Fridges must have a very hard time in Gran Canaria.

By the second day of our trip to the sunny Canary Isle, as the heat climbed up the the early 30 degrees and I dripped like a wet towel, my concern for our fridge was paramount. The poor thing was commended to freeze our drinks in temperatures that were climbing into the 30s by 11am. It was a tall order.

But still, let me start at the beginning. The very early beginning.

It was 4am. Even the bloody birds were asleep. But for the second time that week, I was up, busily preparing for a trip abroad. Michelle was being her usual organised self, reading off a prepared list of things to take, whilst I laid back and left everything until the last possible moment. Michelle’s mother has drawn the short straw, and drove us through wind and rain to Gatwick airport. The take off in this weather would be fun, I surmised.

After we’d managed to queue-barge a long line of travellers at the check-in desk and braved their glares, we shopped a little, worried at the weather a little, ate a little, and headed for the gate. The howling gales outside made the grey, unremitting interior of the airport look almost inviting. We were happy to be indoors.
20 minutes later, we were decided unhappy. Trudging up to the plane, across the wind and rain, we cursed our luck that the plane hadn’t been allocated a berth. After several minutes of buffeting, and a particularly loud cabin crew announcement, we were flying into the grey, overcast sky, the turbulence causing small children to scream. I was brave – I merely whimpered.

The flight over was uneventful, save for the excellent choice of in-flight movie – Shrek 2. How I laughed – how I annoyed the person next to me with my chortling shoulders. And then, 4 hours later, the volcanic isle of Gran Canaria hove into view. As we descended through the clouds, the perfectly flat sea gave way to land, and as we touched down I could sense the heat.

It wasn’t long before we arrived at the hotel, on the seafront of a large town called San Augustin. We’d read in the brochure that there was a “nudist sun terrace”. I eagerly began scanning the ground for hints of genitalia, so that I could recoil in disgust. There were none forthcoming, and I slumped back in my seat, waiting for the cue to alight.
We alighted with 2 other couples of dubious age. Probably around sixty-five to seventy years old, I reckon. This was the first hint that this hotel may not have a carnival atmosphere, but on a few minutes reflection we decided this was a good thing. Now we’re cracking on a bit (24 and 25 years old repectively), Michelle and I were pleased that our holiday was not going to be ruined by raucous folk. The thought of the nudist sun terrace, however, was distinctly less appealing.

This being her 6th trip to the island, Michelle was eager to show me the highlights. “Shall we go for a short walk down the coast to a place I know? Mum says it’s only a few minutes away.” One and a half hours later, my feet were like stumps, and asthma was beginning to grab hold of my lungs. But despite the length of the journey, it allowed me to take in the sights and sounds of the Canary Islands. And it wasn’t half bad. The sea was flat and calm; the sun was starting to set over the horizon, and people were wandering carefree along the sand, playing in the dunes and rocks near the water. Life seemed very peaceful, and I’d warmed to the place already.
Warm was as good a word as any to describe the weather too. It was past 5pm when we found a seaside bar, before taking in a nicely limed-up lemonade or two. We’d found the Playa del Ingles, the mystical destination Michelle and I had trekked to. The one and a half hour walk back was completed in three and half minutes by a handy taxi, costing 3 euros. We decided, belatedly, that taxis were the way forward. Our feet were immensely relieved.

The rest of the holiday was a mix of sunbathing (unfairly, I’ve no tan to report), getting the in-room and aforementioned fridge to work, and visiting the nooks and crannies of the local towns. There were an unbelievable number of shops, mainly centred around the Kasbar and the Yumbo Center, all with eager shopkeepers trying extremely hard to make us a bargain. I eagerly wanted to purchase several bargains, but at the end of the week managed to buy only a baseball cap. On the second night, we went to a few bars, one of which Michelle has known for years – the barman remembered her, bless him – and another which is a spitting image of Chinawhite’s nightclub in London. It’s even called Chinawhites.

We went on 2 excursions and we chose well. One was a musical, where the singers and dancers came and served us dinner when they weren’t singing and dancing. The quality of the production was astounding, and the idea really should be brought over here. The second excursion was a trip around the island on a catamaran. This required no effort at all, and from 9am to 3pm we mostly laid down on the deck, sunning ourselves while the boat took us past the villages and beaches of the island. There were water caves to explore, and snorkling to indulge in. And I still didn’t get a tan.

So, come Monday, we were sad to leave. The airless coach took us to the airport and deposited us at the entrance. We queued, shopped, queued and boarded the plane, horrified at the thought of trudging back to work the following morning. Still, our objective had been successful – we were fully refreshed after a couple of months of hectic action, and ready for the days ahead.

I never did find the nudist sun terrace.

Tony Ho comes and goes like a thief in the night. One minute he’s hosting the mother of all parties (you may remember my multiple visits to Cafe de Paris with Tony at the tail end of last year), the next he’s disappeared, his mobile phone goes dead and we all hope he’s still alive.
He chose the middle of my course in Switzerland to reappear again, inviting me to an opening party in the centre of Mayfair, at a nightclub he was promoting. So, not at all fresh from the flight from Switzerland, I jumped straight into my car at the airport and sped off to London, shaver in one hand, steering wheel (luckily) in the other. 11pm on a Wednesday, I thought, the roads should be fine. I hadn’t banked on the M4 being closed though and 45 minutes later than I should have been, I arrived at the “Capiche” nightclub. Slap bang opposite The Ritz, it was a location to die for, and Tony doled out free drinks for a couple of hours until my senses told me I may have overdone it. I bade Tony (and a slightly drunken Simon B) goodbye, and drove home. Thanks for the drinks Tony – if only I hadn’t had to have been at work 8am the next morning…!

The plan was going better than I had hoped. I surged off the M25 slip road and coasted into 6th gear, sweeping past the slow-moving lorry as the rain pattered more and more urgently on the windscreen.
I decided to chance it. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we went away right now for the weekend?” I remarked nonchalantly.
“Yes, it would,” Michelle agreed, looking confusingly at the big navigation screen in front of her, “but we’re going to Paul’s barbeque – he wouldn’t be too happy!”
A mischievous grin spread across my face. “He won’t know.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re not going to Paul’s.”
And so it was that for the first time in three and a half years I had managed to put the wind up Michelle, as it were. For the only time in memory, I have been able to keep something a secret from her for a month and a half, and I was proud. As I detailed the lengths I had gone to, and how everyone knew but her, my mind strayed to poor Paul and his girlfriend Liz. Paul and I had planned this event for the last month, only for Paul to have to pull out at the last moment. Never mind – we were off for a lazy weekend hotel stay in Bath, and nothing could stop us.
There is a curious certainty about travelling west of London – that the closer you get to Wales, the more rain you’ll find. This was our 3rd visit to Dorian House in the heart of Bath and my ninth visit to that area of the country – and without exception every trip has been marred by storms, wind and rain. Undaunted, we ploughed on.
We arrived at nine in the evening, and immediately set about ordering a taxi to the nearest Indian. The Eastern Eye, an enormous place in an old Roman banqueting hall, calmed our troubled stomachs and thoughts turned to the next couple of days. Paul, an event manager through and through, had been phoning and emailing regularly over the last few weeks with thoughts on what we should do – a trip to the zoo, and Comedy Walk around Bath, the obligatory visit to the Roman Baths – but without him there was little motivation to move outside our comfort zone. We settled on rising late the next morning, and shopping until the early evening.
And we stuck well to our plan. The exasperated phonecall from the hotel manager at 11am – “we really need to clean your room now, if you wouldn’t mind” – made me think that it was as good a time as any to haul my great carcass out of bed. Feeling energetic, we walked the 1 mile into town, stopping off on route to marvel at new “Japanese-style” apartments overlooking the whole of Bath – “just ?200,000 for a one bedroom home, sir” the saleman informed us, apparently without batting an eyelid. As we landed on familiar High Street territory, The Gadget Shop jumped out at us.
One hour later, having discussed at length with a female assistant the merits of a huge, phallic-shaped vibrating massager – “it gets into all your nooks and crannies” – we emerged with 3 items. One was the massager, and the other two…. well, they’ll be kept secret until the next party. But lunch was looming and after Michelle was attacked by a couple of friendly crows we found the appropriately-named Yum Yum Thai.
By then it was three o’clock and we were waning. Stocking up with edible goodies from Marks and Spencer sounded like a good plan and half an hour later we were at the checkout, about to hail a bus home. The bus came, we clambered aboard with multiple bags, and let the good man drive us up the hill.
And that, pretty much, was that. The hotel was as good as ever, Bath was as enjoyable as ever, and next time, god dammit, Paul and Liz are coming with us. You hear?

