Majorca 2004 - Day 9

I had a bit of trouble with the coffee machine this morning.

It’s a basic affair; two buttons over two nozzles, one marked coffee the other, tea. So far I’ve been pressing the coffee button and everything’s been fine. This morning I thought I’d try one of the Nescafe sachets. All you have to do is mix it with hot water from the coffee machine, there was a button on the machine labelled ‘Hot Water’ but there wasn’t any nozzle for it. I was standing there with my cup of Nescafe powder staring at the machine when Betty came up in yet another brand new Thomson Gold T shirt and baseball cap and said, “Just put your cup under the nozzle marked ‘Tea’ and press the hot water button. “Oh, right,” I said, “thanks.”

Bloody obvious really.

If you’re not down by the pool by at least 9 am then you’ve got no chance of getting a sun bed. There aren’t many people about but every sun bed has a towel on it. Some people don’t seem to turn up until the afternoon but they’ve still reserved the bed. The trouble is it’s difficult to know if somebody’s just left the bed for 10 minutes or so or if they just haven’t been there in the first place.

That’s the trouble with old people, they don’t sleep. They’re so used to getting up at the crack of dawn to get ready for their trip to the Post Office where they start queuing with all the other old people at 6.30 am waiting for it to open at 9 am. They put all that getting up for the Post Office energy into getting up for the sun beds. We don’t stand a chance with this lot. An awful lot of people not only seem to have a sun bed everyday, they also appear to have the same sun bed in the same position around the pool everyday. These people must sleep on them overnight.

I saw a sign today, “No dancing in pool area before I am”.

“Before who is?” I said to Pauline, “is there someone who comes out at night and starts dancing while shouting out, ‘It’s all right everyone. I’ve started.’”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Pauline, “it says ‘No dancing in pool area before 1 a.m.’.

Oh no, it’s time for one of Emmathethomsonrep’s hourly announcements. Here she goes in that screeching Northern voice of hers, “OK ladies and gents. It’s target darts time in just a minute so if you want to take part just come on oop t’stage and we’ll sort you out. You’ll be playing today for the Thomson Gold baseball cap.”

This is the cue for the same group of people who take part in everything everyday to suddenly start stirring themselves and to wander over.

The only bloody game they don’t seem to have is who can stuff the most socks into the bloody mouth of Emmathethomsonrep.

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!”

Majorca 2004 - Day 11

Today is our big day out. Pauline has planned it very carefully, We get the 10.15 bus to Palma and then get a 12.15 train in a –

“Journey back in time. Experience the magic of a railway at the beginning of the XX century, Travel in a vintage train that has covered the marvellous Sierra de Tramuntana route from Palma to Soller since 1912. Afterwards go on the first electric tram in Majorca and enjoy the sights of the charming Soller valley with its orange tree orchards on the way to the magnificent port.”

We then get the 14.00 train back from Soller to Palma, have all afternoon to have a look round, a bite to eat, shop and then it’s back on the bus home to our resort. This doesn’t give us much time at Soller but there aren’t any trains from Soller to Palma between 14.00 and 18.30 and if we got the 18.30 we wouldn’t really have any time to look around Palma.

The 10.15 bus stops just around the corner from the hotel and we’ve decided to be at the bus stop at 10.00 just to be sure we’re in time. Maybe a slight overkill but you can never be too careful can you? As we stepped out of the hotel at 09.55 a bus went hurtling past us. “I think that said Palma on the front,” said Emma. “Couldn’t have done,” I said. We turned the corner to the bus stop and seeing a couple waiting there, Pauline casually asked if they were waiting for the Palma bus.

“Yow joos meesedit,” the man said.

“What did he say?” I whispered to Pauline.

“We’ve just missed it,” she said.

“Woive bin waitin ere fer it an e joos droive past the stop e did. Deedn bother to stop or even sloiw down or enythink. The troin boos ad stopped an whether e thought we wuz all getting’ on tha’ I don’ knoiw. ‘E joos didn’ stop.”

“What did he say?” I whispered to Pauline.

“He said they’ve been waiting here for it and the bus just drove past the stop.”

