Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’m back! Did you miss me? I dare you to say no…

The Mediterranean

There’s a warm, iron based, vanilla essence that lingers in the air. Each breath tastes slightly sour in the back of your throat from the salt of the ocean. Sea and summer wind harmonise together in sound and movement like forever partnered dancers. The hot rays of the sun laser into your tired bones and are only lessened by the feathery fingers of the breeze as it flirts along your back and shoulders. If you listen hard enough you can hear old world spirits whispering healing chants in the wind and palm trees creaking as they flick their fronds confidently against the sky like Mardi Gras starlets.

But It Didn’t Frikkin’ Well Start Out Like That, Did It

Oh no. This is a Jules holiday so woe betide that it dare go smoothly and without drama.

I couldn’t quite remember why it had been many years since I’d booked a package holiday through a travel agent, but as soon as I disembarked from the ‘ship ‘em all off peasant wagon’ and arrived at my hotel, it all came flooding back to me.

Was it the mass of brightly coloured towels sporting various football club emblems hanging from balconies and making the place as appealing as an ill dressed tart at a black tie affair that first set alarm bells ringing? Maybe. But people have to dry their towels.

Was it the noise spilling from the back of the building that was reminiscent of downtown Swindon on a Saturday night that helped further my unease? Possibly.

I had a chat with my inner snobby bitch as I entered the foyer but she refused to be silenced and came back spitting in my face when dripping with pool water guests wandered past me carrying plastic glasses full of lager at 10 am. Classy.

I took a deep breath which I fully regretted when the smell of soiled nappies and macaroni cheese threatened to take the enamel off my teeth. I bared them to the male receptionist in what I could only hope looked vaguely like a smile. I’m not very good at hiding how I feel and he didn’t smile back. However, had I been in his shoes I would never have smiled again and the fact he endured this haven on a daily basis without mental illness was a testament to his character.

A Room With A View

After being branded with a ‘shake your wrist if you wanna get pissed’ all inclusive bracelet, I entered the prehistoric-open the door to it yourself-only room for one despite having more guests than the state of Texas, lift. Maybe it wasn’t really an elevator at all but a portal to another dimension, possibly purgatory, who knows, because when I got out I wondered if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole.

The corridor sported weird, faded bubble paintings: kind of like a Disney resort but on a major budget reduction. I found myself empathising with guests who started drinking at breakfast. Perhaps they wisely never stopped. My pale blue (I think Farrow and Ball might name it pigeon shit grey) walls had evidence of mould and dark smudges just above pillow height. I like to think that this was some sort of artistic shadow painting by design rather than the great unwashed shampoo shortage. Out on the balcony, my view ( that I paid extra for- Oh how I laughed) looked out over a giant oil tank followed by the pool. The pool where I planned to get some lengths in of a morning. Hahahahaha… No. Imagine, if you would, vegetable and minestrone soup coming to life. That should give you an idea.

A Word

I thought I’d have a chat with the powers that be. I remembered a sign in Texas Cowboy Church that said P.U.S.H ( Pray Until Something Happens) I decided to give it a shot.

“God. It’s me, Jules, your favourite waste of time. Now look, I know I’m not the best behaved of people but let’s be honest, I’m kind, generous and my heart’s in the right place. Whilst I’m not big on ‘appropriate’ and haven’t quite mastered the art of humility, I don’t deserve this. Ain’t happening, Boss and I need you to get me out of here pronto. If you don’t, I’m gonna kick off and either end up in jail or found drowned in my own despair clinging to a half inflated, blow up pink flamingo.”

I went downstairs.

“Get Thomas Cook head office on the phone,” I said in my best non-Spanish.

It went like this:

“So you’re saying you’re not happy with your booking. Can I ask why?”

“Well, despite feeling like herded cattle on the worst school trip ever, this is so far beyond what I asked for that I’m wondering if it’s a sick joke.”

“What did you ask for?”

“Peace, quiet, nice pool, beachfront and so forth. Not Costa Hell Butlitz.”

H/O had to go away and investigate so I took myself off to the dining area having not eaten all day.

I’ve Found The Best Diet Plan Ever – Call Hollywood

I don’t even know where to start when it comes to describing the mass buffet of food available but if I tell you that I had broccoli and tomatoes for my dinner I think that speaks volumes. In all my years and of all the stupid things I’ve put in my mouth, that’s a first. I went to get some fresh orange juice to wash it down with and marvelled at its radioactive colour. I can only describe said beverage as likely being akin to drinking morning bitch piss and were you to have a penchant for such a thing, this is the place for you. Now my mouth was suitably bleached and my taste buds erased I figured giving pudding a try couldn’t do me any further harm. They could have Spotted Dick on the menu. They did, but not on display and fortunately covered by a week’s worth of unwashed swimming trunks bearing the scars of too many spillings – and yes, I mean all of them.

“Ola, Miss sin-yaw-eeta!”

“Fuck off.”

A cake resembling meringue sat on offer and I gave it a poke with a fork just to see if it bit me. Seemed OK so I picked it up and took it back to my table, seventeen miles east of the family in leopard skin Lycra.
I put a piece of the flaccid cake in my mouth and promptly spat it back out again. Meringue?
Mer – Wrong.

It All Comes Out In The Wash – Unless You Stay In This Hotel

When H/O rang me back with options I didn’t hang about in making my move. Even though I had to pay a little extra to relocate, I would have sold my soul and I ended up exactly where I should have been in the first place:  a beautiful, serene, adults only, low key classy joint with spa and real orange juice.
And even though they weren’t going to pay the 80 euros to transport me to the other side of the island, we had a bit of a chat about me being a scathing and prolific wordsmith when irked and they came good. I even got a tour of the area. What could have ended disastrously turned out to be just the thing I needed.

Despacito

Slowly, I began to unwind…

Anyway, thanks for letting me get that off my chest and in the meantime, here’s a video of the sweeter side. I’m telling ya now, you gotta crank up the volume because I love this song to the point of insanity. As an ex-salsa dancer, this tune turns me into a dark and twisted version of Shakira and entices me to be utterly atrocious. I don’t know why but it does. If you ever happen to come across me in a bar, do not play this song to me or it will end in tears, bail money and bitter shame.

Menorca