“Do you want to be security for me for one night next July? He’s rich, and there’s ?100 in it for you.”
So here I was, one year later, sitting in the pitch black at the entrance to one of the largest houses I’ve ever seen. Paul D, old friend and Event Manager, was organising the night, I’d enlisted Jac as my comrade for the evening, and together our remit was to parade the substantial grounds, making sure no border mischief took place in the grounds. The event? A combination of one birthday, one A-level completion and a 25 year wedding anniversary. The location and family involved I’m sworn to secrecy about, but suffice to say that the party cost around ?35,000 and was frankly enormous.
The evening begin with a stutter. Jac had managed to catch the end of the M25 roadwork nightmare, and issued an urgent text message from the depths of his Renault, indicating a degree of lateness. No matter, I surmised, we’d built in lateness – and sure enough Jac turned up in time for us to don our bouncer attire – suit and a bow tie – and leave for the event. It was about 2 miles from my house – by no means a difficult journey but easy enough, we found, to turn up in completely the wrong place. A few minutes of calling loudly for Paul and a quick phone call ensued, before we bundled back into the car again, following revised instructions. We arrived – and took in the sheer enormity of the estate. The long gravel drive swept past the first field, a huge white tent gracing the area in front of the house and containing the dining area, dance tent and catering section. Leading from the tent, around the side of the house, were fairground entertainments – the Bucking Bronco, Laser Clay Pigeon Shooting and Dodgems. Round the back was the car park – and the headquarters for the event management and security team. Jac and I parked, bristling with excitement.
Paul briefed the team at 1700 hours, informing us that the whole thing should be finished by 2am, as he had to get home to London and up to a Farmer’s Market for 6am, the poor soul. Having had a tour of the grounds, we helped with the flowers (don’t ask) and then headed to our lookout points. Jac, as usual, chose the tradesman’s entrance, with the job of ushering in the staff and bands. I, meanwhile, stood imposingly by the front gates signing off party arrivals, while the third man (and joint organiser of the night) stood by the tent, offering help to drunken revellers.
And that, essentially, was that. The job of a bouncer is not to enjoy the event, but to enforce security – and we were barely challenged the whole night. We rotated our points throughout the night, spying for the slightest breach of security. And save for a passing policeman and a jogger, I can proudly tell you we weren’t breached. The intercom radios provided entertainment (“I’ll take them round the back, over”) and the fireworks at midnight were so loud and spectacular my mother rang from our house miles away to congratulate us. But other than that the night passed peacefully and enjoyably. We left Paul and the rest of the team and drove our weary selves home at 1.30am, hungry – and chortling at the thought of Paul and his imminent Farmer’s Market. Even Event Management has its downsides…

News of the blog Belle De Jour, for a long while a favourite of wibbler.com, has crossed the Atlantic – New York Post’s article “Kiss & Tell” describes Belle as “a fascinating character” and digs into whether it’s a real blog or not. The daily updates detail the seedy and not-so-seedy life of a London call girl, but it’s not for that reason I read it: it’s mainly because Belle, as I’ve mentioned before, is a good writer. A very good writer. And as for whether it’s real or not: I hope it is. Some wonder how a call girl can write so darn well, but Belle defends herself: “I have met stone-boring Ph.D.s and plumbers who were geniuses. I don’t think job choice is necessarily a reflection of talent or intelligence.” I know that many of the places she describes are accurate, and hell, even if it isn’t real it’s a jolly good read. But catch it while you can: she’s hinted that she may not be around for that long. “It would be a little depressing,” she says, “to be known the rest of your life as the documentarian whore.”

Belle de Jour – The Diary of a London Call Girl
Not only is it an interesting insight into the slightly seedy world of London call girls, but the woman should plainly give up and become a writer. She’s very good*…
*at writing. I’ve no idea of how her skills rate in the call girl world…

I feel rather left out with all this protesting against Bush in London.
My good blogger friend, who runs bloggerheads, is an active member. Follow his progress at www.interwebnet.org including the rather a special screen grab of red dye in the Trafalgar Square fountain (here’s the live feed of the Square)

The late posting of weekend antics is more or less because I’ve only just recovered. Simon B rang with free tickets to see Incognito in concert in London, and off we went. After surprisingly managing to follow Simon’s vague directions (“we’ll meet at the Embankment North. I’ll wave.”),

we found Tony Ho at the entrance to The Forum in Kentish Town.
Average White Band were first on, warming us up for Incognito, who were unfeasibly good (gig pictures here). We bopped away until 1am, and grabbed a taxi to Caf? de Paris, where we partied until 4am. I was bushed.
Up at 9am for the World Cup Rugby, a quick shopping trip where I managed to buy absolutely nothing, and then off to Jac’s farmhouse in Watford for a “farmwarming” party, complete with silly hats. A small turnout hampered the party atmosphere (“this is less a party, more an exclusive gathering” Jac announced woefully) and the party was cancelled in favour of a night on the tiles. And a very good night it was – here are the pictures.
8 hours sleep in 2 1/2 days. Not a good plan.

Tube trains = rubbish, as the Telegraph reports. Reason 467 why i don’t like London.

“London Stansted Airport” the sign finally informed us.

What would you deduce from that simple, triple-worded name? That it was an airport, obviously. That the area of Stansted housed the airport, of course. And that it was either either in, or very near, London.
All correct. Apart from the London part. Getting from Guildford to Watford, a regular trip for friends of Jac, is under an hour away, so I willingly agreed to pick Nick and Sarah up from Stansted on Sunday afternoon, looking forward to the trip. And then, come Sunday morning, Michelle printed out the AA directions off their website. “84 miles” it informed us with a papery grin. “1hr 45min” it added with emphasis. “Bloody hell” I replied, “that’s just one way too…”
And so it was that we toddled up the A3 round the M25, up to M11 and took a left at the signpost for the Outer Hebrides. Still, it was a fun trip, with Michelle and I hastily constructing an amusing sign out of a broken-down box to raise, airport chauffeur-like, on Nick’s arrival.
So, Nick’s back, and very burnt. In fact, Nick’s back IS very burnt… (ah ha ha… ahem…)