We then spent a good five minutes or so checking and re-checking the bus timetable while the man kept saying things like, “Oi don’ beloive it” and “Joos droive past e did, joos droive past. Weer meetin oor daugh’er in Palma an we woin get theer now.”

“What did he say?” I whispered to Pauline.

“He said they’ve arranged to meet their daughter – oh never mind, just shut up,” said Pauline.

None of us could believe that a 10.15 bus could arrive at 09.55 and then not stop to pick up any passengers who were foolishly at the bus stop twenty minutes early. Then a Spanish lady with a small son came along and said to us, “Palma?”

“Noiw, eet’s gon,” said the man, “eet’s gon, vamoose, deedn even stop.”

The Spanish lady looked puzzled.

The man started to shout at her, “Eet’s gon. Oi don’ believe eet, vamoosed it as, vamoosed. Oi don’ believe eet. No stopo. Too late.”

I smiled at Emma, “How the hell will this lady know what he’s going on about?” I said, “we can’t even understand him and we’re English.”

It was becoming apparent that now we’d missed the 10.15 bus at 09.55 we’d have to wait for the next bus at 10.45, a 45 minute wait for a bus that would take twice as long as the one we’d missed because the later bus took a more circuitous route. This meant too, that we’d miss all the carefully planned connections that Pauline had sorted out. Bloody hell.

The 10.45 bus arrived dead on time, it was predictably crowded, full of all the people who weren’t at their bus stops 20 minutes early for the earlier bus. We just managed to get a seat but after about two more stops the bus pulled in and some of us were ushered off the bus and on to another one which had turned up as an empty relief bus. This made both buses able to pick up more passengers on the way without cramming them all in like sardines. The journey took 90 minutes and we arrived at Palma station just in time to miss the 12.15 train.

It was time to rethink our schedule.

We decided that the only way to see something of Palma and still get the train to Soller was to aim for the 15.30 to Soller and get the first train back from there at 18.30.

So we only had just over two hours to sightsee Palma and get back for the train.

The very first clothes shop we passed, Emma walked into. I think we’d explored about 100 yards of Palma by then so with our few hours to kill we should be able to see at least to the end of the street and back. It was very hot and while Pauline strolled outside in the sun I went into the shop and sat down on one of two chairs to wait for Emma in air-conditioned comfort.

The other chair was just a yard or two in front of me and sitting on it facing me was a big fat man surrounded by bags of shopping. There was Spanish dance music coming from the shop speakers and I sat there gazing around tapping my right hand on my right knee to the intoxicating Spanish flamenco rhythms. It was then that I noticed the big fat man opposite was tapping his left hand on his left knee. I gazed around some more, my left foot now tapping a counter rhythm to my right hand. I looked across and the big fat man was doing the same with his right foot. My head started to bob up and down – and so did his.

Then a searing Flamenco dance version of Donna Summer’s Hot Love came blasting through the speakers, our shoulders started to twitch, our legs started to boogie and in a sudden mirror image of each other we were up dancing around the shopping bags. As I effortlessly segued from a boogie into a rhumba the big fat man threw his arms in the air and started to limbo under the clothes racks.

By this time I’d rhumba’d around the other side and without missing a beat I extended one arm behind and above my head, lent back and with the other arm outstretched down in front of me I pulled the fat man out from under the pile of clothes that covered him on the floor.

Holding hands we shimmied across to the jeans and tops section, our feet kicking up and behind us in perfect unison. With a leap I was on the stairs to the top floor swimwear and perfumery and shaking my shoulders and wiggling my hips I clambered onto the chrome polished handrail. With one foot poised in front and the other poised at the back to preserve balance I stood and slid down the handrail into the waiting arms of the big fat man who was now doing a salsa round the cash desk. What a mover he was and what a pair we made as he casually shimmied back to his chair with me in his arms resting on his huge stomach which was incredibly, wobbling in perfect time to Donna’s lead vocal.

The big fat man lowered me onto my chair and sat down opposite me. We both sat there exhausted but happy tapping our feet until a woman with two small children came up and bustled the big fat man away.

