WORST HOLIDAY EVER  (Part 1 of 4) 

 By Richard Banks 

It’s 7am, the sun’s shining and I’m packed and ready for the taxi that’s coming at a quarter past. Could anyone be more ready? I doubt it. The sooner I’m out of Drislow the better. No disrespect to the folk still living here but the town’s a dump and always has been. It was a dump in the 1800s when the first ironworks were built and now, twenty years after the last one shut down, it’s still a dump.

         The old timers say that the air’s never been as clear as it is now, that the smoke from the chimneys used to make blue skies grey and every cloud black, but with the mills went the jobs the town depended on. No wonder half the people who once lived here have left. As for those who remain, most are unemployed while a fortunate few, including myself, have work at Fareland’s new packaging and distribution centre, made possible by Government grants and low business rates. ‘A hundred new jobs,’ was the headline in the Gazette, ‘a major step in the regeneration of the town’. What they didn’t mention was that the company only pays minimum wages on zero hours contracts.

         I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining, it’s better than nothing, and because the firm never seems to have enough staff there’s always plenty of work for those ready to turn up at any hour of the day and do long shifts. And no one puts in more hours than me which is how, for two weeks in the fifty-two, I get to swop Drislow and Fareland for the Spanish Costa’s or the Algarve.

         The front door bell rings, two sharp blasts. It’s Ross, an old mate from our school days. He use to be Bar Manager at the Blackbird before it closed. Now he drives a cab, his own car. He does most of his business in Brum where he also picks-up and delivers packages. What’s in them no one knows, not even Ross. It’s cash in hand, so no questions asked. When you’re struggling to make ends meet that’s the way it is. 

         I put my suitcase in the boot and we’re off past the old back to back factory houses and into the High Road where the closed down shops are beginning to outnumber those still going. Ross says that the bank will soon be closing. For him this is good news. The nearest branch will soon be five miles away. For those without a car it will be him or the bus that will get them there. I close my eyes as we near the old factories on the edge of town, windows long broken and stripped of anything of value, including the lead in the roofs. The rain pours in which is bad news for the dossers that sleep there. I count to thirty, that should do it, and sure enough we’re past them and out into open country. I’ve escaped, the holiday’s begun and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

         This year I’m in a four star hotel in Montura. It’s not far from Torremolinos where I was a few years ago, but Montura, so the travel agent says, is better, classier. I should be paying twice as much as I am, but the guy who did, cancelled only a week ago so I’m his last minute, cut-price replacement. It’s full board and cheap drinks for guests, so I won’t be short of spending money in the bars and clubs of which, I’m assured, there are many.

         Ross drops me off at the airport where I check-in and wile away the time to take-off in MacDonalds. It’s a good place to check-out the unaccompanied talent. By the time the plane’s ready to board I’ve sussed out two going to the same resort but a different hotel. This is the third time that Kerry and Ella have been to Montura. It’s a great place, they say and there’s this really cool club called Roscoe’s where they go most evenings. “Sounds fun,” I say, “see you there.” Whether we do depends on who else we see and speak to in the next day or so. Even if we don’t meet up none of us are likely to be short of company.

         The plane takes off on time and lands just after mid-day. The holiday rep greets us in the arrival’s lounge and we’re bussed-off to our hotels in Torremolinos, Fuengirola, and finally Montura. The girls get out at the Alfredo while the rest of us are taken on to the Presidente where we retrieve our cases from the luggage compartment and form a line in reception. There’s a dozen of us and I’m at the back of the queue. Well, why rush, especially if it puts me behind two platinum blonds who are definitely worth some serious chat-up time. But I only have five minutes at most, so there’s no time to be lost. As a conversation starter I give them a hand with their cases. The one with Rita tattooed just beneath her shoulder blades tells me her name is Gemma. “Not Rita?” I say. “No,” she replies, “that’s Rita.” She giggles and points to the other girl who has Gemma etched on her shoulder.

         I’m confused, and it’s showing. Worst still they’re laughing now and it seems I’m the butt of their joke. Gemma hastens to reassure me. “Sorry, no offence,” she says, “but we’re an item; actually we’re on honeymoon.” She holds up her hand so I can see the gold band on her ring finger. I say congratulations and do my best to make small talk until they reach the reception desk. They collect their key card and follow the porter to their room.

         The receptionist turns her face towards me and I hand her my booking form and passport. She looks surprised and after staring blankly at the form tries to find my name on the list she’s been ticking off. “One moment, sir,” she says. “I need to speak to the manager.”

