Majorca 2004 - Day 10

There appears to be new arrivals everyday.

This morning at breakfast a couple were being led to the wrong table by Placido and as they reached it the woman took hold of Placido’s arm and said in a loud voice, “Do you remember Billy? From last year?”

Placido stood there, his fixed grin fixed even more fixedly and the world weary glazed look in his eyes started to turn to one of panic.

“Yeeeees, si si, last year?” He smiled.

“Wore a Real Madrid T shirt and – “

“Ah, si, si,” he lied, “shirt, futbol, si” and he waved his arms across his chest to show her he knew what a shirt was.

“Well,” the woman continued, “I’m his next door neighbour, yes really.”

They all had a bit of a laugh and as he hurried away Placido said, “Ah si, si, go away stupid woman” but it came out as “Ah si, si, I know him.”

Now one of the activity freaks is a bloke called Derek who calls himself Del Boy. He’s as skinny as a rake, has a moustache and looks just like one of the Chuckle Brothers – the short one according to Dan. When he’s not taking part in things he spends his time doing impressions of Frank Spencer and Norman Collier’s chicken walk. Life and soul is Del Boy. Everybody knows Del Boy. Always game for a laugh is Del Boy. When the bloody hell is he going home?

Today my sun bed is quite near the pool table and it’s the poo-el competition in five minutes according to Emmathethomsonrep whose voice seems to get harsher and higher by the day. This means that I have a good view of what goes on without actually moving which is a bonus as far as I’m concerned. To take part in knockout poo-el each participant has to put 1.5 euros in the pot. Why 1.5 euros and not one or two, a nice round number? Who knows? Anyway, it’s 1.5 euros into a bucket and the winner takes all.

No pansying around playing for a Thomson Gold polo shirt or baseball cap here. This is serious stuff. The idea is to pot as many balls as you can in one minute and there’s quite a crowd of competitive competitors milling around the poo-el table waiting for something to happen. They give their names to Emmathethomsonrep who calls them up one by one to the poo-el table to play.

So here we go then, first up it’s Brian – four pots then it’s Frank – five pots, next Bill – five pots and next - “Del Boy” screeches Emmathethomsonrep.

Del Boy walked up to the table like a clucking chicken while shouting “Ooh Betty.” He rapidly chicken walked around the table potting four and finished in a flourish to walk away, head bobbing, elbows flapping and shouting, “Ooh Betty, the cat’s done a whoopsie.” Everybody laughed. Good old Del Boy. What a character eh? When the bloody hell is he going home?

“Next oop,” bellowed Emmathethomsonrep, “it’s The Shark.”

Hang on, did she really say that? The Shark? A smile passed my lips. This was getting even better. The Shark? What’s going on? Is that his real name or just his holiday name? Or is he called that wherever he goes? Bloody hell, this is good. I want to be known as The Prawn from now on. Gives that added air of mystery and makes a definite impression don’t you think?

Anyway it’s The Shark’s turn. All of a sudden as if from nowhere, a short, squat, bald man swaggered up to the table, cigar drooping from the corner of his mouth, diamond encrusted swimming trunks glittering in the midday sun and snatched the poo-el cue from Del Boy.

Del Boy stopped arsing about in mid-Betty. The Shark narrowed his eyes, bent forward over the table and was away. In a blur of cigar smoke and diamonds he cleared the table before Emmathethomsonrep could scream “Thirty seconds to go” and stood there head held back, breathing slightly heavily while daring anyone not to applaud his achievement.

“The Shark wins,” screeched Emmathethomsonrep while all around, streamers were falling from the ceiling, women and children started to dance and clap, old crippled men with gap-toothed grins came hobbling out of their hiding places and began to wave their hands in the air.

Del Boy moved back into the shadows unseen and a broken man. For now, let this Shark have his moment in the spotlight. There’ll be other times, other days when Del Boy will once again be the centre of attention. He’ll bide his time. He’ll wait and scheme and scheme and wait until the moment was right and when it was he’d be back on top with a new Betty catch phrase, this one even more unfunny and pathetic than the one before

“No hurry, MISTER Shark,” he mumbled to himself under his breath, his mind already racing through ‘Some Mother’s Do ‘Ave ‘Em’ episode four, the one where Frank takes his driving test, and he smiled at the prospect of another face off with The Shark. One in which next time Del Boy would soon be back on top of the world where he rightly belonged.

The Shark won 13.5 euros by the way. A cool profit of 12 euros and not bad for a dishonest day’s work.

Emma’s had her hair done in those Stevie Wonder Afro plaits again this year, they suit her.

A big bloke comes into dinner every evening wearing one of those pirate scarf things on his head. So far it’s been a different one every night and I’m starting to get the feeling that we might have something in common – you know, an affinity with the sea, piratical history and adventure, looting, tattoos and a love of silly hats. I waited until he’d gone up to the buffet for more fish pie, fish fingers and fish cakes, sidled up to him and started to shout at the top of my voice, “Full steam ahead bosun. ……shorten the foretop halliard………..all hands to the glory box………..send McFiggin to the riggin’………”

He looked at me with interest. He could tell I was a fellow seafarin’ man. Encouraged, I carried on, “Pay off handsomely the aft spindle sheet me ‘ansome……….put a turk’s head round the sternpost……….request the trio to play Fingal’s Cave below decks……….”

Now we’d bonded all right and while he stood there, his fish pie steaming, I continued, this time with a few well chosen hand and leg flourishes to emphasise the words, “Furl your upper t’gallant…….belay the starboard nosh bar……..pipe all hands to the starboard hawsehole………….away the bloody Labour Party…………..all hands to the…………”.

My words were suddenly halted by a large woman disguised as Emmathethomsonrep as she grabbed me by the neck from behind and wrestled me to the ground. At the same time, Placido Domingo was screaming down his walkie-talkie, “Security, security, a hotel guest has gone berserk again.”

As I slowly lost consciousness with Emmathethomsonrep’s foot on my head I just managed to hear her shout to Placido, “But it’s not even Friday today!”