Not a word had been spoken between us but I secretly hoped that we would meet again sometime, somewhere in another shop further down the street but it was not to be. Even though, to Pauline’s surprise, I kept going into every clothes shop I passed, I never saw the big fat man again.

Time was pressing and we wanted to walk around as much of Palma as we could before rushing back to the railway station to catch our train. The trouble was we couldn’t really do very much in the time we had left. We made for the cathedral but panic was setting in as we couldn’t find it and our damn train was due to leave at 15.30. All of a sudden the cathedral loomed into view but we still didn’t have time to look inside, all we could do was walk around the outside walled perimeter, take a few photos before glancing at our watches and deciding we had to rush back to the station grabbing a quick snack from a kiosk on the way.

We eventually got back to the station, the ticket office was crowded but Pauline managed to get our tickets without any problems and we stood on the platform waiting for the vintage train and the magic of a journey back in time. As you would expect from a turn of the century train, everything about it was quite small. The carriages were small and the seats were small, wooden slatted benches crammed into each carriage so that you couldn’t sit on a seat without your knees pressing hard up against the person in the opposite seat. This coupled with the ninety degree straight wooden slatted backs to the bench made for an extremely uncomfortable ride unless you had legs twelve inches long and a backbone made of jelly.

The journey to Soller took about an hour and we travelled inland through some remarkable scenery, climbing slowly through mountainous regions until we finally descended into the town of Soller.

As I tried to get up off the slatted wooden bench at the end of the journey I realised that this ride on the vintage train had given me a hell of a vintage backache to remember it by, but never mind we’d arrived without being derailed down the side of a mountain and I was grateful for that.

It was now 16.30 and the magic vintage train back to Palma was leaving at 18.30 so we had two hours to get the magic vintage first electrical tram in Majorca down to Port de Soller, have a look round and get back on the magic vintage first electrical tram in Majorca in order to catch the magic vintage train to Palma.

Bloody hell, the day was turning into a race against time everywhere we went.

We finally got the magic vintage first electrical tram to the port. It took 20 minutes and they ran every 30 minutes. So by the time we got off the tram at the port it was about 17.00, we didn’t want to miss the train back to Palma at 18.30 so we thought it would be wise to get the 17.30 tram back to Soller that would get back before 18.00 giving us 30+ minutes before the train left for Palma. Still with me? If you are then you may have realised that doing all this, only gave us 30 minutes at Port de Soller. Just enough time to have a rushed drink in a bar and then back on the vintage first electrical tram in Majorca again.

Bloody hell, I’m going to need a couple of days to recover from all this rushing about.

Anyway, there we were, back at the station at Soller waiting for the vintage train to take us back to Palma. There was no sign of the train yet when Pauline said, “Hang on I need to go to the loo,” and off she went. As soon as she’d gone the train came into the station. Meanwhile, Emma, Dan and myself were standing there like lemons watching all these people getting on the train and slowly filling up the seats. I couldn’t face the hour long journey back standing up so I said to Emma and Dan, “Let’s get on while mum’s in the loo, we’ll make sure we at least get a seat and we can save one for mum once we’re on.”

We climbed on board, found some seats and waited for Pauline.

Suddenly Emma shouted, “Dad, dad, I think the train’s about to go!”

“Don’t be daft, it’s not due to go yet, it’s only 18.15, there’s fifteen minutes to go,” I said.

“No, it is, it really is,” shouted Emma, “what are we going to do? Where’s mum? She’s not on the platform yet.”

“Put your head out of the window and see if you can see her,” I said while some Spanish guard was obviously shouting something like ‘All aboard’.

Then I saw Emma waving frantically out of the window shouting, “Mum, mum, we’re here, we’re here,” and Pauline came rushing into the carriage.

A few seconds later the train started to move.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t caught the train?” Pauline said.

“We’d have waited at the other end for you. There’s another train after this one,” I said.

“But I’ve got the tickets,” Pauline said.

“Ah, well I expect I would have had to pay the ticket collector for a set of new tickets,” I said.

“But you haven’t got any money, I’ve got it all,” said Pauline.

