Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Monday, 7 June 2010

A Spanish flea

Watching the boy go home was hideous. I stood and peered through the glass barrier as he wondered off through airport security, with his usual scruffy hair and laid back gait and suddenly felt very alone.

He was a little bit broken. The day before my bag got tealeafed with his treasured wallet inside. I've never seen him so stricken. The only solution was to get annihilated and go to Space. Which we duly did. And then spent a very long, hot day lying in a sweaty, sandy puddle of goo on the bed trying to recover. Saying goodbye to a lover in an advanced state of comedown fear is a genuinely bad plan. Take it from me.

So off he went and here I was. Trying to man the fuck up and not be pathetic, but temporarily penniless and feeling alone. Suddenly I desperately needed a cigarette. Affliction of the smoker: even in times of destitution, when one has only 20 quid to one's name, cobbled together out of a bag of small change donated by one's Dad, one will still spend 3.50 of that on a packet of Malborough's finest cancer sticks. Good plan.

But pimp my ride if a few days later, having looked up a few tenuous friends of friends of friends I didn't find the fun.

First stop, Sirocco's. As per invitation from a fabulous artsy craftsy type chap named M. Bespangled, bronzed 40-something lovelies dining by candlelight under chiffon drapes on a sunset beach. Marijuana drifted languidly around. Later the ladies swayed nonchalantly on to what hed kandi album covers refer to as 'blissed out Belaeric beats' accompanied by a bongo drummer with hair like Keith Prodigy's, while their slick-haired husbands looked on, money oozing from every pore.

The evening was only mildly marred by a Spanish mama and mother of ten, draped in a black and gold caftan with copius long black hair who, clearly irked by my youth and Englishness, took a disliking to me at the bar. My very British lack of multilingual ability apparently offended her and she started wafting her champagne in my face and asking me intense questions in Italian to demonstrate her superiority. 'Capishe? Capishe?' she kept demanding, sloshing Dom Pérignon down my top.

'Look luv. Non capishe I don't speak fucking Italian. And are you really trying to do me down by speaking a language that's ninety percent the same as your mother tongue? Jog on. You'd have to be a fucking retard NOT to speak Italian. Now take your baggy old sack of leather ten-children vagina and shove it some other cunt's face. Capishe?'

I wish that's what I'd said. But I just smiled and wondered off.

The next evening finds me in u s h u a ï a beach bar trying to keep control of my face and prevent myself from being groped by the usual under-developed, over-tanned rich Italian boy-man.

HE: ' I really love Engleeeeesh women'
Me: 'I bet you do dear. But this one's keeping her knicknacks on so Bugger off.'

By dint of a well connected mutual friend (thanks Mrs Widget) I then managed to completely out-do The Boss by getting us into Pacha free. He had spectacularly failed to get the boy and I on the Space guestlist a few days before, and so looked a little rueful as we were wafted in via the VIP area without so much as a double take. 'That was pretty smooth' he conceded. Yeah mate. You're fucking right it was. Watch and learn.

Inside, rhinestone encrusted Victorian giantesses on a rotating bed above the dance floor surveyed their minions...flinging things into the crowd....my brain is melting....I'm pretty much off my tits.... I have found God. His name is Luciano....

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