A crash in the bathroom wrenches me from sleep. Groggy-eyed, I reach for my mobile and check out the time: 7.40am. Brilliant. "I dropped it," says the bloke - emerging from the bathroom, swaying, with pieces of the porcelain soap dish spilling from his fingers.
How the hell did he manage that? It was glued to the wall!
I groan and pull the covers over my head. This is not one of those Saturday mornings he will spring out of bed and go fishing. He's just on his way to collapse into a rum-induced coma after a night out with the Spanish crusaders.
Most people who meet my boyfriend for the first time probably don't know what to make of him. He's a bit of a strong character whose mouth moves a gear ahead of his brain. And he likes a drink or ten, after which he turns into a firing on all cylinders pub hobgoblin. But then if you think that's hard going, god you should see him when he gets together with his friends.
They're all at least five years older than him, though you'd never know it. In fact by their behavior you'd be hard pressed to pin an age on any of them. Their friendship goes back to the Eighties, when they took the bloke under their wing and let him hang about with the older kids cos he used to swap computer games with one of their gang.
The most of them are there when we rock up to el Maison del Puerto at about 10pm. I was hoping at least one other wife or girlfriend would be there, but no, it's just the boys. Oh and me. Sticking out like a sore thumb and also wearing a dress, just to make the difference even more obvious.
There's el Gordo (fatty) who "isn't allowed out that much any more" since his wife had a kid. He's not fat at all since he got seriously into rock climbing, but the name stuck like a wellie in the mud. He's like a big brother to the bloke, who always listens to his advice.
A few feet above the rest is el Largo (the Large). I've never seen a man so tall - especially a Spaniard, which I usually pip in the height department. He talks so fast that I find him impossible to understand most of the time. Though I've never spoken to him about it he has an unusual job - he is a creative responsible for coming up for ideas for TV commercials.
It's curious, I've never spoken to any of them about their careers - I don't know what most of them do. The conversation here is just not about all that 'real life' boring stuff. I do know that Luisito (little Luis) runs a bar, though. at the moment he has longish hair and a beard but I don't know how long that'll last. He's dyed his hair pink in the past, and one time he wet shaved his hair off completely for a friend's wedding. I was talking to him for ten minutes before I realized who he was.
The last one here this evening is Miguelito (little Miguel). He's obsessed with football (He's the one who took me to el Classico not that long ago).
Together they seem like a herd of characters from a Almodovar film, all trying to be heard at once, and gesticulating wildly. (Bloke says: "You have to scream to be heard in this group" and don't I know it)
Amazingly, the fist hour of the night (and perhaps more) is taken up by bitching. Bitching! like a group of old abuelas (grandmothers) About how they weren't treated right at one bar or another, how another one serves garrafon (fake alcohol) About the correct etiquette of how to treat your friends if you own a bars.
Alcohol is a reoccurring theme. Would you think it's possible to talk about whisky for 30 minutes solid? Well it is. And not only that, these boys can really put it away. i thought I'd known big drinkers in my time but nothing compares to this group. In the two or so hours we're stood having tapas the bill lists 12 beers and 24 copas.
And they're truly eye watering measures, which keep getting bigger as the night goes on. Gordo is drinking neat whisky - in the final drink at this bar his measure reaches the top of the glass.
By the time we leave El Maison the barmen are crying with laughter at the bloke's imitation of the local San Martin accent: "Que paha tio?" And Miguel is doing football-style commentary of the barmen clearing up for the evening. Everyone apart from the bloke - who amazingly quit smoking two weeks ago - is chuffing on cigars, filling the bar with acrid smoke.
Before we leave, Largo tells me in his broken English that having a baby doesn't need to change your life. You can still to go out, you can still have fun. You can still go on holiday. His girlfriend had a baby three weeks ago and he certainly still looks like he's having fun. He admits his other half is staying home with the new arrival at the moment, but assures me that as soon as she feels up to going out with her friends he'll be happy to stay in with the baby. Sounds like a fair enough deal.
At that point I leave them, going home while they head off into Pelayos to tear up the town. Definitely five men on a mission.
When the bloke gets up the next afternoon he has to ring the others to piece together the night before. At least there were no fights this time. Two weekends ago the bloke got slapped in the face after he grabbed a girl by the arm to bring her to talk to Luisito. He thought this girl had been making eyes at Luis all night. But it had been another girl - this one had a boyfriend, who did the slapping. It was all smoothed over in the end though - and for some reason the bloke hugged the guy who had slapped him. He spent the next day beating himself up over it though.
Oh and the best thing was that Luisito was oblivious to the whole thing. "That's the last time I try and help him get a girlfriend," says the bloke afterwards.
What the bloke can remember is falling straight backwards, flat on his back, Charlie Chaplin style in the middle of a bar. And no-one coming to see if he was all right afterwards, apart from Luisito. "At least you didn't spill the drinks though," Luis tells him the next day.
And they can remember jumping over the chairs in their local bar 'If', and the other "normal" people sitting outside the bar waiting for them to leave before they came in.
The bloke apparently left the bar at 6.30am but didn't get home till a good hour later. Apparently Miguelito had to talk him out of going swimming in the lake.
Poor Gordo seems to have come off the worst, though. After telling the rest of the group to take it easy he ended up in the worst state, and has hurt his hand and wrist, though doesn't know how. The next day he has to go to A&E and ends up with a plaster cast, going all the way up to his elbow.
"Oh dear," says the bloke. "I don't think we'll be seeing him out for a while." I think he could be right.
I'm amazed they've got home in one piece. And i'm even more amazed, that the next day we all meet up again to go over the night's events (with the women in tow this time) they're all sitting round sipping on tinto de veranos, and not one of them has even the a sniff of a hangover. How is that possible? how is that fair?
Must be something in the Spanish blood. Either that or they've got livers of steel.
Showing posts with label amigos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amigos. Show all posts
25/07/2010
Bonjour, Toulouse (and Munki)
I was barely there for three days but somehow it seemed like much longer. Sometimes you're lucky enough to get weekends like that. When time is for once on your side and it slows down when you want it to.
Usually when I'm off to a new place I research it like a loon, making lists of places to go and things to do. But this time I decided not to type 'What to see in Toulouse' into google. I wanted everything to be completely new and unexpected.
There was so much I liked about that part of France. Everything was so green, the fields full of citrus yellow sunflowers. And everything was so old, Even the graffiti. I found a communist party symbol scratched into the side of a dam with the date chiseled underneath - 1945.
But the best thing of all was spending time with my mate Munki - after all, she was the reason I'd gone out there.
We had so many years tearing up London together. We even lived in the same room for a few months when times were hard. Now our moments together are few and far between, but definitely cherished more than ever.
I guess the picture of her I still have in my head is from circa 2000. Riding her BMX with her grey MAMBO backpack slung over her shoulders, her home-made jewelry and of course, the funky Mohican. I thought she was coolest girl I'd ever met - I still do, really.
But as I walk through arrivals at Toulouse I can't see her anywhere. Then suddenly this tall elegant creature with a golden tan and long brunette hair walks towards me, arms outstretched. Wow, we all grow up in the end, don't we?
Munki's been going through tough times lately. Making big life changes, sorting her shit out. And I'm so proud of her, as I tell her several times over the course of the weekend, which we spend at the old refectory her parents have renovated and turned into guest houses.
But it isn't all soul searching and deep conversations. On the first day we do something so out of character it's comical - we go on a 13km canoe ride. After I've slapped on factor 60 and we've set off down the river I find that I'm really enjoying myself. By the end I've vowed to buy my own canoe and take it out on el pantano back in Spain. but finally we both work out that it won't be as much fun without a current propelling the boat downstream.
Later I marvel at the fact that I've managed to completely burn the back of my hands and my left ankle somehow.
It's so weird being in France. Strange and uncomfortable to not be able to speak the lingo. Does it make it worse somehow already having a second language? Though I do understand little bits, drifting back from my GCSE class all those many years ago, it's not good enough.
I'm frustrated when the good-looking boy who's sorting out all the canoe rental stuff seems to be flirting with Munki and I can't understand what he's saying. I'm annoyed when I try to ask where the toilets are in a restaurant and Ou est el baño comes out.
I'm so used to looking after the non-Spanish speakers who come to visit, but now Munki is the one translating for me, pointing out the little local details.
On the way to Albi she tells me about Toulouse Lautrec - whose paintings I know, but whose story I do not. How he was only five foot tall because of health problems which affected his growth, and though he was born in Albi he went to Paris to hang out with other people who were different. And he painted the black people and prostitutes he encountered there.
She also points out the black silhouettes of people at the side of the road and asks me if I know what they are for. "They're dead people," she tells me. "Every time someone dies they put one up."
We also pass a sign that warns of the road: "Three dead in five years." But we ponder that it's actually quite a good statistic, especially compared to Spain's horrendous traffic accident fatality record.
The only bad thing about the weekend is the saying goodbye. But we end up being distracted by all of that when we arrive at the airport to find my flight has been cancelled. They're putting on a coach though - a nice 12 hour journey through the night. Concentrating on the horrors that lie ahead on the bus make me able not to tear up as we say goodbye, with promises to see each other soon.
A little while later I get on the coach, leaving France behind. The stupid air hostess tells me: "Enjoy your flight," as she takes my ticked and I get on the bus. I want to tell her her she's an idiot, but I don't bother. I make a mental note to tell Munki about it a some point though. I'm sure she'll find it funny.
Usually when I'm off to a new place I research it like a loon, making lists of places to go and things to do. But this time I decided not to type 'What to see in Toulouse' into google. I wanted everything to be completely new and unexpected.
There was so much I liked about that part of France. Everything was so green, the fields full of citrus yellow sunflowers. And everything was so old, Even the graffiti. I found a communist party symbol scratched into the side of a dam with the date chiseled underneath - 1945.
But the best thing of all was spending time with my mate Munki - after all, she was the reason I'd gone out there.
We had so many years tearing up London together. We even lived in the same room for a few months when times were hard. Now our moments together are few and far between, but definitely cherished more than ever.
I guess the picture of her I still have in my head is from circa 2000. Riding her BMX with her grey MAMBO backpack slung over her shoulders, her home-made jewelry and of course, the funky Mohican. I thought she was coolest girl I'd ever met - I still do, really.
But as I walk through arrivals at Toulouse I can't see her anywhere. Then suddenly this tall elegant creature with a golden tan and long brunette hair walks towards me, arms outstretched. Wow, we all grow up in the end, don't we?
Munki's been going through tough times lately. Making big life changes, sorting her shit out. And I'm so proud of her, as I tell her several times over the course of the weekend, which we spend at the old refectory her parents have renovated and turned into guest houses.
But it isn't all soul searching and deep conversations. On the first day we do something so out of character it's comical - we go on a 13km canoe ride. After I've slapped on factor 60 and we've set off down the river I find that I'm really enjoying myself. By the end I've vowed to buy my own canoe and take it out on el pantano back in Spain. but finally we both work out that it won't be as much fun without a current propelling the boat downstream.
Later I marvel at the fact that I've managed to completely burn the back of my hands and my left ankle somehow.
It's so weird being in France. Strange and uncomfortable to not be able to speak the lingo. Does it make it worse somehow already having a second language? Though I do understand little bits, drifting back from my GCSE class all those many years ago, it's not good enough.
I'm frustrated when the good-looking boy who's sorting out all the canoe rental stuff seems to be flirting with Munki and I can't understand what he's saying. I'm annoyed when I try to ask where the toilets are in a restaurant and Ou est el baño comes out.
I'm so used to looking after the non-Spanish speakers who come to visit, but now Munki is the one translating for me, pointing out the little local details.
On the way to Albi she tells me about Toulouse Lautrec - whose paintings I know, but whose story I do not. How he was only five foot tall because of health problems which affected his growth, and though he was born in Albi he went to Paris to hang out with other people who were different. And he painted the black people and prostitutes he encountered there.
She also points out the black silhouettes of people at the side of the road and asks me if I know what they are for. "They're dead people," she tells me. "Every time someone dies they put one up."
We also pass a sign that warns of the road: "Three dead in five years." But we ponder that it's actually quite a good statistic, especially compared to Spain's horrendous traffic accident fatality record.
The only bad thing about the weekend is the saying goodbye. But we end up being distracted by all of that when we arrive at the airport to find my flight has been cancelled. They're putting on a coach though - a nice 12 hour journey through the night. Concentrating on the horrors that lie ahead on the bus make me able not to tear up as we say goodbye, with promises to see each other soon.
A little while later I get on the coach, leaving France behind. The stupid air hostess tells me: "Enjoy your flight," as she takes my ticked and I get on the bus. I want to tell her her she's an idiot, but I don't bother. I make a mental note to tell Munki about it a some point though. I'm sure she'll find it funny.
10/05/2010
Operation
I have to have an operation. I've been told I have endometriosis. Two things I didn't expect to be writing in this blog - two things I debated over writing in such a public place.
After all, when I started writing El corte a la Inglesa I saw it as a place to post funny stories about my life in Madrid. Should I really be sharing the not funny, potentially uncomfortable stuff too?
But after much thought I decided to go ahead - after all this is all part of my life too, and writing about it might help anyone going through something similar to feel a little better.
if you don't like the sound of that, stop reading - I won't be offended. I'm sure there'll be more funny stories to be posted in the near future.
So, I'd never even heard of endometriosis a few months ago. Chances are, you haven't either. It's a condition that affects millions of women that causes cells which usually grow in the uterus to grow in other places in the abdomen.
It's very common - as common as diabetes, but no-one really talks about it, as it's a "women's problem". They don't know what causes it, and there is no cure - though there are certain things you can do to put it in remission. No-one ever died from it, therefore research into it is poor - no motivation for the big pharmaceutical companies.
I've already made big changes in my life to become more healthy living, but there's just no getting away from the fact that I need an operation - something which (in my head at least) happens to other people, not me.
I had two minor surgeries when I was a kid (not counting the three teeth I had out under general anesthetic) and at the time it all seemed like a bit of an adventure. if the adults said it was alright and it needed to be done, then that was that. I even sort of liked being on the ward, with all the nurses, and drawing pictures for all the other kids.
But of course it's different when you're an adult, saddled with all your irrational worries and fears. The most part of me knows it'll all be fine, but there's a tiny voice screaming in my ear, telling me to be afraid.
Luckily the health care in Spain is excellent, and double lucky for me that being in a foreign country, I've got the bloke and his family around me. They have been amazing - coming with me to appointments (hard to concentrate when you're flustered and it's all in your second language) and doing and saying the right things at every moment to make me feel better.
And the reaction from all of my friends has been phenomenal. So many messages of love and support, really getting me through the low moments. What would I do without them? Makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to go through this kind of thing alone.
As one friend told me - everyone has to deal with this sort of thing at some point in their life. So this is my time. I've been lucky with my health for almost 30 years - one minor blip in that time is not too bad really.
In fact, some part of me is glad this has happened as it's put things into perspective. It's made me realise how lucky I am. I knew I had a good man in my life, but it's not till now i've fully realised just how great he is. I know for certain he's in this for the long haul, and I can depend on him whatever life throws. Ditto his family, ditto my friends.
Health is such a gift, and we take it for granted. It's a smack in the face when you're told there's something wrong with you that can't just be fixed with a day in bed or a course of antibiotics. I have no idea what it must be like for people who suddenly have to deal with the fact they have a serious illness.
So, my resolutions - don't sweat the small stuff anymore. Be healthy, but also make sure I live a little. Where possible, take every opportunity that comes my way - because you never know what's round the corner. Be the first to offer support to anyone who needs it. And absolutely without fail, regularly tell my family and friends just how much they mean to me.
After all, when I started writing El corte a la Inglesa I saw it as a place to post funny stories about my life in Madrid. Should I really be sharing the not funny, potentially uncomfortable stuff too?
But after much thought I decided to go ahead - after all this is all part of my life too, and writing about it might help anyone going through something similar to feel a little better.
if you don't like the sound of that, stop reading - I won't be offended. I'm sure there'll be more funny stories to be posted in the near future.
So, I'd never even heard of endometriosis a few months ago. Chances are, you haven't either. It's a condition that affects millions of women that causes cells which usually grow in the uterus to grow in other places in the abdomen.
It's very common - as common as diabetes, but no-one really talks about it, as it's a "women's problem". They don't know what causes it, and there is no cure - though there are certain things you can do to put it in remission. No-one ever died from it, therefore research into it is poor - no motivation for the big pharmaceutical companies.
I've already made big changes in my life to become more healthy living, but there's just no getting away from the fact that I need an operation - something which (in my head at least) happens to other people, not me.
I had two minor surgeries when I was a kid (not counting the three teeth I had out under general anesthetic) and at the time it all seemed like a bit of an adventure. if the adults said it was alright and it needed to be done, then that was that. I even sort of liked being on the ward, with all the nurses, and drawing pictures for all the other kids.
But of course it's different when you're an adult, saddled with all your irrational worries and fears. The most part of me knows it'll all be fine, but there's a tiny voice screaming in my ear, telling me to be afraid.
Luckily the health care in Spain is excellent, and double lucky for me that being in a foreign country, I've got the bloke and his family around me. They have been amazing - coming with me to appointments (hard to concentrate when you're flustered and it's all in your second language) and doing and saying the right things at every moment to make me feel better.
And the reaction from all of my friends has been phenomenal. So many messages of love and support, really getting me through the low moments. What would I do without them? Makes me feel sorry for anyone who has to go through this kind of thing alone.
As one friend told me - everyone has to deal with this sort of thing at some point in their life. So this is my time. I've been lucky with my health for almost 30 years - one minor blip in that time is not too bad really.
In fact, some part of me is glad this has happened as it's put things into perspective. It's made me realise how lucky I am. I knew I had a good man in my life, but it's not till now i've fully realised just how great he is. I know for certain he's in this for the long haul, and I can depend on him whatever life throws. Ditto his family, ditto my friends.
Health is such a gift, and we take it for granted. It's a smack in the face when you're told there's something wrong with you that can't just be fixed with a day in bed or a course of antibiotics. I have no idea what it must be like for people who suddenly have to deal with the fact they have a serious illness.
So, my resolutions - don't sweat the small stuff anymore. Be healthy, but also make sure I live a little. Where possible, take every opportunity that comes my way - because you never know what's round the corner. Be the first to offer support to anyone who needs it. And absolutely without fail, regularly tell my family and friends just how much they mean to me.
11/04/2010
Wedding
"Fornication," said the Director of Barcelona into the microphone. He let the word hang in the air. There were a few surprised titters and cries of "eh?" and "what?". People stared open mouthed at each other, eyebrows creased, shoulders shrugged, palms facing the ceiling.
After a dramatic pause he continued: "For an occasion such as this I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the marriage of James Chillman and Jane Kirsch."
There were loud guffaws. I nearly spat out my wine. Ah, he wasn't saying "fornication". It was "for an occasion". It was a genius start to a firecracker of a best man's speech.
He continued: "A wise man once told me that the best man’s speech should last as long as the groom makes love." Then making to leave the stage: "Thank you ladies and gentleman."
For me the speeches are the best thing about a wedding. Oh the bitter disappointment the first time I went to a Spanish wedding with the bloke and during the reception told him: "I can't wait for the speeches," to which he replied: "what speeches?" I just assumed they were a worldwide thing. Very disappointing to find out otherwise.
And they're especially good when the groom being subjected to a pasting is someone close to you - and Jim certainly falls into that category. I hardly knew him in 2005 when he cane out with a group of friends to visit me in Ibiza. We both realized we would be homeless upon my return to Barcelona that September, and it would be a great idea to share a flat.
I'm so glad we did - he quickly became one of my best friends. He's a total legend and a guy I know I can count on for anything. This is the man who, when I switched cities did a round trip with me and all my stuff to Madrid in his clapped out old van (which broke down on the way) to save me the hassle of taking it on the train. That's a 1,200km trip! Seriously, how many people have friends that would do that for them?
So naturally I'm beyond thrilled to see him settling down with lovely Jane, the love of his life. But his niceness didn't save him from getting an absolute drumming from the Director in his speech.
He continued: "I think we all agree that Jane looks fantastic today; I think I can speak on behalf of all the single men in the room that it’s an extremely sad day for them, as they lose another beautiful girl to a very lucky guy. I can also speak for all the single ladies in the room when I say today is just like any other day.
"Speaking of Jane’s beauty - she really does look top of the pops. She looks so good she could be mistaken for the blonde from Abba. At least this is the only reason I can think of why Jim has come as Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees."
There was also some lovely info about the early days of their romance:
"Jim and Jane met five years ago in a very, very romantic location – a typical Barcelona party at Kate’s flat. The theme was “underwater”. Jim was probably quite drunk and his eyes caught this beautiful, bearded pirate on the other room. Jane doing her best Jack Sparrow impression saw also an incredibly sexy, buff David Hasselhof deep in conversation with Popeye and an octopus. Now if you’ve ever seen Jim in a pair of little red shorts, you too will find it equally as difficult to understand as I do why she didn’t fancy the octopus.
"They actually got together a year or so later and their romance seemed to blossom at an alarming rate. It was clear to everyone that they were extremely well suited. Jane brought to the relationship beauty, integrity, honesty, reliability and intelligence - while Jim brought, er …," at this point he rifled through his notes. "Ah, Jim brought his superhero costume collection and a 15 year catalogue of Viz annuals. "
Jim really is one of a kind, and the same could be said of Jane. That was certainly reflected in their nuptials. after the Director had wound up his speech with the traditional best man's wish for good luck, good health and happiness, we settled down to some after dinner games. These began with a bit of construction - top prize goes to the table who can build the tallest construction out of uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows - and a quiz where you had to guess the wedding guest from pictures of their eyes.
It was just one of several personal touches to a lovely intimate wedding, which kicked off in Old Marylebone Town Hall.
after the new Mr and Mrs Chillman had signed the register we boarded an old skooll 'hop on hoof off' Number 73 bus to sip cava and head off to the reception.
After a stop off to do some pictures at a park somewhere in Hackney, we pulled up outside the Loftborough Arms, to see tables all set out and rows and rows of glasses of cava waiting. At that point the whole bus burst into spontaneous applause.
"Is it normal to applaud a pub?" asked Kate.
"I think that's just the sort of people we are," I replied.
Each table was named after a BCN landmark. We had the gherkin. the bloke was upset Espanyol's stadium was included but not Madrid's - Santiago Bernabeu - I think he was missing the point slightly.
It was all forgotten though when he got to eat his first ever trifle. Delicious, and probably the last one I'll have in a long time.
Before long the dancing started, and after the bloke managed to send most of the older relatives home with some techno, it began to look like a typical night out in Barcelona. Except we were all dressed better.
Everyone throwing crazy shapes - Dave at one point doing his gravity defying Russian style dancing, followed up by his Michael Jackson. Shots of sambuca at the bar and a feeling on my part that I don't get to see all these wonderful people enough.
As the night went on the high heels started to collect in a pile at the side of the dancefloor and bow ties were hanging round necks or fastened round heads, Karate Kid style.
The Director and the bloke announced to me and Science Chick they would just marry each other and had no need of girlfriends. Just as well since I didn't manage to catch the bouquet.
Before we knew it time was up and we ended jumping like loons and screaming ourselves hoarse as Simon wrapped up the tunes with Pulp's Common people.
And then it was over. And as me and the bloke - the last ones to leave after packing up the DJ kit - were waiting for the taxi back to our hotel, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally began to fall. It was perfect timing. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Congrats Jim and Jane - I love you guys and wish you many years of joy, fun and happiness together. Couldn't have happened to two nicer people.
After a dramatic pause he continued: "For an occasion such as this I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the marriage of James Chillman and Jane Kirsch."
There were loud guffaws. I nearly spat out my wine. Ah, he wasn't saying "fornication". It was "for an occasion". It was a genius start to a firecracker of a best man's speech.
He continued: "A wise man once told me that the best man’s speech should last as long as the groom makes love." Then making to leave the stage: "Thank you ladies and gentleman."
For me the speeches are the best thing about a wedding. Oh the bitter disappointment the first time I went to a Spanish wedding with the bloke and during the reception told him: "I can't wait for the speeches," to which he replied: "what speeches?" I just assumed they were a worldwide thing. Very disappointing to find out otherwise.
And they're especially good when the groom being subjected to a pasting is someone close to you - and Jim certainly falls into that category. I hardly knew him in 2005 when he cane out with a group of friends to visit me in Ibiza. We both realized we would be homeless upon my return to Barcelona that September, and it would be a great idea to share a flat.
I'm so glad we did - he quickly became one of my best friends. He's a total legend and a guy I know I can count on for anything. This is the man who, when I switched cities did a round trip with me and all my stuff to Madrid in his clapped out old van (which broke down on the way) to save me the hassle of taking it on the train. That's a 1,200km trip! Seriously, how many people have friends that would do that for them?
So naturally I'm beyond thrilled to see him settling down with lovely Jane, the love of his life. But his niceness didn't save him from getting an absolute drumming from the Director in his speech.
He continued: "I think we all agree that Jane looks fantastic today; I think I can speak on behalf of all the single men in the room that it’s an extremely sad day for them, as they lose another beautiful girl to a very lucky guy. I can also speak for all the single ladies in the room when I say today is just like any other day.
"Speaking of Jane’s beauty - she really does look top of the pops. She looks so good she could be mistaken for the blonde from Abba. At least this is the only reason I can think of why Jim has come as Barry Gibb from the Bee Gees."
There was also some lovely info about the early days of their romance:
"Jim and Jane met five years ago in a very, very romantic location – a typical Barcelona party at Kate’s flat. The theme was “underwater”. Jim was probably quite drunk and his eyes caught this beautiful, bearded pirate on the other room. Jane doing her best Jack Sparrow impression saw also an incredibly sexy, buff David Hasselhof deep in conversation with Popeye and an octopus. Now if you’ve ever seen Jim in a pair of little red shorts, you too will find it equally as difficult to understand as I do why she didn’t fancy the octopus.
"They actually got together a year or so later and their romance seemed to blossom at an alarming rate. It was clear to everyone that they were extremely well suited. Jane brought to the relationship beauty, integrity, honesty, reliability and intelligence - while Jim brought, er …," at this point he rifled through his notes. "Ah, Jim brought his superhero costume collection and a 15 year catalogue of Viz annuals. "
Jim really is one of a kind, and the same could be said of Jane. That was certainly reflected in their nuptials. after the Director had wound up his speech with the traditional best man's wish for good luck, good health and happiness, we settled down to some after dinner games. These began with a bit of construction - top prize goes to the table who can build the tallest construction out of uncooked spaghetti and marshmallows - and a quiz where you had to guess the wedding guest from pictures of their eyes.
It was just one of several personal touches to a lovely intimate wedding, which kicked off in Old Marylebone Town Hall.
after the new Mr and Mrs Chillman had signed the register we boarded an old skooll 'hop on hoof off' Number 73 bus to sip cava and head off to the reception.
After a stop off to do some pictures at a park somewhere in Hackney, we pulled up outside the Loftborough Arms, to see tables all set out and rows and rows of glasses of cava waiting. At that point the whole bus burst into spontaneous applause.
"Is it normal to applaud a pub?" asked Kate.
"I think that's just the sort of people we are," I replied.
Each table was named after a BCN landmark. We had the gherkin. the bloke was upset Espanyol's stadium was included but not Madrid's - Santiago Bernabeu - I think he was missing the point slightly.
It was all forgotten though when he got to eat his first ever trifle. Delicious, and probably the last one I'll have in a long time.
Before long the dancing started, and after the bloke managed to send most of the older relatives home with some techno, it began to look like a typical night out in Barcelona. Except we were all dressed better.
Everyone throwing crazy shapes - Dave at one point doing his gravity defying Russian style dancing, followed up by his Michael Jackson. Shots of sambuca at the bar and a feeling on my part that I don't get to see all these wonderful people enough.
As the night went on the high heels started to collect in a pile at the side of the dancefloor and bow ties were hanging round necks or fastened round heads, Karate Kid style.
The Director and the bloke announced to me and Science Chick they would just marry each other and had no need of girlfriends. Just as well since I didn't manage to catch the bouquet.
Before we knew it time was up and we ended jumping like loons and screaming ourselves hoarse as Simon wrapped up the tunes with Pulp's Common people.
And then it was over. And as me and the bloke - the last ones to leave after packing up the DJ kit - were waiting for the taxi back to our hotel, the rain that had been threatening all weekend finally began to fall. It was perfect timing. A perfect end to a perfect day.
Congrats Jim and Jane - I love you guys and wish you many years of joy, fun and happiness together. Couldn't have happened to two nicer people.
02/04/2010
Spat
I had a falling out with someone this week. Well, I say a falling out. It was more like a case of crossed wires over something that wasn't a big deal that resulted in me and this other person ignoring each other for half a day. Really grown up stuff.
The thing is, silly little incident that is was, it just confirmed what I knew already - I am not made for arguments, fights or falling outs. That's not to say I wouldn't defend my corner if i felt that I, or the people I love, were being treated unjustly, but I just have no energy for bad energy, if you know what I mean.
Take this week's incident for example. I had resigned myself to just keep sulking but after half a day i cracked. I couldn't concentrate on my work, kept replaying what had been said, what the other person was thinking, what i could say to them, what they would say back. And I just felt wretched about the fact that somewhere out there was someone who might be fuming at me, thinking bad things about me.
Is that vanity, or insecurity, or the sign of a good person? I'm not sure.
In the end I emailed asking if we could clear the air, and after a bit of two-ing and fro-ing the whole thing was sorted, done and dusted. And I felt silly that the whole thing had gone as far as it had.
When i got home that evening i felt drained by the whole thing. it made me wonder how some friends have the ability to keep up arguments and stoic silence with someone for weeks. I even know one guy who has turned his back on his family. Surely keeping up the energy to be mad at your whole family leaves you destroyed?
Maybe I'm just lucky that most of the people i know are pretty easy going people. I can't even remember having a bad argument with my mum during my teenage years, not even when she found out I'd got my belly button pierced. If I did get told off I usually deserved it, and would feel guilty while she sulked, doing the washing up with a pout and slamming spoons back in the cutlery draw with unnecessary force. That told me.
I'm crap at doing the heated exchange of words. I freeze up, I doubt myself, I start thinking I'm in the wrong. i think of things I should have said while I lie in bed later at six in the morning. Tempers are a funny thing, they take you over like Mr Hyde obliterating Dr Jekyll, and make you say things you don't mean. And though you can always apologize and try to take it back, the words can linger dangerously at the back of the mind, like the thought of going back to work when you're in the middle of a holiday, sipping cocktails on a beach.
Mind you, that's not to say that sometimes arguments are necessary. The bloke has taught me that. It's better to be honest, and express your feelings than sulk it out, even when you're heading for a epic scrap. Though I try and keep discussions measured I've lost it at times - even thrown things at his head - but ultimately it's all been healthy, moving forward stuff.
And in return I like to think he's picked up some of my level headedness in return. Or perhaps we've just both grown up a bit over the past five years.
The thing is, silly little incident that is was, it just confirmed what I knew already - I am not made for arguments, fights or falling outs. That's not to say I wouldn't defend my corner if i felt that I, or the people I love, were being treated unjustly, but I just have no energy for bad energy, if you know what I mean.
Take this week's incident for example. I had resigned myself to just keep sulking but after half a day i cracked. I couldn't concentrate on my work, kept replaying what had been said, what the other person was thinking, what i could say to them, what they would say back. And I just felt wretched about the fact that somewhere out there was someone who might be fuming at me, thinking bad things about me.
Is that vanity, or insecurity, or the sign of a good person? I'm not sure.
In the end I emailed asking if we could clear the air, and after a bit of two-ing and fro-ing the whole thing was sorted, done and dusted. And I felt silly that the whole thing had gone as far as it had.
When i got home that evening i felt drained by the whole thing. it made me wonder how some friends have the ability to keep up arguments and stoic silence with someone for weeks. I even know one guy who has turned his back on his family. Surely keeping up the energy to be mad at your whole family leaves you destroyed?
Maybe I'm just lucky that most of the people i know are pretty easy going people. I can't even remember having a bad argument with my mum during my teenage years, not even when she found out I'd got my belly button pierced. If I did get told off I usually deserved it, and would feel guilty while she sulked, doing the washing up with a pout and slamming spoons back in the cutlery draw with unnecessary force. That told me.
I'm crap at doing the heated exchange of words. I freeze up, I doubt myself, I start thinking I'm in the wrong. i think of things I should have said while I lie in bed later at six in the morning. Tempers are a funny thing, they take you over like Mr Hyde obliterating Dr Jekyll, and make you say things you don't mean. And though you can always apologize and try to take it back, the words can linger dangerously at the back of the mind, like the thought of going back to work when you're in the middle of a holiday, sipping cocktails on a beach.
Mind you, that's not to say that sometimes arguments are necessary. The bloke has taught me that. It's better to be honest, and express your feelings than sulk it out, even when you're heading for a epic scrap. Though I try and keep discussions measured I've lost it at times - even thrown things at his head - but ultimately it's all been healthy, moving forward stuff.
And in return I like to think he's picked up some of my level headedness in return. Or perhaps we've just both grown up a bit over the past five years.
21/03/2010
Memory lane at Munki’s 30th
I saw her a split second before she saw me. You know how it is. That strange recognition light turns on in a comfortable part of your brain. Features automatically realign into an expectant and friendly greeting. Then there’s nothing to do but wait.
We locked eyes and she stopped mid stride, almost did a double take. Then a smile lit up her face and we were exclaiming each other’s names and reaching for hands. Two ghosts of work and social past reunited in god knows how many years, we couldn’t even hazard a guess.
Anna was just as I remembered her. Petite and beautiful like a porcelain doll, effortlessly feminine and chic in a way I’ll never be. But she was the same and different – more worldly looking, more sophisticated – and I told her so.
“We both look so much more grown up now,” she said in return.
We began our journalism careers together on the same London dance music magazine. I was the editorial assistant and she had just been selected for a graduate scheme – a bright young thing come from Sheffield, where she’d finished university and ended up totally skint, staying on her mate’s floor and working in a call centre to keep the wolf from the door.
This was her big break, as was it mine. I’d muscled my way in via work experience, leaving a job behind in the Civil Service, Policy Correspondance Unit. I felt like I’d won the lottery.
So Anna arrived, and we became fast friends and sometime partners in crime. Skulking around festivals, free drinks, club nights and house parties, circa 2000. I never ceased to be amazed at her ability to stay out for eight hours straight in heels I probably couldn’t even walk round the room once in. And she never smudged her lipstick either.
Eventually she went freelance and I went back to University, and we lost each other in the accelerated mess of London living. But before that we shared many memorable moments.
One particular night stuck in my head. One of my many flat warming parties (me and my then boyfriend seemed to move house every six months back then). Surrounded by red wine stains on the hours earlier pristine cream carpet. Lying on fronts, legs lolling in the air like kids at story time, telling each other: “No, you don’t understand – you just don’t understand how gorgeous you are.”
We laughed about it and many other silly little snapshots from our shared past.
It was certainly a night for a hop, skip and a jump down memory lane. It was my best friend Munki’s 30th birthday party. And in between just watching her enjoy the party she worked so hard on making happen (this I did with what I imagine to be the air of a proud parent) I played over a similar scene as the one with Anna, with many other key players from my past.
It really felt like a work reunion when I got a tap on the shoulder from Stan. Not only did we all work for the same magazine, but me and Stan shared an apartment – Casa Wonky – during my first season working for our magazine in Ibiza.
Where to even begin with the reminiscing?
Me: “Do you remember the time you swapped clothes with Phoebe that New Year’s Eve, and you walked down the street and no one even noticed?”
Him: “that time I had to change a tire on Jimmy’s car and you didn’t even get out of the front seat?”
Me: “What was it exactly that happened to Giles’ car – something about a television landing on the roof?”
Ibiza was a whole new world. I really had no clue what to expect. And Stan, having done it all for many years in a row, was something of a guru to me. We shared a room, though we were hardly ever in it at the same time.
Somewhere near the start of the season he told me: “Ibiza changes you – you wait and see.”
And he was right. But perhaps not in the way I expected. I didn’t turn my back on modern life to become a hippy and live in a squat. But I did make my mind up that leaving London was the right thing to do. More than that – Spanish culture, I thought, suited me nicely. It would do just fine.
So there we were, a decade on from when we first got acquainted. “So what have you been doing with yourself for the past ten years?” Anna asked.
“I hardly know,” I told her. “A lot of growing up. I learned a lot. I thought I knew it all when I was 20. turns out I knew shit.”
“Do you ever wish you could go do it all again, knowing than what you know now?” she asked.
For me it was an easy and iron clad no. My mistakes and fuck ups shaped me into who I am today, maybe even more than the things I’ve done right. They moved me along my merry way, stumbling to where in the world I am now. Small bits of the journey sucked, sure. But I wouldn’t change a thing – not even the bits that make me cringe.
It was all pretty philosophical stuff for 4am Sunday morning as we stood there in a disused leather factory-turned party venue in Shoreditch.
In days gone by we might have got the shots in and set out to find as much trouble as it’s possible to find. But times had changed. We were all flagging. I was gulping banana and strawberry smoothie straight from the carton and Stan had to drive back to Kent. He wasn’t entirely confident about where he’d parked his car – a dodgy type had asked him if he wanted to buy any acid before he’d even reached the end of the road.
So they left, with promises to come see me in Madrid, which I hope they keep. And I turned back to the party, replaying past scenes of my life in my head like chapters of a DVD. Till someone drew me back to the present day with a touch of the arm and something indecipherable shouted in the ear. It was definitely time to stop being wistful and start dancing.
We locked eyes and she stopped mid stride, almost did a double take. Then a smile lit up her face and we were exclaiming each other’s names and reaching for hands. Two ghosts of work and social past reunited in god knows how many years, we couldn’t even hazard a guess.
Anna was just as I remembered her. Petite and beautiful like a porcelain doll, effortlessly feminine and chic in a way I’ll never be. But she was the same and different – more worldly looking, more sophisticated – and I told her so.
“We both look so much more grown up now,” she said in return.
We began our journalism careers together on the same London dance music magazine. I was the editorial assistant and she had just been selected for a graduate scheme – a bright young thing come from Sheffield, where she’d finished university and ended up totally skint, staying on her mate’s floor and working in a call centre to keep the wolf from the door.
This was her big break, as was it mine. I’d muscled my way in via work experience, leaving a job behind in the Civil Service, Policy Correspondance Unit. I felt like I’d won the lottery.
So Anna arrived, and we became fast friends and sometime partners in crime. Skulking around festivals, free drinks, club nights and house parties, circa 2000. I never ceased to be amazed at her ability to stay out for eight hours straight in heels I probably couldn’t even walk round the room once in. And she never smudged her lipstick either.
Eventually she went freelance and I went back to University, and we lost each other in the accelerated mess of London living. But before that we shared many memorable moments.
One particular night stuck in my head. One of my many flat warming parties (me and my then boyfriend seemed to move house every six months back then). Surrounded by red wine stains on the hours earlier pristine cream carpet. Lying on fronts, legs lolling in the air like kids at story time, telling each other: “No, you don’t understand – you just don’t understand how gorgeous you are.”
We laughed about it and many other silly little snapshots from our shared past.
It was certainly a night for a hop, skip and a jump down memory lane. It was my best friend Munki’s 30th birthday party. And in between just watching her enjoy the party she worked so hard on making happen (this I did with what I imagine to be the air of a proud parent) I played over a similar scene as the one with Anna, with many other key players from my past.
It really felt like a work reunion when I got a tap on the shoulder from Stan. Not only did we all work for the same magazine, but me and Stan shared an apartment – Casa Wonky – during my first season working for our magazine in Ibiza.
Where to even begin with the reminiscing?
Me: “Do you remember the time you swapped clothes with Phoebe that New Year’s Eve, and you walked down the street and no one even noticed?”
Him: “that time I had to change a tire on Jimmy’s car and you didn’t even get out of the front seat?”
Me: “What was it exactly that happened to Giles’ car – something about a television landing on the roof?”
Ibiza was a whole new world. I really had no clue what to expect. And Stan, having done it all for many years in a row, was something of a guru to me. We shared a room, though we were hardly ever in it at the same time.
Somewhere near the start of the season he told me: “Ibiza changes you – you wait and see.”
And he was right. But perhaps not in the way I expected. I didn’t turn my back on modern life to become a hippy and live in a squat. But I did make my mind up that leaving London was the right thing to do. More than that – Spanish culture, I thought, suited me nicely. It would do just fine.
So there we were, a decade on from when we first got acquainted. “So what have you been doing with yourself for the past ten years?” Anna asked.
“I hardly know,” I told her. “A lot of growing up. I learned a lot. I thought I knew it all when I was 20. turns out I knew shit.”
“Do you ever wish you could go do it all again, knowing than what you know now?” she asked.
For me it was an easy and iron clad no. My mistakes and fuck ups shaped me into who I am today, maybe even more than the things I’ve done right. They moved me along my merry way, stumbling to where in the world I am now. Small bits of the journey sucked, sure. But I wouldn’t change a thing – not even the bits that make me cringe.
It was all pretty philosophical stuff for 4am Sunday morning as we stood there in a disused leather factory-turned party venue in Shoreditch.
In days gone by we might have got the shots in and set out to find as much trouble as it’s possible to find. But times had changed. We were all flagging. I was gulping banana and strawberry smoothie straight from the carton and Stan had to drive back to Kent. He wasn’t entirely confident about where he’d parked his car – a dodgy type had asked him if he wanted to buy any acid before he’d even reached the end of the road.
So they left, with promises to come see me in Madrid, which I hope they keep. And I turned back to the party, replaying past scenes of my life in my head like chapters of a DVD. Till someone drew me back to the present day with a touch of the arm and something indecipherable shouted in the ear. It was definitely time to stop being wistful and start dancing.
02/03/2010
Moving on and staying put
As I've said before, living in Spain, you're used to saying goodbye. There aren't many who come here with the intention of putting down permanent roots. You'd think that after a while you'd get used to it, but you don’t – you still get that little sad flower pushing up shoots through the soil of your happy everyday existence.
This week I had to say goodbye to my longest-standing and closest work friend, Rachel – a girl I've seen almost every working day, (bar holidays and sick days of course) over the last nearly three years. And now suddenly I won't see her anymore.
She'll still be working for our company, in the London office. But it just won’t be the same. I’ll miss sharing the morning cup of tea with her, I’ll miss moaning about work and will have to just keep it to myself when I find something really interesting or gross when I'm scouring the papers first thing in the morning. Most of all I'll just miss her.
It's hard to pin point the moment when your work colleagues pass the point of just being someone you see every day and move into the happy territory of being your friend. But somewhere along the way, many of them just do.
Being outside of England, and working with Brits means you feel bonded together – the group of away fans sat in the home seats - more than people in your average office would. You have immediate shared ground. you go from lamenting the loss of pickled onion Monster Munch to moaning about amount of red tape there is when you want to do something like renewing your passport.
But all the time you're all just patting yourselves on the back for managing to live in Spain. All of it gives you a sense of togetherness.
And on top of this, in our office, we've lived some shared experiences we won't ever forget. I know I’ve cried on Rachel’s shoulder a few times, and she's returned the favour. We both started around the same time, though all of that is in the past now.
At her leaving lunch we were each theorising about what our next moves would be. One girl is toying with the idea of going home to do an MA, one says she feels things have to change for her and her German husband and their two kids, and she's fighting the idea that sooner or later they'll end up leaving.
Me, this is it for me now. This is my home, full stop. And much though I once thought that would scare me, it doesn't. When I first left England I had ideas of going to live in South America. To teach English in Japan maybe for a good few years. And while I might visit those places now I know I won't live in them.
Madrid is where I've put down roots. I've got my bloke - whose family are now my family - my lovely friends, and even my little dog Dani. And one day, hopefully sooner than later, I'll start my own family here.
It's not so much that 'this is it', but rather that 'this is my happily ever after'.
This week I had to say goodbye to my longest-standing and closest work friend, Rachel – a girl I've seen almost every working day, (bar holidays and sick days of course) over the last nearly three years. And now suddenly I won't see her anymore.
She'll still be working for our company, in the London office. But it just won’t be the same. I’ll miss sharing the morning cup of tea with her, I’ll miss moaning about work and will have to just keep it to myself when I find something really interesting or gross when I'm scouring the papers first thing in the morning. Most of all I'll just miss her.
It's hard to pin point the moment when your work colleagues pass the point of just being someone you see every day and move into the happy territory of being your friend. But somewhere along the way, many of them just do.
Being outside of England, and working with Brits means you feel bonded together – the group of away fans sat in the home seats - more than people in your average office would. You have immediate shared ground. you go from lamenting the loss of pickled onion Monster Munch to moaning about amount of red tape there is when you want to do something like renewing your passport.
But all the time you're all just patting yourselves on the back for managing to live in Spain. All of it gives you a sense of togetherness.
And on top of this, in our office, we've lived some shared experiences we won't ever forget. I know I’ve cried on Rachel’s shoulder a few times, and she's returned the favour. We both started around the same time, though all of that is in the past now.
At her leaving lunch we were each theorising about what our next moves would be. One girl is toying with the idea of going home to do an MA, one says she feels things have to change for her and her German husband and their two kids, and she's fighting the idea that sooner or later they'll end up leaving.
Me, this is it for me now. This is my home, full stop. And much though I once thought that would scare me, it doesn't. When I first left England I had ideas of going to live in South America. To teach English in Japan maybe for a good few years. And while I might visit those places now I know I won't live in them.
Madrid is where I've put down roots. I've got my bloke - whose family are now my family - my lovely friends, and even my little dog Dani. And one day, hopefully sooner than later, I'll start my own family here.
It's not so much that 'this is it', but rather that 'this is my happily ever after'.
24/02/2010
Hen weekend
****Please skip the first few paragraphs of this if you are offended by words for ladies' rude bits. Thanks.
"I'm always saying cunt, I just forget about it," said Laura. "Cunt this and cunt that. There's nothing quite the same in Spanish. Coño just isn't the same."
"It's true," I chipped in. "you get little old ladies saying that on the news here. It's not the same as cunt – it's just so horrible."
"Twat is good though," said Karate. "Twat is well funny."
"Minge is the best," said Kate. "But it's best when a Spanish person says it. I taught it to Ignacio and he won't stop saying it. Meenge, meenge meenge."
We all laughed at that. And there we were. One native Spanish speaker and three English girls discussing the different words for a woman's nether regions. We also threw snatch into the mix then pondered why, when they all mean the same thing, do they all have different levels of offensiveness?
Frankly, it wasn't really what I was expecting in terms of your typical conversation at a hen party.
But then what had I been expecting, from the conversation and the whole weekend in general? Dildos on heads? Male strippers and whipped cream? Not really – I know the bride, Jane, well enough to discern that – thankfully – that's not her bag. Good: I rate that kind of thing as about as much fun as chewing nettles with a mouth ulcer.
Until this one I'd never been to a hen party before. By the time close friends started getting hitched I'd up sticks and left England.
Living in Spain means it's just not financially viable to go back to England for the wedding and the hen, so the hen gets forfeited.
But this one was in Barcelona, so it was rude not to. Plus rather than a trawling bars and clubs and drinking yourself into oblivion this was a weekend in a lovely sounding casa rural in the mountains near Vic – and it involved paintball, something I've always wanted to do.
So while the stags headed to Madrid where they'd be doing their best to traumatise the poor groom Jim, I took the AVE to Barcelona and we set off in the car for the country house.
Just as we got out of the city the heavens opened and the sky turned black. Once we got to the mountains it was beginning to feel more like Evil Dead with each passing second, and the icing on the cake was the Tom Tom trying to get us to take the road to the local cemetery instead of the road to the house.
Finally we turned onto the right dirt track and after a kilometre of steep, near heart-attack inducing hairpin turns we were there. God knows how Jane managed to drive us up without having a panic attack.
We were in for the night. All that was left was to get to know the other hens and not too pissed and not go to bed too late as to fuck up paintballing for the next day.
There's always that slight bit of anticipation when you go into a situation where you don't know everyone. It's that kind of first day at university feeling – what if no-one talks to me, what if they're all annoying or worse still, boring? But there was no need to worry – everyone was lovely, we all got on amazingly, and before we knew it, it was 2.00am and time to drag ourselves away from the karaoke and to bed. The alarm was set for 8.30am so we could get up and do some killing.
It wasn't too bad to get out of bed the next day. And I felt a damned side better after I got a call from bloke at about 9am telling me the stags had just left our house. It sounded like carnage. They'd drank about 50 beers in the first hour, dressed Jim up in his special outfit – a lovely golden catsuit, wrestling mask and dog collar – and toured the tapas bars in Barrio de las Letras.
In one place he decadent lads had shelled out for half a kilo of percebes, but spoiled the air of sophistication by one of them accidentally pouring a pint of beer over some poor girl's head.
On his travels Jim even bumped into another English guy dressed like him – no mean feat when your material of choice if gold lame. He was stuck with it though, after loosing his clothes along the way somewhere. They'd ended up back at ours and had trashed our flat while drinking till we were getting up for paintball. Bloke later told me it took three hours to clean up (onlot for them to come back the next night and trash it again.
No matter - However bad I felt getting up at 8.30am after six hours sleep, I couldn't feel as bad as them, I reasoned.
Paintball was definitely the high point of the weekend. Such an adrenaline rush, making a dash for the flag you had to get back to your own base. I was physically shaking while crouching behind the various trees and bits of wood they put there for cover.
I always knew I was a bit wrong in the head, but there was something really satisfying about shooting someone in the other team – hearing them scream when the’bullet’ made contact. Anyone who's done it and tells you it hurts isn't lying. As well as a good number of body hits I took one in the neck, which bruised up to look like a hickey. Brilliant. That's what you get for doing kamikaze runs towards enemy lines. I can still taste the paint in my mouth now.
After a few games some of the hens dropped out, leaving the hardcore of me, Kate, Chris, and Karate to join up with a stag party, who were swigging beer as they went. The poor groom – he got covered in beer, then at the end we were all invited to just shoot him at point blank range to use up the rest of our ammunition. Best he had some shiners the next day.
Why is it that the main point of a stag seems to be to inflict as much pain and embarrassment on the groom as possible? Does he deserve it for leaving his bachelor days behind? I definitely think they get the bum deal.
Our hen was lovely, and it was so well organised. Kate had it booked up months in advance. Lovely Anna did all the cooking (for 15 people!) and it only cost us 12 euro a head. And equally lovely Nicola packed a hire car with booze and drove it up to the house. And that only cost us 19 euro – plus we went home with two bottles of wine each.
The boys bless them didn't seem to know what they were doing almost up to the point that they went out. At one point they ended up walking round mala saña for 45 minutes trying to find a suitable bar they all liked. Not a problem for most, apart from poor Jim, who was wearing a dress with no front, heels, a string of pearls, and not much else.
Even though they’re probably having the week from hell right now, I'm sure if you asked them they would say they had more fun than us. And we, of course, would say the same.
Because that’s the point of it all in the end – fun, whatever that is to you. It could be gunning down your mates in cold blood and ending up black and blue. It could be doing Queen power ballads on the karaoke. It could be drinking till you fall over or dressing your best mate up to look like the world’s worst tranny.
It doesn’t matter – it’ll all make great stories for the speeches at the wedding, whatever it is.
19/12/2009
Cosmopolitans, belly laughs and 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies'
Hardly a week goes by when I don’t reflect on how lucky I am to have the friends I do. When you’re away from home your mates become your family. They make all the difference as to whether you feel settled or not. Because even if you’re in the most fun city in the world, what good is it when you have no one to have fun with?
When I left Barcelona to start my new life with the bloke in Madrid I found myself in the strange position of being Billy no mates. By the time I got myself sorted with a job a few weeks later I was feeling pretty desperate.
So there I was on my induction day at a language academy, in a room full of strangers. A fierce frizzy haired woman was telling us how “you are not here to become friends with your students – they need homework and proper lessons”. Then one of the other directors chips in: “Yes, and if you’re new to Spain don’t worry, just tell them you’ve been teaching in Barcelona before – they’ll never know.”
Just when I was thinking to myself ‘what a bunch of cock knockers’, a girl put her hand up and said: “Er, excuse me, I don’t feel comfortable lying. They’ll know I haven’t been living in Barcelona, ‘cos I don’t speak the language. I’ll look like a total idiot if they speak to me in Spanish and I don't know what they're on about.” I thought, 'I don’t know who she is, but I want to be that girl’s friend.'
That was my mate Two Shandies and thank god I got her number that day. She introduced me to Sa and PB and the rest of the group who now comprise my Madrid family.
Tuesday is always the day reserved for us. Boyfriends or potential dates have to make their own plans while we meet up for ‘Tuesday Club’. And whether it’s in a bar or round someone’s house, there’s one factor that’s constant, and that’s the laughs we have.
This week was no different. Two Shandies had us round to her gaff and mixed up some eye-wateringly strong cosmopolitans. She was updating us on the status of her new internet dating squeeze, Mr Fit.
He is literally too good to be true. Fit, intelligent, interesting, kind, complimentary, and the size of a bear (essential in Two Shandies’ book) The only potential problem is that he is a helicopter pilot and has to go to Afghanistan in February.
Well they spent about six hours chatting on messenger over the weekend, and at one point PB, who lives upstairs, came down to see what was going on. Just as she got in Mr Fit commented on Shandies’ profile photo, in which PB also appears.
“That woman in the red top in your photo…” writes Mr Fit. So Two Shandies nudges PB and says: “He’s talking about you!” There’s a bit of a tense moment. What’s he going to say? They both look at each other and turn back to the screen to see his next message…
“Is that your mum?”
Ha ha ha ha, oh dear.
We'd just about finished wetting ourselves about that when Two Shandies mentioned her favourite film, Room With A View. (Shandies loves all that period drama/romance guff)
So I started trying to tell her that there’s a big screen version of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in the works (starring Natalie Portman in case you're interested) – it might just be Shandies' chance to get into horror films?
Shandies: “But I don’t understand how that would work. Is Mr Bennet a zombie? What are zombies ayway?”
Sa: “You must have seen that famous zombie film, Night of the Living Dead?”
Shandies: No, but I’ve seen Life on Mars.”
Sa: “What, the series where his a policeman and he goes back in time?”
Shandies: “Oops no, I mean Mars Attacks. The one with the aliens. Are they like zombies?”
Me: “No! Zombies are sort of undead beings, living corpses.”
Shandies: “Oh right, Ah, like in the Thriller video. Surely they didn’t exist back then. They’re a modern thing aren’t they?”
Me: “But they’d be like Victorian zombies.”
Shandies: “What, in period costume? Would they be wearing bonnets?”
Me: “Yes they would, sounds bout right. So would you like to see that then, do you reckon?”
Shandies: “I’m not sure. I’m just trying to imagine a cross between Thriller and Pride and Prejudice and I can’t quite do it.”
Brilliant. That little exchange sums up how different we all are, our group of amigos. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I just hope they don’t all decide to go back to England, or I don’t know what I’ll do.
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