“Ah…………………well…………….um……….anyway it doesn’t matter does it? You got the train anyway so all this is by the by isn’t it,” I said.

Bloody hell! What a narrow escape eh? I could have been writing this from a Spanish cell awaiting sentence on fare evasion but it all turned out right in the end didn’t it?

Majorca 2004 - Day 12

Saw The Shark at breakfast today.

He was accompanied by his entourage and hangers-on, basically a little old lady who looked like she was his mother but I think she’s his wife. The crowd milling around the buffet table mysteriously parted like the Red Sea as he slowly walked towards them to get his boiled egg and soldiers. Not a word was spoken, just a deferential hush across the dining room until The Shark had sat down. He picked up a buttered soldier, dipped it into his egg and a general hubbub returned along with an edgy feeling of normality.

The psycho toast woman with the mad starin’ eyes is on the next table to us this morning. Her breakfast routine is always frighteningly the same. First she eats a plate of bacon and eggs quite normally but then she goes up and brings back two slices of toast, two cartons of marmalade, two cartons of butter but no plate. She puts the toast on the tablecloth next to the now empty plate of bacon and eggs, opens one of the butter cartons and with her mad starin’ eyes she starts to spread the first piece of toast with butter. No, she doesn’t spread the butter with her mad starin’ eyes, she uses a knife silly.

This toast spreading is a very precise operation. She doesn’t move her head at all and just stares madly with her mad starin’ eyes at the piece of toast while she v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y spreads butter over every square inch of the surface of the toast, right up to the very edges so that every part of the toast is uniformly covered with butter. If there’s a slight butter ridge, this is flattened out and the resulting ripple of butter is flattened and flattened and flattened until the total area of butter is as flat and as level as a piece of glass.

This takes about five minutes and when she’s satisfied with the result, she repeats the exercise with the second piece of toast, her mad starin’ eyes staring madly all the time. Another five minutes or so and she’s ready for the marmalade.

By this time my coffee had gone cold and as I sat there staring madly at her with my mad staring eyes I thought, “Bloody hell, what’s she going to do with the marmalade? Marmalade’s not like butter is it? It’s not so spreadable is it? It’s got bits in it. It can’t be spread to a uniform thickness can it?”

I was beginning to feel nervous.

The mad starin’ eyes had by now focused on the marmalade carton and slowly, with great precision, the woman with the mad starin’ eyes began her deadly work. Ten minutes and the first slice of toast was done. Another ten minutes went by and she was still chasing a small piece of orange peel across the surface of the second piece of toast in an effort to find the right spot for it.

Her mad starin’ eyes were starin’ madder than ever.

“Quick,” I said to Pauline, “she’s going to blow. Get under the table quick.”

Pauline said, “Don’t be stupid,” and left for the pool.

I sat huddled under the table for what seemed hours. In fact it was hours.

When I finally plucked up the courage to peep out from under the tablecloth I heard the comforting cry of Placido the head waiter, “It OK. It OK. We find him. Security. Security.”

It’s special Mallorcan night in the dining room tonight. Let’s hope we get to try some of those typical Mallorcan dishes as recommended in the local guide brochure we picked up the other day, roasted starlings and cabbage followed by spicy pie with vegetables and eel would go down very nicely I think.

As it turned out, the Mallorcan evening was just as much of an anti-climax as all the rest of the so-called special evenings. The big difference was Placido’s outfit actually looked pretty good for a change. It fitted in all the right places and the waitresses all looked pretty in their Mallorcan national dress but there was no atmosphere as usual. No music and no sense of anything out of the ordinary apart from the staff wearing different clothes.

I didn’t see the Pirate Man tonight, not that he’s particularly Mallorcan but it would have been nice to show him that there were no hard feelings wouldn’t it? Apart from that graze on my neck where Emmathethomsonrep grabbed me.

The entertainment tonight is George Pena. Billed as ‘The Showman’, the poster in reception shows a wild and crazy middle-aged man with a sort of Ken Dodd hairstyle and a dumb look. This looks like my kind of act, we’ll have to get a front table for this bloke.

What a disappointment.

