the same shiver down my spine when David Byrne says ‘I’ve got a tape I wanna play you,’ before breaking into a stripped-down version of Psycho Killer.  Then I think that maybe an 11 year old kid shouldn’t have been listening to a song called ‘Psycho Killer’ and maybe that’s something to do with the reason I’m here on my own.  Then I remember that Sarah lived in Shrewsbury, which is dangerously close to Wales and decide that I probably had a lucky escape. 

There are tits everywhere.  Even the guy who’s fallen asleep with a copy of The Sun on him has it open at page 3.  Unfortunately, I’ve now seen enough breasts in my life for this not to be something exciting.  I mean what do you think tits are gonna look like?  They’re not going to be green or anything.  They just look like tits.  (Saying that though, Rob, if you’re reading this, we’re totally going to Browns when I get back, yeah?)  I’m in Spain, anyway, they’re all relaxed about that sort of stuff.  They probably wouldn’t even mind if I got my…no, no, just listen to your iPod and pretend you’re asleep. 

My God, sunbathing takes it out of you.  At 9pm, I mustered up my last remnants of strength to wander down to the beach and eat some garlic prawns.  I looked out at this rather nice little sunset and watched the sea turn black.  The overfriendly waiter kept calling me ‘man’ like I was some sort of fucking hippie (probably the Nick Cave haircut).  Wonder if Sarah’s thinking about me right now.  Probably not.