New Website – Come Hither –

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Cleaned Out

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Nine times out of ten, I seem to get on well with Mexican people. Pretty sure this is down to my knowledge and enthusiasm for Jorge Campos. Great goalkeeper. Even better name. Yor. Gee. Yoooor. Geeeee. Nine times out of ten, this makes an instant connection. Breaks through the barrier of a lack of Spanish/English that might present itself, and usually the conversation is finished with a big high five in the name of Jorge. One time out of ten the guy is just a chump. But that’s another boring story. Although now there appears to be another time where I am lead to believe the person is from Mexico. But actually is not. And cleans me out. Continue Reading »

99 Luftballons

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The following three adjectives might sum up why I am not yet back in L.A, typing this up… stupidity, impatience, and my inability to wait for the website page to load to confirm my flight had actually been booked, instead of me closing it down in a rush to leave the house. Maybe prolix should’ve been the third one. (Ha, just in case, like me, you have to look that up, click here). Anyways, luckily for you, even though I said I would only blogaruu from on when in L.A, a few events have taken place over the past few days, which have urged my typing hand to type.

Firstly, the draft of the episode has more or less been fully completed. Re-writes are slowing down to roughly only one a day, so I think it is good to go. In fact, is has gone, been emailed out to a few people in L.A already, time for the offers to flood in. Nay. Completing the episode and emailing it off to interested parties has actually provided me with far less satisfaction than I would previously have imagined. Far, far less. Which is actually a good thing.

Now it is written, so what, well done. Same as writing a good song perhaps, lyrics mean bob all on paper. I now need music, and singers! If you get what I mean. The script is longer than one (well, I) might have imagined, almost 50 pages. Getting someone to sit down and read all this, fully as to get the humour and all that, is asking a tad much. Particularly when I am who again? The key here is to get my visual, any visual, to accompany my script. I am aiming for a few scenes to make a mini episode out of them, but even if I can get one in the time which I have left, I shall be pleased. Moderately. At least then I can show a 5 minute clip, or a 30 second clip, giving the feel that I am aiming for, and luring, whoever it may be, in with my packet of sweets and my cheesy reel, so that they will want to then read the magnificent episode!

Another event to have occurred since last blogaruu, was a little old D.J gig, in a bar here in San Frankisco. Finally, a flow of money inwards was on the cards, but everything comes out a cost. Including money. I was told beforehand that it might not be the kind of crowd that I play to regularly down in L.A, i.e the crowd at the gym. Not too worry, I told them in return, I also D.J in a bar in L.A, I am very adaptable, I have a broad range. My one request, is that you have none. Ok, cool, should be good, just bring a few Irish songs along with you in case. No, I shall not, I will win them over with my remixes. Take them on, head first. If the women and the gay guys in the gym love them so much, then your punters surely will too.

Happy enough that my name was up in lights outside the door as I entered the bar… Tonight “D.J No Requests” All the way from L.A!!! A new name is added to the list. To say that the bar was packed, might be a bit of an exaggeration. It was busy, ish. Very ish. To say that the bar was Irish, might be a bit of an understatement. Think of a bar in a little village somewhere in West Cork, with a few American tourists after wandering in, and you might get a visual of the place. Pre-tty Irish. I was asked to stop the music at about 12 o’ clock for a while so a raffle could take place. Gay gym remixes all the way!

First song in, I decided I would play a little medley I had prepared, wow them with my D.J’ing skills. The first section of the medley had barely kicked off, when some drunk dude comes stumbling up… “Will you play that s**t song, Poker Face? Play that for me, I like that” No, did you not see the sign at the front door. He started to give me weird looks, copping on that I was Irish too, which threw him off. I gave in, easiest way to get rid of him would be to just play the song, so told him cool, no problem, and played the remix I have… “I Poke Her Face”, which I think he liked. Thankfully that was the only request I got all night. Nay. The requests came flooding in, a wide and varying range… “Play some Scooter”… “Play some heavy metal rock, then some Scooter”… “Play that band I loved back home, Cascade?”… “Do you know this song (and this is no lie, he thought I would get it from this) – Do do doooo doo do dooo dada – that dance one?” No, sing it again for me… “La la laaa la le da da doo da – you do know it? Everyone knows that, what kind of D.J are you?”… Eye balls me up and down as I shake my head and laugh at his attempt… “You’re some s**t D.J”. Cheers bud!

One guy in particular grew an immense dislike for me, in such a short time too. “Play me some rock will ya, some heavy s**t, all my friends are D.J’s, its cool, I know what I am on about” (Incidentally, this was at my highest point, when I started to play the gym remix section, which had the crowd pumping and actually on the dance floor) Hang on two minutes, I’ll play it in a while for you, just hang on. “Play it now, I want to rock out before I go home” Hazarding a guess, this guy was closer to 40 that 20. Also very drunk, and gripping an empty bottle while looking me up and down. So he decided to hang on for the rock, standing next to me, looking at me with disgust.

Eventually, I decided to throw in a rock song. A Metallica one, just like he asked. The floor had died down at this stage, to the point where he was the only person on it. And he started rocking on, air guitaring his heart out, but not in a piss take way, this was life and death stuff. Until he realized that it was not the version he was expecting, but a remix one. Ha, he flipped, straight up “For f**k’s sake, you pr**k, play me a rock one, my friends D.J too, they play rock for me.” Again, gripping his empty bottle and eye-balling me. So, obviously seeing as I am so obliging and all, I played him another rock song. Which was also a remix. “You f**king pr**k, you’re a c**t, you know that, stop DJ’ing up the song and let me rock out!” 

By this time the dance floor had picked up a bit again, the rest of the crowd enjoyed the remixes it seemed. This little angry ape of a man was now in the D.J booth next to me, informing me that I was a s**t DJ, really s**t, his friends are way better. Now that I had a view of him almost face in my face, I would confidently say he was almost 40. “I’ve never liked you playing here before. You’re always s**t when you play here. If you don’t play me a rock song, I’ll bottle ya, ya f**king pr**k”. I decided not to inform him that it was my first time, and high possibility my last time, playing at the venue. Instead I gave him a patronizing smile, wink, nod and a thumbs up. Strangely, this calmed him down, maybe thinking I was being serious.

Either way, as he walked back onto the dance floor, over to his group to inform them of how s**t I was, I decided to play him this great rock song, one he would be able to truly rock out to… 99 Red Balloons.

Ha, he went mental, by the looks of it his friends had to hold him back, and “If I didn’t know your cousins, I’d smash the bottle over ya”. Again, I gave him thumbs up, two this time, rock on! I meant to ask him for a favour before he left, but decided against it. He would’ve been an ideal candidate to read my episode and give me an honest opinion though! At the end of the night, last song over, a few of his friends moseyed on over… “You’re not Irish, are ya?” Sorry to disappoint you, but yes, I too am Irish. “Well, you’re not from Cork”. Again, apologies, but I actually am. “You’re not from Wishht Cork anyways. Because that’s where I’m from!” You got me there, well done! Delighted, knowing looks spread on their faces… a “Thank God this quare isn’t one of us too” kind of look. Yeah, thank God. Besides these minor incidents, coupled with the sound system almost blowing out, which nearly blew out my ear drums, all in all, it was a good night!

Almost wrapping up, 3 little bizarre incidents that occurred today that I feel the need to type about, maybe just so that I can remember again if needed. 1. My toothbrush snapped in half while brushing my teeth earlier. Strange enough. 2. My nose started to bleed uncontrollably in the gym while I was doing a squat. Worryingly weird. And 3. On the way home from the gym a homeless woman flashed me her left… ? Guess. Delightful.

Finally, I got a bit of bad news today, so not sure how long more this section of the L.A adventure, and in turn, perhaps the blog, will carry on for. 99 Red Balloons has another symbolic meaning too, can you figure out why? Re de de, the next blogaruu might be the…

Besides the obvious, classic rock song above, 99 Red Balloons by Nena, the other song for this day, which is either highly annoying, or strangely good…

Combination Pizza Hut & Taco Bell (Wallpaper Remix) by Das Racist

You Say Stupid. I Say Almost Clever.


My last day in Mexico was just a series of me failing miserably at trying to be clever. I am blaming my hangover and calling it an off-day. Usually, I am way smarter, I swear. 

After I got wrestled out of my room far too early in the morning, I had the whole day to kill, with my suitcase and man-bag. I decided I’d ask the bell boys to look after the bags, while I swanned around by the pool curing my hangover. After all, we had become such good friends, they always called me amigo, offered me tequila, laughed at my jokes that weren’t meant to be jokes at all, I was great buddies with Miguel, Raul, and the other Miguel. Stupidly, I let them know why my suitcase was with me, I had just checked out, could they look after my bags, cheers amigos! The words “checked out” transformed them. I must have said a secret code as they immediately lost grasp of their usually good English. Now all I was getting was “Que” and “No”. Come on Raul, we are amigos, you said it yourself everyday! “No”. Miguel, my old buddy, Miguel… he just walked away from me. Miguel 2, the Miguel who always offers me tequila, hook me up. He offered me tequila again, sure Senor, but now its 50 pesos a shot, what the funk?!

I ended up not being allowed back into the hotel or the grounds, seeing as I no longer had the special wristband. Great, about 7 hours to kill waiting for my shuttle to the airport. I had a brain wave and headed to Subway, I’d get a few rolls for the wait, free food and all after my bathroom incident. It wasn’t until I got to the till to pay for the 3 rolls – 7 hours is a long and hungry wait – that I noticed none of the people who were working the night I got locked into the bathroom were on. Balls. So, I tried to explain to the guy serving me about my free food set-up, the manager gave the all clear. The word “free” drained him of his English and all I got now was “Que?”, whereas two seconds earlier he could reel off in English the 39 different dressings I wouldn’t want on my rolls. Its fine, Ill just pay for the 3 rolls, oh thats right, no money in my wallet, I have the fear over my credit card, Ill go down the road to the ATM, with my suitcase, get some money and be right back. My clever plans were all working to a tee so far.

Shuttle never arrives for the airport, ended up getting a taxi, a good waste of money, Orbitz would be getting a call about that. So I eventually get to the airport that evening, and I have come prepared this time. I am not wearing shorts which require a belt, I am too clever for that. Instead I am wearing my blue Nike Jordan basketball shorts, which I always wear to the gym. They are loose, hang down like curtains, shapeless, comfortable, only two pockets but perfect for the flight home. I get on the flight, delighted to see I got the emergency row again, no sign of an old Mexican dude who looks like he will release his bowels next to me this time, sandwiched in between two women. I throw my man-bag into the overhead, making sure first to get all the essentials I need for the flight. My pockets are over-laden – iPod, earphones, tic-tacs, mints, chewing gum, watch, notepad, pen, phone, bottle of water – all the essentials so I wouldn’t have to be getting up every two seconds to get stuff.

The flight starts off with the woman on my right commenting on how my hair looks like its had a good spring break at least. And starts to rub it, more pet it really. She then also notices the different bracelets and bands on my arm, plus my lack of tan (in her opinion, I thought I was bronze! ha), and starts to rub my arm. Well, more pet my arm really. So she’s petting my hair and arm like I’m her cat, the job, good start to the flight. I should say as well that she wasn’t really my cup of tea. I’m not sure she would be most people’s cup of tea, but if you like the female looking version of Rosie O’ Donnell perhaps, then maybe she might be. I’m more of a fan of Ellen myself.

She’s having small talk, mostly to herself, she’s going to San Fran for a few days or so now too, but she lives in Tahoe, was I single, what was I doing for the next few days in San Fran, we should all go out!!! Oh right. I stop her petting by reaching for the air conditioning overhead, sneakily rob hers too. I needed it though, between her and the hangover, the sweats were coming. She whips out her phone, asks me my name, cant understand what I tell her (surprising to say the least), so tells me she’ll just call me “Hot Stuff”. Oh Jesus. She gives me her phone, put in your number hot stuff, we’ll all go out for drinks, it’ll be so much fun! This is where I put on my clever hat. I can’t work her Blackberry, so I hand it back but tell her, sure you can have my number, here you go, and rattle a spoof number off to her, an American equivalent of my Irish 088 number. What’s that, I didn’t give you enough digits, tack another, eh, lets say a 1, throw another 1 on at the end.

I am happy enough with myself at this stage. At least I was smart enough to give her a spoof number, I can fall asleep in peace now. Sleep on. However, it is when I wake up, that I realize I have made a grave mistake about something else. I should not have worn those shorts. In fact, I might as well be wearing nothing, or else blue body paint at the most. Between my pockets being weighed down, so they are pulling the shorts down on the sides, a lot, plus all the streams of cold air I have aimed at me, and my lap, more or less the shape of everything is there to see. Every nook, hole and cranny. Plus it was cold, with the a/c and all, so it wasn’t looking its May West, ha.

I was woken up by the air hostess asking me to straighten my seat for the landing, so she had a good look, if she wanted that is. I’m sure most people walking by saw what was on offer, through my magnificent shorts that have now, more or less, morphed into blue bicycle shorts. Less I would say. I looked to my right, to see my new buddy just looking at my lap. I motion to my eyes – I’m up here love!!! I’m still hungover, just woke up and starving, so a bit numb and dumb, rearrange myself and pretend not to notice. Nothing here to see, move on folks. Start off a bit of small talk with Rosie next to me to take her mind off it, what do you do? She informs me she owns (or runs, I couldn’t understand her for once) two ski resorts in Tahoe. I should come up! Bring friends. Free skiing and free accommodation. Not too shabby, I think, this flight has come good after all.

The plane lands, hop, skip and a jump style. We’re waiting around for it to park, Rosie tells me she’s just texted her daughter, who is my age, and who lives in San Fran. She told her about “Hot Stuff” and she is interested in going for drinks as well, I was wondering why she kept saying we can all go out! She then shows me a photo of her daughter on her phone as the screensaver, I’m not expecting too much. However, my first thought is that there is no way that they are related! The daughter has to be adopted, she looks hot enough! I casually ask to see some more photos of the daughter, any closer ones, any face ones perhaps, ha. She shows me a few more on her phone, my first impression was right, her daughter is tasty!

Who cares about my shorts, the hangover, or any of that, this has been a good flight, free skiing, free hotel, and her daughter is hot, wuu! As I get up from my seat to leave the plane, I turn on my own phone. This is when I remember that I have given Rosie a complete and utter spoof phone number. I doubt there is even one digit the same as my real American number. Balls. How the funk will I get out of this. I walk off the plane, trying as hard as I could to muster any bit of cleverness left in my hungover brain. There is nada left, nothing, zilch. The numbers are completely alien to each other. I gave her a number where the first 2 digits were 31. The first 2 digits of my real number are 80. I can feel the free skiing with her hot daughter slipping away.

Worse still, when we’re queuing up for immigration, we’re in different lines, she’s in U.S citizens, I’m in the Johnny Foreigners line. I decide I’ll cut her off after the line, hopefully, tell her I want to make sure I gave her the right number, take her phone and change numbers quickly, what a plan. I get through immigration, wuu huu, and manage to catch her before she leaves. Sorry Rosie, I just want to make sure I gave you the right number – “Ok” – Ha, you better give me the phone, I’ll double check myself. However, instead of giving me the phone, she shows me the number quickly, then calls it out. It is a great spoof number, but nowhere near like mine. Eh, I think the end is wrong, give me your phone a second and I’ll fix it. At this stage it feels like I’m trying to rob the phone. “I’ll do it, you couldn’t use my phone, remember earlier” – Balls – “just call out the right one to me now”. I give up at this stage, tell her it was a 2 at the end, not a 1. Out the airport exit she goes, gone, good duck to free skiing and hot daughter. I just realized after writing all this I should have simply asked Rosie for her or her daughter’s number. I am quite the idiot.

I’m back to being annoyed and feeling like an ape at this stage. While waiting for my lift from the airport, I decide to vent my anger at Orbitz, I’ll ring them and complain about the shuttle never showing up. I get their freephone number, and call them. For some reason, ringing a freephone number on my phone costs me double what it costs to make a normal call. This same phone let me make calls and texts in Mexico for free. It is the stupidest phone ever. Suits me down to the ground!

Song of the long, annoying, hungover, clever, stupid day is Scenic World by Beirut…

Naked Wrestling With The Cleaning Maid.


On my final morning in Mexico, I woke up surrounded and shrouded with the fear of God in me. What had happened last night, that little Canuck again! Usually, no matter how many Cosmopolitans I have had, ha, when I get in from a night out, I always manage to take off my clothes and fold them away, not sure why but always seem to do it. However, on my final morning, I woke up fully clothed, half on the bed, runners still on, the hotel phone ringing next to me in my ear. I did the quick check. Phone. Wallet. Passport. IPod. Laptop. Camera. Clothes. Runners. Hair. They were all still there. Something was wrong though, the fear was here.

The phone kept buzzing away, so I answered, and realized I could barely talk. “Senor, its almost 11, you have to leave.” I grunt out the information that my flight wasn’t until way later that day, couldn’t I stay in bed until the afternoon? “Yes Senor, you can stay if you like – Sound, nice one! – but it will cost you an extra $25 per hour after 11.” Balls. Up I get, head for the shower. En route I notice my credit card on the ground. Thats obviously a good sign. Here comes the fear some more.

The shower in my hotel is horrendous. Either that, or the Mexicans have thought of a great way to save water. My shower decreases in pressure, the hotter you try to make it. So I have been either having freezing showers, with the shower spitting water out at me. Or if I want a hot one , really only luke warm max, the shower barely drools out a few drops at a time onto my head. Either way you’re not using much water, so I’ll give the Mexicans the benefit of the doubt and applaud their eco-friendly invention. Nothing to do with the hotel actually being crap, nothing at all.

While waiting for about the fifth drop to drool out of the shower and onto my head, after being in the shower a few minutes at least, I remembered that I tried to pay the cab with my credit card, like an ape. I had no cash, so gave the cab man my credit card. I then also remembered there was no credit card machine in the cab itself, but he took it anyways, and held onto it for a good while. It got a bit hazy then, but I presume he took the digits down, probably bought himself some nice stuff online, and gave it back to me. Hopefully there was still only $24 left on it for him to splurge with.

So I get out of the shower, still no better after such a horrendous excuse of a shower. I’m completely goosed, hungover to funk, getting spins, need to sit down on the toilet before I fall over, towel over my head, trying to fully remember what had happened the night before. The bathroom door is fully open, Subway incident left me scarred. I half zone out of it, thinking I hear a noise, but take no notice, too hungover. I look up from under the towel, and see the cleaning lady has come into my room, the noise was her knocking.

She’s just standing there, looking at me. I’m just sitting there, naked, hunched over on the toilet, towel over my head. If I had my wits about me, and if she had been hot and younger than 40, I would’ve invited her in for a cup of tea. She was neither and I had no wits whatsoever anyways. I’m too hungover, tired and lazy to speak properly. My words are too slow coming out of my head so I sound like a caveman, grunting and ughing at her. I’m still with the towel over my head, too dumb and hungover to cop on she can see me in my birthday suit. I stand up, walk towards her, cop on, through the towel around my waist, it falls off, I almost slip on the floor, it’s just great.

By this stage you think she might have been apologetic, embarrassed, intrigued, disgusted, what with me being naked, hungover and acting so dumb and all. Instead she tells me “You need to leave, I must clean, now!” I’m thinking, still too hungover to actually say out loud… I need to leave?! You just walked in on me, in the kip, in my hotel room, and now, you tell me that I need to leave! (I was emphasizing left, right and centre in my head). Instead of saying any of that, all I can manage is an “Ugh, two minutes”.

She responds by pushing and shoving me back in towards my bed and suitcase. Towel is pushed off, my front is covered but she’s getting full view of my tan lines from behind. She wants me out, now! Im thinking will I give her a half Nelson, or body slam her. We’re facing each other, in a deadlock, my brain wondering what the funk is going on! Who will make the next move. Probably me, to pick my towel up off the ground and cover myself. Instead she barks out that she’ll ever so kindly give me five minutes to dry, dress, pack and be gone. How kind, such a good hotel I was staying in. It was a great start to the day, really great. At least it took my mind off the fear for a while I suppose.

I’d like to say my day was fine from there on in, nothing else really happened, but… let’s just say I might as well worn body paint instead of shorts on the flight home, a lot has been explained at least! First, here’s the great song that had me zoned out on the toilet… Magic Position by Patrick Wolf

Here are a few photos of my hotel as well, at least the place looks class.Pool on!

Chilling with the old folk

Ah, how nice.

Sideways, Subway and A Threeway?

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After writing this post, it is longer than I thought, so I’ll split it into three mini ones:


Spring Break this is not. Funny, in a “it would be funnier if it wasn’t happening to me but one of my friends”, yes. Fun… not sure yet. Firstly, the 4 stars this hotel proudly gives itself has to be wrong. This is not all-inclusive. That to me would mean eat and drink whenever, wherever and, more or less, whatever you want from the menu. This is more a form of totalitarian all-inclusive. You can eat what we give you, when and where we feel like it. It’s brutal. So far I’ve tried sticking to the buffets. I could be in & out easier, I didn’t have to wait around to be disappointed by what I ordered, the food was already out to see and disappoint. Plus I didn’t have to make reservations for a table like the other restaurants.

However, yesterday, I see a sign that the dinner buffet was closed that night in the usual place. Instead there would be a big event on the hotel’s beach front, an ABBA’s tribute band, plus the dinner was being served there, but you had to reserve a table. So, I made the reservation, reserved a table, and went along about 8 o’clock to check it out.

The setting was cool in fairness. Down along the edge of the beach, lit up brightly, stage at one end, food buffet along one side, sand and sea on the other side, lots of tables in the middle, all cordoned off by rope and ribbons. Just lovely. I go to the entrance, wait to be seated at my table. Andy and Colin, once again poor chaps, were feeling sick, so I had to go along on my own, ha. I notice, while waiting for Miguel to seat me, that the tables are the ones you’d see at a wedding, or a hotel function, the big round ones that seat a few, a good few. I start to wonder if they’ll have a small one like that for me.

So I follow Miguel, from the entrance at the back of the set-up, through all the tables with all the people, up to by the stage, just in front and to the left, next to the food, under a floodlight, my cosy table. My big, round table, just like the others, that seats 10 people. No-one else is at the table, looks like its reserved just for me and my party. Sorry, Miguel, anything a bit smaller? He can’t hear me with Dancing Queen being belted away in the background, gives me a smile and a si, pulls out a seat for me and I sit down. For some reason facing the crowd, I think the spotlight lighting up my table  and the dance floor was blinding so I had my back to it. Then straight away get up and go get some food. Back to my big, cosy, exposed feeling table, back to the floodlight, spotlight, the big shining light that brightened up my table nicely, and nicely illuminated the shadow of my head across the dance floor.

I’m sure no-one even looked up at my table, or cared I was there on my own. However, in my head, the scene from the movie Sideways was playing on repeat, where he’s eating on his own, looking annoyed. This was great fun, Miguel, two of your flat, watery beers please! So while Miguel scuttles off, a guy getting food from the buffet next to me salutes me with a nod and asks if this seat is free, can he sit down. Work away buddy, bring your friends over, fill the table up! So a friend of his does come over, and its then when I recognise them… my big, fat, gay German buddies. They’re no longer wearing their identical hats, both look similar to Gary Glitter still though, and thankfully they’re wearing more than just red thongs this time around.

Gary 1 starts the small talk, asks me questions in German, I respond in a bit of English with a dash of German here and there. Gary 2 asks me if I’m here on my own. Gary 1 asks me more small talk about Germany. Gary 2 keeps asking if I’m here on my own, with a sparkle in his eye. I’m wishing I was still feeling like the Sideways dude now, instead of feeling like Gary 2 is going to ask me up to their room at any minute, so I wouldn’t be on my own. Miguel finally comes back to the two yellow waters. I use them to wash down my fish that tastes a lot like washing up liquid, bid the German Garries adieu, and head off to buy some beer and get a Subway. My usual route after I have a meal in the hotel.


Off to the nearest shop I go, buy some cans of Bud light, nice and cheap, not in the fridge so they’re also nice and warm but its better than the hotel’s stuff at least. Pack of tic-tacs, seeing as its Mexico, I’ll try the lime ones. Power walk onto Subway, cursing the fact I bothered with all-inclusive when I keep having to do this routine a few times a day. Get to Subway, the yellow water has flown through me, or was it that dodgy fish, so I ask the guy making my sub where the bathroom is, he points down the hallway. Down the hallway I go, into the small bathroom, not like a big public one, just room for one in there. So, the door closes, I hear a click, reach for the light, it doesn’t work. Get out my phone, using the light from it to fumble with the light switch, its still not working, must be bust. Maybe there’s a light switch outside the door actually, let me check. Turn the door knob, door doesn’t open. I try the lock, its just turning fully around, clicking away, just like it did actually when it closed behind me. The job, I’m now locked in the bathroom of Subway, in complete darkness.

After a good few minutes hammering on the door, shouting for Miguel, Raul, Gary 1 or 2, anyone, I get no response. I realize I could panic but there’s not much I could do really. I’ve been locked in a bathroom before, ha, I know the routine. I decide to hope that the guy making my sub notices I never came back from the bathroom. I open a can of warm beer, throw in a few lime tic-tacs for that authentic Mexican feel (they did nada for the manky warm taste in case you were wondering), sit on the sink, throw a song on my iPod, and wait in hope.

About two cans in, someone knocks on the door, wuu to the huu. The guy making my sub is here to save me, tells me to wait Senor, si, I get the manager. Two and a half cans later, I have no clue what took him so long, he’s back with the manager. The manager has perfect English at least, tells me to stand back from the door. Two thuds, kicks I think, and a barge later, and the door is bust open by the stocky little manager, my saviour. I’m on my fifth can at this stage, so I no longer really mind, especially seeing as the manager apologies and says I have free subs for the rest of my stay (apparently there was meant to be a sign up saying the toilet was out of service, but, they forgot to put it up, so sorry senor, no problem Raul, c’mon we share my last can!!!).


At least the free sub, and the 6 cans, had me in the mood to head out that night. I went along to supposedly the best club, Christine, another all you can drink place. Lo and behold, the hotel crew all seem to be there again like the night before. Canadian dude, Gary 1 and 2, Tom Cruises, Bon Jovis, couples, the whole crew, minus the hot wife, not that I’d do anything now I know, of course. The place is strange to say the least, old bald dudes everywhere, majority wearing their sunglasses in the club, lots of old asian women in young asian women clothes, some had to have been grannies, and one guy who was doing the most elaborate dance moves while on his own on the dance floor, something to watch at least.

While watching him in bewilderment, and wondering what are the chances MTV might show up here to film this version of Spring Break, Gary 1 and Gary 2 come over to me, asking if I’m here on my own. I can join them at their table for drinks if I like, do I like to dance? Sweet lord, I need help, the Germans want a threesome. Thankfully, over comes my buddy from the night before, the little Canuck, round of shots in hand, and two women flanking him. He introduces me to them, two English girls. A bit of small talk here and there, when one asks me if I’m 16 too? Pardon me, what do you mean? Your Canadian friend is only 16, you’re not 16 too are you? What the funk, he’s only 16?!!! I am, eh, I’m here with my parents, anyone want a tequila, eh? I’m being drunk under the table by a 16 year old, happy days, booze on boss, booze on.

The little Canuck heads off to get plenty more rounds of shots for us, and I try to talk to the blonde English girl (she’s 28, not 16 too, thankfully), the one who looked like she had more interesting conversation in her, and I suppose, far and away the hotter of the two. Not that I noticed, obviously. After a while, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, be right back. I tell her to be careful of the lock, and I’m left with the, sounder, frumpier, grumpier looking friend. She tells me straight off “I hope you know this is going no further for you tonight?” Eh, pardon, what do you mean. “With my friend, nothings going to happen tonight for you there.” She then kindly tells me, not asks, time, month… nothing is going to happen for you with her tonight. I think its a p**s take because of the night before, has to be surely, oh jesus, is the husband in the house?!!! “Fine, ask her yourself when she comes back, or else I will just to prove it.” So, the frumpy, grumpy, sound friend does ask her hotter friend when she comes back, or states the fact of time, month for her, in front of both of us. Turns out she wasn’t lying, her friend does enough to confirm, at least there’s no denial. The frumpy grumpy friend is fine though, she informs me, hers was last week. Lovely. I’m not sure what to say to either of them after that, nice bit of awkward silence, weird enough.

I decide I should really go help the Canadian dude with carrying the round of shots. In the end, I never did manage to get to talk to either of those English girls again though. It was a big club, and I ended up losing them. Eventually. The frumpy, grumpy one was far harder of the two to shake off I must say, ha.

Song of the day, the first Subway bathroom song that came on my tripod, is this savage new one… Snookered by Dan Deacon