Apart from the large Herons that would sweep over us, twist up into clear blue sky before plunging dart-shaped into the crystal sea, there isn’t really much more to say about the local animals, save the mosquitoes that, predictably, dined on European flesh as if it were Soylent Green –which it actually was. We sort of accidentally adopted a dog that we named ‘Wankita’. She was small mangy thing that just started to hang around us. She even slept on the porch one evening (I wasn’t complaining, she could keep the wildlife at bay) but we weren’t going to get too close. For a start she had an owner of sorts and secondly she was a flea theme park. There was an offer to dive with a school of dolphins, we saw them splashing and splishing from the beach, but I just thought, ‘nah, cunts,’ and dismissed the thought as if it were a previously cited bug.
The rest of our stay in Mexico is notably uneventful (save one life-changing event that I’ll come on to later) because something unexpected occurred. I don’t understand why someone would want to lie on a beach all day (and I still don’t) but I hadn’t considered how much I’d enjoy traipsing up and down miles of empty beach with my missus, on one side the rolling cerulean ocean as it smoothed eyeball-shattering white sand, on the other, picture-card palms waving slowly in the merest of breezes, bearing heavy clusters of drupe like an endowment of green and brown bollocks.
But most of all I’d not anticipated how much I enjoyed being in the water itself.
I’ve no objection to swimming in the sea per se but I’m more used to a cold grey muck that chews angrily at pebbles and rocks, the bone freezing stuff that takes five minutes to acclimatise to whilst one tip-toes gingerly over pointy stones, nails and ripped up cans of Blackthorn cider. After much persuading from IC I donned a pair of trunks, walked across the soft dry sand and dipped my toe in to the… fuck-a-donkey, warm crystal water! Like a five-year-old idiot I pounded into the sea and sploshed about in a manner most unbecoming of an English fellow. I dived, dove, ducked, swam and frolicked as waves crashed hither and thither. It was fucking marvellous.
As beach bars punctuated our long walks there was always plenty of opportunity for refreshments, I discovered the more margaritas I absorbed the more fun the sea was. We’d walk, drink, swim, for hours on end, in fact we spent days doing this. There was always time for a spot of serendipity, aside from the comings and goings of the natural habitat one afternoon we bumped into bar with a rock/reggae band playing on the beach. Bloody good they were too, the young, tanned sods.
In the evenings we’d eat locally with our toes wriggling in the sand, sometimes watching the sun set over the sea which was so absurdly beautiful the exact opposite of this unadulterated wonder would be contracting the Ebola virus just before Colour Me Badd’s ‘I wanna Sex you Up’ played on loop until you died.
Alas, all good things come to an end (an understatement if ever there was one) so we decided to end proceedings with a bit of a bang, if you please. As we were flying home from Cackcoon we felt it would be easier to spend a final night there, after a pitifully small amount of research at an internet cafe we found a five star mega hotel by the sea for $99.
This place was enormous, vast. It took ten minutes to walk from one side if it to the other and it featured Japanese Gardens, fucking indoor waterfalls, endless vines dangling from the enormous glass roof all enclosed in a building shaped like a pyramid. It had a convoluted swimming pool with a bar and steps down right on to the beach which had an uncanny effect of making all the natural beauty seem rather sterile. Our room on the 5th Floor was twice the size of our flat; it had a lounge fitted with all mod cons, a small kitchen, a bedroom and two balconies one of which contained a Jacuzzi. I really don’t get those, or maybe that was because when I tried it out I’d acquired a spot of sunstroke the previous day after leaving my silly-yet-effective straw cowboy hat at the cabana.
That evening we had the pleasure of some crooner in one of the bars (quite good he was if I’m honest) despite my managing to chuck my Martini all over the floor during his rendition of Twenty-Four Hours to Tulsa. The other guests were largely rich Americans, some of them quite clearly rich for reasons best described as ‘iffy’ as at times the place resembled the set of Goodfellas.
After our cocktails we retired to our room and ordered pizza and wine, bizarrely. I think it was our way of detuning. We consumed supper in front of a TV the size of a horse, even more peculiar is that we opted to watch a dreadful British horror film called Creep, it featured the London Underground and at one point, London Fields, for all intense and purposes, home.
After a quick swim in the pool the following morning it was time to go. We packed and got the cab to the airport for our 4pm flight, as we took off we flew right past our hotel and, worryingly, didn’t really seem to gain much height for next hour so which caused me to freak out. It was a shocking flight, more ups and downs than Amy Winehouse and with a disturbing view over the flooded plains of Mississippi. After circling for half an hour we landed in Detroit, passed through customs after being interrogated by a jobs worth prick (everyone else went straight through, not us –and I was fucking sober) and hit a miserable wine bar.
We all know ‘American’ and ‘wine’ are as compatible as ‘shine’ and ‘shit,’ the muck they served in the place, and the pompous way in which it was served, was enough to make one almost sick. ‘Almost,’ not entirely, as it was consumed, albeit speedily. As we left some tool with a baseball hat called over to us, ‘hey, you young crazy kids…’ ‘Young!!’ I snorted back, ‘I’m 42.’ Which shut the dick up.
The flight back to London wasn’t as bad as we had a couple of good films to watch and, of course, lashing of food and drink. We landed at midday UK time but for us it was good knows when, we took the bus home feeling all weird and finally arrived back at the flat a couple of hours later. I weakly carried my wife over the threshold and we had some champagne to cheer us both up.
It’s worth mentioning that the threshold we crossed was no longer the rented accommodation we left. It was now our flat following a phone call at 5am Mexico time from our Agent.
Before the wedding (we’ll come on to that next time) and during the honeymoon we’d been having daily conversations with our solicitors and the vendor as we tied up the last of the details. But this wasn’t all, I’d been having similar conversations with my solicitor regarding the sale of that place I own in Sarf Landan, regular readers will recall that my neighbour is a steaming great cunt. Astonishingly, following the 5am call I got another one at 5.30 informing me I’d finally rid myself of that dreadful place after five years of unimaginable hassle. Even typing this now it doesn’t feel real. But it is. Yay.
Gerry’s chart and tune make a welcome return (it’s presented all funny for reasons unknown) enjoy the selected hit from his parade (perhaps an unsurprising choice to those in the know –and well done for some spot on advertising at the beginning of the video. Jesus Christ) and I’ll be back next week.
Chase And Status
I Want You
Kings Of Leon
Back Down South
The A Team
New Year’s Day
Never By Your Side
So Far Away
Don’t Sit Down
P J Harvey
The Glorious Land
All In White
Frankie + The Heartstrings
I Know How To Die
Future Starts Slow
Martin Solveig ft Kele
Ready 2 Go
Personal Jesus 2011
Set Fire To The Rain
Bring Me The Horizon
Blessed With A Curse