         This is not looking good and sure enough when she returns with said Manager it doesn’t take them long to decide that there’s been a mistake. Not only am I not on the list but their last four star room has just been allocated to Rita and Gemma. The Manager proffers his apologies and when I tell him that’s not good enough he agrees and upgrades me to their only five star room. He regrets that it has a double bed and not the single I requested, but hopes it will otherwise meet with my approval. He summons a porter who shows me into the Executive lift and we zoom up to the sixth floor where we step out onto a deep pile carpet that seems too good to walk on. I can’t wait to see my room, and when I do, I’m not disappointed, it’s got a fridge full of booze, Sky TV, a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and a balcony with a view across the bay. If this isn’t paradise it’s the next best thing and all I need now is to meet that special someone for the best holiday romance of all time.

         The porter’s evidently a thought reader. “There’s a pair of binoculars in the cupboard,” he tells me. “Very useful for locating friends on the beach.” If this was a three star room he might also be giving me a wink and telling me about a young lady he knows who would very much like to make the acquaintance of a young man like myself. But this is a five star room and, in keeping with my new found status, he assumes my sights will be set higher than the local pro. I give him the equivalent of a tenner and he departs looking less than impressed with my generosity. Who cares. If that’s not enough I don’t want to see him again. The next time I shell out that much it will be on someone a good deal better looking than him. 

         It’s still only 3pm. Time enough to shower and get down to the beach. The girls with the deepest tans are the most appealing but they’re the ones who’ve been here the longest and will soon be back home. Best to check out the pastier ones before the competition gets there first.   

         It’s always difficult to know whether to stick or twist on the first day and after meeting Abby from Manchester and Lorna from Leicester I return alone to the hotel intending, after dinner, to go to the club that Kerry and Ella were telling me about. But when I get there they’re nowhere to be seen. There is, however, this red head in a mini whose girlfriend is getting more than friendly with one of the local Romeos. It’s looking like three’s a crowd so I’m guessing she won’t be saying no when I offer to buy her a drink. But before I can take a step in her direction a voice shouts, “Up the Villa,” and this guy comes shooting over and grabs me by the shoulders like I’m his long lost friend. It turns out that his name is Faisal from the Arab Fed and he’s a life long Villa supporter. He tugs at the football shirt I’m wearing and almost twirls me around so he can see the name on the back. “Ollie Wilson,” he roars. “My favourite player. Good old Ollie! How many goals will he score next season, twenty at least. What do you think? No, don’t tell me here. Come, you join me and my friends. We’re over there by the window. I want to know everything you can tell me about the Villa. Did you know that they are one of the oldest clubs in the world? Yes, of course you do. You’re a number one fan, just like me.” He has me by the arm and evidently isn’t going to take no for an answer so I let him usher me over to his table where he introduces me as Ollie.   

         “Actually, it’s Dean,” I say, but it’s evident, even at this early stage, that if Faisal says my name is Ollie then that’s what it is. Anyway, what the hell, all I’m going to do is have a drink with the guy, talk some football and get back to that red head.

         Faisal’s friends consist of two young women in their mid twenties, two older guys in expensive white suits and another two who say nothing and seem to have no other function than to block off each side of the bay seat where we’re sat so that no one else gets in. Another ‘friend’, who’s clearly a lackey hovers nearby ready to do anything his master bids. Faisal is clearly an important man and when someone addresses him as “Your Highness” I cotton on to the fact that I’m in the presence of royalty.

         The men in suits introduce themselves as Asad and Karif. They’re polite, but not, I’m sensing, over keen on making my acquaintance. If it wasn’t for their leader they wouldn’t be giving me the time of day, but as long as Faisal finds me interesting I’m part of the in-crowd - my fifteen minutes of fame has finally arrived! The two women say nothing, silently taking in everything that’s going on, but making no effort to communicate their thoughts. It’s not until Faisal has dispatched the lackey to the bar for champagne, that he thinks to introduce them as Princess Fidelia and Princess Honora.  He swiftly returns to the subject of his beloved Villa.

         “Will there be any new signings? I’ve heard they’re after Perez. Can this be true?”  I tell him what I have read on the web but make it sound as though I have informants within the club. After a bottle of champagne, I’m also the bosom buddy of Ollie Wilson and half the team. Faisal laps it all up and at 2.30 in the morning is still going strong, which is more than can be said for the Princesses and guys in suits who look more than ready to call it a day. Fortunately for them the Bar Manager announces that Roscoe’s is closing and we troop out onto the pavement to find two Mercedes waiting for Faisal and his entourage.

         “My friend,” he says, engulfing me in another bear hug. “We can not part like this. We have so much more to say. Tomorrow we are going sailing. It will be good. You come too. I will send a car to pick you up at ten. We will have a wonderful day, yes?” This sounds like one heck of a good plan as many things do when you’re pie-eyed, but for once I know that come morning I’ll be more than pleased I said yes.

 

(To Be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks