Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Read online

  ‘Hey, great voice’ he lied again. ‘But I don’t do that one, either. Choose another.’

  Love it! On a roll now! ‘Right, ‘Skyline Pigeon’, from the same album? Great song!’

  ‘Don’t do that one. Choose another.’

  ‘Love Lies Bleeding’, from Yellow Brick Road?’

  He slammed the phone onto the table, narrowly missing the puddle of Guinness, and fixed me with a glare. ‘Look, I’m a tribute act, right? So I only do the singles, not the album tracks. SO CHOOSE AN EASY ONE!’

  At that moment, ‘Paul Daniels’ was persuading the giggling, blindfolded woman to select a playing card, from a pack he was holding up. And once again, Elton’s voice boomed out across that stage. ‘SO CHOOSE AN EASY ONE!’

  ‘But not the ace of spades!’ laughed ‘Paul’. ‘That one is in my back pocket!’

  Bobby and I were rolling around laughing. ‘You’ll get yourself kicked off the ship, if you carry on like that!’ I reminded him. Actually, not a bad idea. Maybe he can get us both kicked off. Cast adrift in the Atlantic would be preferable to facing another plate of gristly sheep.

  He waved his arm dismissively. ‘Ah, don’t worry, I know all these entertainment guys, work with them all the time. Actually, I’m doing a gig on here next week, on the way back.’

  I almost choked on my Guinness. So he is not actually ‘Britain’s best Elton John tribute act.’ More like ‘The Only Elton John Tribute Act On This Refugee From A Russian Scrap-Yard, In The Bay Of Biscay.’ Probably not enough room on the business-card for that, but it would surely contravene less trading standards legislation.

  ‘So not ‘Pinky’ from Caribou?’ I continued.

  ‘NO!’

  Or ‘Tower of Babel’ from Captain Fantastic?

  NO! NO!

  I sat back in my chair. Puffed out my cheeks. I am not saying ‘Candle in the Wind.’ Everyone requests that, I bet. OK, put him out of his misery. ‘Well, it should be ‘Your Song’, but seeing we are travelling to Spain, even though there are probably no ‘red tail lights’ on the back of this old wreck, I choose ‘Daniel.’

  ‘No problem John! We can watch both!’ he replied, tapping his screen. Me and my big mouth. But still, watching someone pretending to be Elton John has to be better than the Executive Sleeping Lounge, doesn’t it. Not much in it, admittedly, but marginally, surely? Although hang on a minute! We are in the middle of the sea. And although it’s pitch dark outside, I am willing to bet there are no mobile phone masts out here. My low-tech clamshell stopped working just after we passed the Isle of Wight. What a bummer. No signal!

  The little blue wheel was spinning on his screen. ‘I’ll just get us two more, Bobby, while that is downloading’ I cheerfully offered. ‘Same again?’ Suddenly, my eyes came to rest on a printed sign, lopsidedly fixed to a pillar next to the bar. ‘Free Wi-Fi Zone.’ Deep joy. Daniel is actually travelling tonight on this tug. Ah well, watch the video, drink this one, make an excuse, swift stroll around the deck, then off to my executive seat. Never, never, NEVER again will I waste a day of my life on this blatant, ill-mannered attempt at separating the maximum amount of money from a captive audience.

  Bobby meanwhile was waving me to hurry up. His screen fired into life, and there he was, behind the piano, tapping out those famous chords, that unforgettable melody. And he was utterly sensational, visually and musically identical to the real thing. Actually, he was more like Elton John, than the man himself. He started singing along to the video, and I simply had to join in. ‘They say Spain is pretty, though I’ve never been…’ One or two people on nearby tables were giving us funny looks, although after they day I’d had, I was past caring. Meanwhile ‘Paul’ was winding up his act, with giggling woman, sadly still in one piece, holding a giant rubber duck. Missed that part of his act, thankfully. ‘OK, big round of applause for Julie here, thank you for being a great audience, and have a safe trip when we get to Spain tomorrow. Oh, and I almost forgot. I have one last piece of magic for you! I saved the best to last. Ladies and gentlemen, magicked all the way from Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas, the one and only, Rocket Man himself, MISTER ELTON JOHN!’

  ‘The bloody swine!’ Bobby growled under his breath, then quick as a flash, took on his stage persona, standing and waving, beaming smile, at his stunned audience. Who for a few seconds, seemed unsure what to do. You could sense what they were thinking, no surely not? Can it really be him? Then someone near us started clapping, and suddenly, people were coming over. One wanted a selfie, another an autograph, and a woman who probably have known better planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. So this is what it’s like to be famous. But surely, nobody seriously believes that a superstar is travelling on a third-rate ferry? Are people really that dim? OK, I can understand someone thinking that two by two by two equals two, but Sir Elton?

  Just then a woman came weaving her way across the swaying ballroom, my age maybe, possibly a year or two younger, slim, dark, well-dressed, but instead of crowding around Bobby, she slid in next to me. ‘You’re him, aren’t you!’ she smiled, breathlessly. Well honestly, what do I say to that? I want to burst out laughing, but she seems really sweet, and I don’t want to appear rude, although clearly she is mistaking me for someone else. I mean, I have a terrible memory for faces, but I really have no idea who she is.

  ‘Yes, I am me!’ I grinned, playing for time. Someone we met in Spain? Surely I would have remembered, despite rapidly approaching senility. Must be someone from years ago?

  She shifted in closer. ‘You’re Bernie, aren’t you? I’ve been watching you with your friend!’

  Bernie? Who the hell is Bernie? Right now I can only think of two Bernies. Bernie the Bolt, from the 1960’s TV game-show ‘The Golden Shot’, and Berni Inns, the steakhouse chain from the same era. And right now I could murder prawn cocktail, rump steak, Black-forest gateaux and a bottle of Mateus Rose. Even chicken-in-a-basket would be preferable to the slops I have just endured.

  ‘Sorry, my name is John’ I apologised.

  She smiled conspiratorially, resting her hand seductively on my arm.‘ OK, I know you are Bernie Taupin, but your secret is safe with me! I won’t tell anyone!’

  Bernie Taupin, Elton’s lyricist? Is she utterly and completely mad? All right, they say we all resemble someone famous. When I was a little boy, my mother claimed I was the double of Prince Charles, minus the ears hopefully, then as a young man my auntie swore I was a dead ringer for Bobby Ewing, from the US blockbuster ‘Dallas’. My dad meanwhile found it amusing that I allegedly bore a strong resemblance to Jim Bergerac, of the BBC TV Jersey-based detective series. So if you are in Spain one day and bump into an amalgam of those three, say hello. Without stroking my skin if possible. But Bernie Taupin? Nothing like him. They used to put his photo on the early album sleeves. Different shaped nose. Different shaped face in fact.

  Meanwhile, Bobbie’s smart-phone was still playing a selection of his ‘greatest hits’. ‘Your Song’. My new acquaintance was wiping away a tear, and completely ignoring my denials. ‘Oh these are such beautiful words! ‘Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.’ That tune melts my heart every time I hear it!’ And she leaned in, brushed her lips against my ear, and whispered ‘hope to see you later’, before sashaying across the dance-floor and disappearing into the crowd around the bar.

  Oh. My. God. So THIS is what it’s like to be famous. Nobody ever gave my ears a lick, even back in the day when I was the spitting image of TV-stars, with Royal connections. Nearly had one bitten off in a scrum once, in entirely different circumstances, of course. My fault, for grabbing him by the jock-strap. But now, with everything rapidly going South? This HAS to be a wind-up. I glanced furtively round to make sure nobody had overheard the last part of the exchange, to find Bobby leering suggestively. ‘Looks like you’re fixed up for the night, you dirty old dog!’

  ‘Christ no, Bobby!’ I spluttered, angrily. ‘What do you take me for? I’m a happily married man. My wife would kill me! And you’re a
fine one to talk, surrounded by simpering women. What is wrong with these people?’

  ‘Tell you what, mate’ he grinned, puffing out his chest, ‘it’s always like this, when I am on tour. I reckon I get lucky at least twice a week.’

  OH PLEASE! Will someone shoot me now. Put me out of my misery. It’s not as if he is good-looking. Certainly not Jim Bergerac, that’s for damn sure. I bury my face in my hands, but cannot dispel the thought of Bobby getting jiggy from my mind. Right. Decision made. I am off to bed. Or the Ford Zephyr seat. Why didn’t I leave the damned, cursed Harley in England. Two-and-a-half hours on Ryanair, and I would have been home, instead of cooped up with these lunatics. Expertly downing the remains of my pint, I gripped my new friend by the hand. ‘Time for some shut-eye, hope to see you in the morning’ I lied, and avoiding any amorous fans who might have been lurking near the bar, I shuffled off in search of the Executive Sleeping Lounge.

  Back behind the Iron Curtain it is clear I am getting no sleep next to old Vladimir, so I gather up my stuff and head to the front of the room, where I brush away a pile of last week’s dog-ends, and avoiding a large, squelchy damp patch, which I sincerely hope is stale lager, I bed down on the floor, kicking off my espadrilles, and plumping up my fleece into a pillow shape. The trouble is, the ship’s engines seem to be right below me and the floor is vibrating, making me feel like a nymphomaniac on a tumble dryer, and the light fittings are rattling in time, tapping out a tune by the Bee-Gees, but whether from Grease or Saturday Night Fever I cannot say. Unless of course we are directly above Bobby’s cabin, and that is his headboard I can hear rattling, in time with ‘Saturday Night’s All-right For Fighting.’ Who Knows? Eventually I must have drifted off to sleep for at least a minute as I am dreaming I am locked in a pig-sty, with the heating turned up, and all the ventilation blocked. I wake with a start and find I have been sleeping with my face resting on an espadrille. God, the stench is appalling, like a cross between a dead hyena and burning rubber. Yes, I was woken by the smell of my own footwear.

  It is at this time that I start to bitterly regret not forking out the extra hundred Euros for a cabin, but they do not do singles, and the thought of bunking down with a Freddie Mercury lookalike from Milton Keynes was too awful to contemplate although a night of rampant bum-fun would surely have been preferable to this hell-hole. Just then I feel the overwhelming urge to break wind. I do my best to ignore the sensation on the grounds of health and safety, but what the hell, everyone else is making a noise except me, so I decide to go for it. Maybe I could trump the first verse of ‘God Save the Queen’ to prove to the Ruskies, and any Frenchmen present, that Britannia truly does rule the waves, parp parp parp parrrrp, parp parp, but decide instead for one long blast, like the ship’s hooter. I cannot give it 100% for fear of being prematurely reacquainted with the old ram, but even at 75% it is a truly impressive effort, but guess what? Yep, old Vlad just keeps right on snoring. I do however hear some stifled giggles from the back of the room, and a voice calls out ‘Have that one on me, your highness.’

  The executive sleeping lounge in the cold grey light of dawn is a dreadful sight, like a scene from the Crimean war. Bodies are strewn about who certainly weren’t here when I came to bed last night, one bloke is face down like a stiff in an American cop series, but without the chalk outline, and another has slumped down the wall and is sleeping sitting up. His jeans seem to have acquired a damp patch too. I am absolutely bursting for a wee, so gathering up my stuff and slipping on my espadrilles, which have cooled down to room temperature now, I head to the toilets. There is however a large sticky puddle below the urinals and stepping in that, in my already poisonous footwear, is not an option, so I splash some tepid water on my face and attempt to straighten my spine, which resembles Richard the Third. Glancing down into the sink I spot an impressive collection of tomato skins and diced carrots, the hand dryer is not working, and my reflection in the mirror reminds me of someone who has spent the last forty years living on Waterloo station. My mouth feels like I have slept with someone else’s false teeth in, my tongue resembles a pack of Poundland sandpaper, and there is a bit of grey fluff stuck to my nose which might once have been part of the insole of an espadrille. I simply have to clean my teeth so I turn the tap on full to disperse the assorted spew in the sink, and water fountains out onto the crotch of my jeans to complete the Waterloo tramp look. Stifling a rising gag, I reckon I have about ten seconds until I pebble-dash my shirt, so I limp out on deck and find myself at the back of the ship. There is not a soul about so throwing back my head I proceed to vomit what seems like about two gallons of wine-flavoured beverage and lagery water, with a hint of Guinness, into the Bay of Biscay. God, the relief is indescribable and I rest my head on the railing to catch my breath, allowing the fresh sea breeze to soothe my shattered torso. I then notice, through bleary eyes, that the deck below juts out farther than mine, and that directly below me is a partitioned off area with tables laid with snowy white cloths and expensive looking cutlery, clearly the first-class dining terrace. Probably reserved for Sunday Times journalists. I sincerely hope so. It must have rained in the night as some of the table cloths are wet, which is strange as my deck is bone dry. Just then a smart waiter comes crashing out to the dining area, glares angrily at the damp linen, and glances up furiously, checking for rain, or whoever has honked over the tables he has carefully laid. Quickly I snap my head back and rush back inside the ship hoping to mingle with the crowds who are on their way to breakfast, so I decide to take a look, more in hope than anticipation.

  The scene that greets me in the dining room is reminiscent of the Little Chef on the A303 circa 1979, the fried eggs are congealed together and have brown frilly bits round them, the bacon looks char-grilled and the sausages of such low quality as to be almost guaranteed to contain traces of horse. The continental option is no better, sweating squares of vivid yellow processed cheese sit next to quivering pink oblongs of a ham-like substance which again could well have been a Grand National runner from a previous century. The miniature boxes of Corn Flakes bear the legend ‘Best Before’ which possibly they were, but at £3.99 there is no way I am about to find out, and the jugs of milk look so thin and watery that I am guessing it has never passed through a cow, but merely a dairy-flavoured beverage. I am about to grab a coffee-flavoured drink and head out on deck, praying that the next three hours pass quickly so I can get off this joyless version of a 1960’s holiday camp, when suddenly a familiar voice rings out behind me. ‘Don’t bother with that crap, mate! Come with me, down to the lorry-drivers’ canteen. Get a full-Monty for a fiver down there!’

  Twisting my stiff neck and pulverised spine, I regard my new friend with my only functioning eye. ‘Lorry-drivers? Did you say lorry-drivers? I’ve just spent the night with about a hundred hairy-arsed lorry-drivers. Why in the name of all things holy would I want to eat breakfast with them? If I never see another lorry-freaking-driver this side of Kingdom Come, I will be a happy man. Bugger-off, Bobby!’

  He guffaws loudly, attracting the attention of a few passengers in matching deck-wear, stripy nautical tops, chinos in various pastel shades, and boating shoes, who wisely give us a wide berth. Particularly me. He slips his arm round my shoulder. ‘You look like shit, by the way! I’m guessing you didn’t get lucky last night!’

  Lucky? I feel like I have been trampled by a herd of buffalo, then gnawed by rats. The only aspect of my current existence remotely approaching ‘lucky’ is that in a few hours I will be cruising through the Spanish sunshine, crossing the Picos de Europa, which I assume are mountains of some description, and heading south towards home, this maritime misery far behind me.

  Suddenly he recoils. ‘Christ! You smell like shit an’ all! Don’t they have showers and toilets up there in the sleeping lounge?!’

  I cannot help a wry chuckle. I have perked up, slightly, at the thought of a full-Monty for a fiver. Even if I have to consume it surrounded by lorry-drivers. Perhaps I can close my other eye
. ‘Yeah, they do, but they’ve recently been pebble-dashed. But not by pebbles.’

  He roars with laughter. ‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up downstairs, and stuff a couple of massive, greasy fry-ups down our guts.’

  Sounds like a plan, Bobby!

  Soon, mercifully, the coastline of Spain appears through the heat-haze, we head down to the car-deck, and say our fond goodbyes. I have his business card in my pocket, and fully intend contacting him about the two cubic metres of personal possessions in the loft of our UK house, following the next change of tenants. Which will be the year after next, hopefully. I will miss the fellow, but a little of Bobby goes a long way. Trust me on this one, should you ever have cause to contact ‘John Roberts, UK-Spain-UK Removals. No job too small’, just don’t ask him to sing. OK? And try not to think about him getting jiggy…….

  I’m not sure who was the more surprised, me or the wasp, but the bastard stung me anyway. Having negotiated a forest of cars, a sea of caravans, an ocean of lorries, half a dozen Saaf-London Mods on puny Lambrettas and the delights of the Hee-HHON ring-road, here I am, minding my own business, cruising along in the warm early-evening Spanish sunshine. After pining for a whole year, I finally have my beloved Harley back, full service and MOT, and raring to go. Gone are damp backsides on the M27 and the dubious, greasy delights of the ‘Little Thief’ on the Okehampton by-pass. I am heading south across the sun-drenched heart of Spain to our Andalucian home. Empty roads beckon. Plus an absence of fog, and drizzle.

  And now this has to happen, miles from anywhere. Hurts like begorra too, I can tell you. I was hit on the arm by a stray dart whilst playing for the Rose and Crown against a bunch of myopic pensioners from the Red Cow in about 1976, and it wasn’t half this painful. And to add insult to injury, the stripy swine is hanging on, stuck in the fleshy bit inside my wrist, wiggling his back legs like Winnie the Pooh trying to escape from Rabbit’s burrow. And a Spanish wasp, too. Aren’t European insects supposed to be worse than the British variety? An English wasp would play fair, sting you once, politely, then die, but Johnny Foreigner here seems intent on injecting me with everything he has. Of course, in the UK I would be dressed in leathers, and gauntlet gloves, barely a square inch of flesh exposed to the elements, and wildlife. But here? Leathers? No chance. Tee-shirt, jeans, and little finger-less mitts.