He came on in a tatty fat outfit with the Ken Dodd wig on impersonating Pavarotti and went downhill from there on. He was American with some sort of Spanish accent in there somewhere and was not funny or particularly entertaining. He’d had some formal opera training, so he said, and his act reflected this. Switching from so called serious renditions of popular opera classics for people who know nothing about opera to comedy routines based around Tom Jones and his piece de resistance – a routine about how rap music would sound sung by a Yorkshire man. He had the audience in stitches. With feeble jokes and an ingratiating way of mentioning all things British he carried on getting worse and worse but more and more applause. He just went on and on and on. Finally he spent ten minutes or so telling us how he had a video, CD, DVD and cassette available of his performance if we’d like to walk round to the end of the stage and pay him fifteen euros for each one or 25 euros for two.

Christ, we couldn’t sit through a live performance, let alone relive it again and again on DVD. I’m really sorry I dragged you along to this. I had high hopes for this act but it’s let me down again. But the audience didn’t care. That’s the worrying thing. They just didn’t care how bad he was, they just kept applauding and laughing as if it was the best night of their sad little lives.

Judging by some of the women’s outfits it probably was.

Majorca 2004 - Day 13

I haven’t seen Del Boy around the place for a few days now. Perhaps he’s gone home at last.

This morning our sun beds are roughly equidistant from the swimming poo-el and the poo-el table so I’ve got a good view of both. Every morning at 11 am there’s a session of ‘Aqua Aerobics’ in the shallow poo-el and every morning I’ve ignored it, basically because we’ve been nowhere near the poo-el where it’s been going on but this morning I’m right there. It’s already attracted quite a number of people who are all standing up to their knees in the water waiting to start the series of gentle exercises that Emmathethomsonrep will be demonstrating while screeching out instructions at the top of her voice.

They were all about to start when, with immaculate timing, there was a shout, “Hang on, wait for me,” and there by the side of the poo-el stood Del Boy dressed in a pair of striped pyjama bottoms, a sleeveless Fairisle pullover and a black beret. “I’ve only just got up,” he said in his Frank Spencer voice.

And I laughed. I laughed out loud. I laughed so loud I frightened myself. I laughed and kept on laughing as Del Boy’s Frank Spencer got more and more manic the longer the aerobics session went on. By now he was in the poo-el and performing the exercises along with everybody else. He had me in stitches just by repeating everything Emmathethomsonrep was shouting out while attempting the exercises.

And it got even better.

With Del Boy saying things like “Bend your knees Betty”, “Head up – and – head down – hold it Betty – 1 2 3 – oh I can see my feet” another bloke in the pool started to do his Tommy Cooper impression. So then we had Emmathethomsonrep shouting out “Push the water, in – and – out, lift your left leg – 1 – 2 – 3, now the right one – 4 – 5 – 6”, Del Boy shouting out, “Push the water, ooh ooh, lift your legs – 1 – 2 – 3, ooh Betty I’ve fallen over” and the Tommy Cooper man saying things like, “Leg up – over there – no – over here, huh huh huh”.

It was bloody hilarious and to top it all, as Del Boy got out of the poo-el his jumper had stretched with the weight of the water and was now hanging down around his knees. I just collapsed. I couldn’t stop laughing. You had to be there, you just had to be there……..Del Boy, all is forgiven…..I love you Del Boy.

Half an hour later and it’s the killer poo-el competition again. Same group of people but this time Del Boy has changed out of his Frank Spencer getup and is parading around in shorts and one of those novelty hats that look like a construction worker’s hard hat with places that hold a can of lager on each side with a plastic tube leading out of both of them to your mouth. He played the whole of the competition like that.

When the bloody hell is he going home?

Later in the day Pauline and I went for a stroll along the beach and continued along the coast across scrubland and into the nature reserve area of the coast. On the way back we passed a bloke sitting on a rock by the edge of the sea gazing out into the distance.

All he was wearing was a hat and a pair of sunglasses. Nothing else at all.

We were miles from any roads, there were no signs of any transport so how did he get there in that state? He must have walked.

Bloody exhibitionistic pervert.

Majorca 2004 - Day 14

Uh-oh. Trouble’s brewing or to be more precise, it isn’t brewing – the coffee machine that is.

The Shark has just walked up, put his cup under the coffee nozzle, pressed the start button and to his utter bewilderment, nothing poured out. He stood there stock still, staring at the cup while everyone else wandered round the buffet table to the coffee machine on the other side. Two minutes went by, still no sign of movement from the Shark and then, very very slowly, his forefinger pressed the button again. Another two minutes went by as the Shark again stood there absolutely blooming still, staring at his empty cup, no discernable signs of life except for a small nerve in his left temple that had started to twitch.

One of the waitresses walked past and The Shark grunted.

Then pandemonium broke out. Waitresses were suddenly milling about like ants, bumping into each other in their haste to do something but not really knowing what. A chef ran out of the kitchen with a big can of coffee powder and started to pour it into the top of the coffee machine, a job made all the more difficult by the fact that the Shark still hadn’t moved a muscle and was still rooted to his original spot right in front of the machine.

The sweet young girl whose job it was to look after the coffee machines was dragged screaming from the kitchen and thrown onto the dining room tiled floor where she slid all the way across the room finally coming to a standstill at the Shark’s feet.

Placido the head waiter rushed over, took her outside and had her shot.

Meanwhile The Shark lifted his hand to the machine once more, pressed the button and with a satisfied smile watched closely as the coffee poured straight down all over his feet.

He’d forgotten to put his cup back.

I keep seeing The Talking Lady everywhere I go.

She has this very annoying habit of talking to everybody. Not just in passing, but all the time. Whatever the time of day. Wherever she is. Whoever she’s near to. She’ll be talking. She’s talking on the sun bed. She’s talking in the hall. She’s talking in reception. She’s talking on the stairs. She’s talking at the bus stop. She’s talking but who cares? Who cares, who cares, who cares, who cares, who cares, who cares, WHO CARES?

Del Boy went home today.

I saw him sitting with a group of fellow travellers this morning, waiting for their coach pickup. He seemed un-typically quiet and pensive. I never thought I’d say this but I’m going to miss the old fool. There are lots of people sitting around swapping home addresses today.

Never ever do this!

Unless you want some boring couple you’ve got nothing in common with except sun beds to suddenly turn up on your doorstep at Christmas. I generally use a false name and if pushed I say I work for the Foreign Office. This usually works until Pauline gives the game away by calling me Pete instead of the pre-arranged Caruthers.

Jesus, there’s a headless woman on one of the sun beds!

Nope, false alarm, she’s just got a towel the same colour as the sun bed draped over her head.

A woman came up to me today and asked me what the time was. I said, “The big hand’s on four and the little hand’s on…..hang on….no, the little hands on four and the big hand’s on ten…or is it nine? As the woman backed away, Pauline said to her, “Oh, he’s only joking.”

Sometimes it’s just not worth it is it?

It’s strange how during the day you’ll see all these middle-aged women sunbathing topless by the pool and then at dinner in the evening, there they all are, dressed up in all their posh dresses for the night.

As I passed the table of one woman tonight I gave her an exaggerated wink and said, “Nice nipples.”

We leave tomorrow.

Majorca 2004 - Day 15

Our flight from Palma is at 11.45 and the coach is picking us up at 8.55 so we had time for breakfast before we left.

It’s been an exceptionally quiet but relaxing holiday and it’s been nice not to have our sleep disturbed by moronic hotel guests slamming doors at two or three in the morning or running up and down the corridors shouting and generally behaving as if it was three in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. I could have done with not so many pins dropping during the day though. Having said that, this ‘Thomson Gold’ holiday setup does seem to work. By restricting bookings to over sixteen’s and using three star and above accommodation, it does create an older generation environment – trouble free and easy going.

It took me time to get used to it but the standard of hotel, the service, food and, yes even the organised entertainment was fine if that’s the sort of thing you like. We ignored most of that but still enjoyed the holiday.

And if you wanted to spend a warm evening with a few drinks watching average to bad entertainment than you could do worse than sit around the hotel open air stage and marvel at Emmathethomsonrep and the incredible tackiness of all the acts.

Roll on next year.