WORST HOLIDAY EVER (Part 2 of 4)
By Richard Banks
The Captain who’s welcomed me onboard
evidently feels I need to be told about my new friends. Faisal, he says, is
first in line to the throne presently occupied by his father, King Abdul; Asad
and Karif are close family and Government Ministers, while Princesses Fidelia
and Honora are Faisal’s wives. He advises me not to talk to them unless the
Prince indicates that I may do so. The men, I may speak to, and will, while the
Prince wishes it, treat me as an honoured guest. “You’re one lucky bastard,” he
whispers, “play your cards well and you’ll be made for life.”
I can’t help thinking that there must
be a downside to all this but as the day unfolds things only get better. We’re
off to Gibraltar , through the Straits and then
back again, and when we’re not shooting through the waves we swim, or eat and
drink at a buffet that never closes.
The guys are in vests and shorts while
the women, who the previous evening were modestly attired in dresses that
covered their shoulders and legs, are now sunbathing in one piece swimming
costumes on loungers at the rear of the boat. When they join the men out front
they have on opaque, silk shifts that somehow make them more alluring than the
scantily clad girls on the beach. There’s plenty of talk about the Villa, of
course, and after another bottle of champagne Faisal and myself are more than
convinced that they will finish the season in the top four. When he is King,
Faisal says, he will buy the club and install me on the Board of Directors. The
day ends only too soon and we’re back in Montura.
The fun’s over I’m thinking, but no,
it’s just begun. Tomorrow they’re going on safari to hunt wild pigs and sample
the local wine, and Faisal insists I come too. This is better than great, but
it doesn’t feel right. I’m not paying my way, so the next day I take along my
Ollie Wilson shirt and present it to Faisal. He couldn’t be more pleased
because he thinks it’s a shirt that Ollie actually wore in a match, which is
pretty much what I led him to believe. He whips off his own shirt and replaces
it with the one I bought in the club shop.
“How can I ever thank you, my friend,
this is too much, how can you bear to part with something so precious.” He’s
almost overcome with emotion.
“No worries,” I say, “it’s the least I
can do after all your hospitality.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, that is my
pleasure, my duty as a host, it is nothing compared to this. No, my friend, you
must allow me to show my appreciation by giving you something. Now, what can it
be? No, don’t say a word, I know just the thing, it will be a surprise, something
you will really like, but today we go hunting.”
It’s the usual crowd. We pile onto a
people carrier and off we go to this swanky place in the country that calls
itself a ranch. The pig hunting’s done with rifles and we bag a dozen or so
before going riding. We return, early evening, to find the pigs we shot
roasting on spits above a log fire. Any sympathy I had for them evaporates as I
devour the meat and vegetables in front of me. There’s wine, Bacardi and the
obligatory champagne and after that, there’s singers and dancers to entertain
us. In the early hours of the morning, we get back on the people carrier and
return to Montura where we bid each other good night and stagger off to our
hotels.
I’m hoping Faisal will invite me to
somewhere else the next day, but nothing’s said, so after breakfast, I sun
myself on the beach in the company of Sharon
from Basildon who’s an eight out of ten in the
looks department but talks like Katie Price on helium. She’s in need of someone
to spread sun cream on her back; her friend’s gone off with this guy called
Santi and left her, “all alone.” This is my cue to invite her out, but after
the last few days, a date with her is less appealing than the prospect of a
third place play-off in the Euros.
I return to the hotel for lunch and treat myself to the most expensive bottle of wine they have followed by drinks at the bar. Suddenly I’m like Bambi on ice and any thoughts I had of returning to the beach are shelved for another day. I pull myself together and get back to my room where I lie down on the bed and fall asleep.
***
I wake up to find the day fading and
someone knocking on my door. When I open it there was a girl there who says she
had a present for me from a Mr Aziz.
“Mr Aziz?” I ask.
“Mr Faisal Aziz,” she says.
“Oh him, sure, come in.”
She does and, instead of handing me
something from out of her shoulder bag, unbuttons the denim jacket she’s
wearing and hangs it over the back of a chair on which she has already placed
her bag. This is rather odd coming from someone who’s only here to deliver a
present but all comes clear when she kicks-off her shoes and invites me to
unzip the black cocktail dress she’s wearing. “Lucky boy,” she purrs, and
indeed I am.
It’s not until later, when we’re in the
jacuzzi, that we get round to introductions. Her name is Irina. This is not
the name her parents gave her, she says, but it’s easily remembered and
pronounced which is more than can be said for her real name; everyone should
have at least one secret, she tells me, and this is one of hers. She comes from
an impoverished region of Dalgaria and one day when she is very rich she will
return there and become its Mayor. No one, she says, will starve when she’s in
charge. Everyone will be happy. Her eyes sparkle and I get the feeling that for
her this is more than another day at the office. She likes me, of that I’m
sure, which is just as well because I’m head over heels, and trying not to show
it.
She departs just after mid-night but
not before giving me some good news, in fact two pieces of good news, one, that
Faisal has invited me to go deep water fishing with him the next day, and, two,
that she will be returning the following evening and any other evening that I’m
wanting her company. “You have a very generous friend,” she says. “What a pity
you’re not here for the season.” She smiles and pecks me on the cheek, and a
minute or two later I look down from my balcony as she steps into the taxi she
has ordered. Can life be more perfect? No way.
Next morning the Mercedes arrives on
the stroke of ten and we’re off to the marina again. It’s another wonderful day
and Faisal is still hungry for news about the Villa. Fortunately there’s been
talk on Sky about them signing Jervinho from Barcelona
“But where will he fit in?” exclaims
Faisal, “surely not in place of Ollie?”
I reassure him that this is most
unlikely and that they will almost certainly play as twin strikers in an
attacking 3-5-2 formation. “Won’t that leave us light at the back?” he says,
his genial expression giving way to thoughtful concern.
I tell him no, and that with the
emphasis on attack we will have little need for defenders. I sense that I may
just have blown my credibility as a football pundit, but after a few seconds of
reflection Faisal nods his head in agreement. As the boat heads out into open
sea we are happily contemplating the many goals to come. With a good day’s
fishing also in prospect our mood couldn’t be better.
The same, however, cannot be said for
Faisal’s first wife, Fidelia, who’s got a face as long as a kite. And, as the
day unfolds, it’s only too obvious why. Faisal is favouring his second wife
above her. Another person less than happy about this is Asad, who,
nevertheless, is managing to force a smile. When Faisal and Honora step down
into the private quarters below he wastes no time in sidling over to number one
wife and muttering fiercely in her ear. What he says I don’t hear but with
Faisal and Honora back on deck Fidelia puts on the widest and most unconvincing
smile I have ever seen.
However, that’s her problem, not mine,
and when I catch a large carp the only problem I have is that I can’t bring
myself to touch it. I have an allergy to fish which causes me to break out in a
rash, and, when I explain this, even Fidelia can’t help laughing.
We return to the marina late afternoon
and arrange to meet up next evening at nine. This leaves me free to sun myself
all day on the beach and, after dinner, make out with Irina until she leaves me
for her nine o’clock. When I get to Roscoe's two things are immediately
obvious, one, that Faisal and Honora aren’t there and, two, that Asad has just
become my new best friend. He takes me to one side. An unfortunate situation
has arisen which he hopes I can help resolve. If I can, he will be most
grateful. How grateful I’m thinking? He must be reading my thoughts for the
next moment he’s telling me about this lucrative post at their Embassy in London
“How can I help?”
He’s not slow in telling me. Fidelia
has displeased Faisal by falling out with Honora. “It’s the usual thing, he
says, first wife syndrome. They always resent number two and, indeed, all the
numbers that follow. They should be like sisters, but they seldom are.” He
shakes his head at this sad reality and consoles himself by taking a swig of
the lager he’s drinking. Faisal, he continues, has taken Honora to Barcelona
“Poor gal,” I say, but I’m thinking it
might also be a case of poor Asad. What does he have to lose? He’s not keen on
telling me, but when I ask the question he decides to open up. Fidelia is his
niece and whilst she is in the good books of her husband, so is he, and likely
to become one of the richest and most powerful men in the Kingdom. If this is
to happen Fidelia must not only avoid banishment but, again find that special place
in her husband’s heart.
I’m about to tell him that marriage
guidance is not my specialist subject when he reminds me of what is. More than
anything else, he says, Faisal loves football, nothing would he like better
than to make love to a woman who can simultaneously engage him in conversation
about his favourite team. My task, if I choose to accept it - and there’s
money, as well as the job if I do - is to turn Fidelia into a walking
encyclopedia of all things Villa. I have two days in which to do this and
Fidelia, who is only too aware of her options, will he assures me, be a most
willing pupil. My tuition is to begin the following morning and conclude in the
evening of the following day when Faisal and Honora are expected back. There
is, he sternly says, to be no hanky-panky. He will, on both days deliver her to
me at 8am and escort her back to her hotel room in the evening at eleven.
This is two days out of my holiday, but
if I’m successful Asad assures me he will extend my stay at the Presidente by
another week. Well, how can I refuse, especially as Faisal can surely have no
objection to a football savvy wife.
I hire the conference room in the hotel
and, on our first morning, give her a potted history of the club: how it was
formed in 1874 by cricketers from a Methodist church; how they were founder
members of the football league; and all their major honours since then,
concluding with their recent friendly win over AC Milan. Then there’s past and
present players and a review of English football, from the mixed fortunes of
the national team to the recent and much lamented introduction of VAR. At 12.00
we take a working lunch, and then we’re off to a little used beach at the far
end of the bay where, with the help of a beach ball and several small boys, I
teach her the off-side rule and the tactical formations likely to be used in
the forthcoming season by Villa and their main rivals for the league.
We are on to Villa songs and chants when who should I spot but our honeymooners, Rita and Gemma, emerging from the sea and running back to their beach towels which are drawn up close together beneath a large umbrella. They’re not, I’m thinking, be wanting to be bothered with us but being in clear sight and singing ‘Villa Through and Through’ we’re too conspicuous to ignore. They’re wearing nothing but their briefs and I’m fearing that Fidelia will be shocked out of remembering everything I have taught her but, to my surprise, she’s all smiles and taking it all in her stride. We sit down beside them, intending only to stay a few minutes, when Gemma lets on that she’s a keen supporter of the Lionesses. This is like manna from heaven, and not only is she a font of knowledge on the subject but Fidelia is clearly taking in every word. The conversation has moved on to the 2023 World Cup when my mobile rings and I have a text from Irina saying that she can’t make it this evening but will, if I’m free, drop by my hotel at 3.30.
(To Be Continued)
Copyright Richard Banks
