Tomorrow never knows...

Tomorrow never knows..

“The week is flying by” Two days to go before we head back to Blighty and the chills of winter. Hard to believe while we are swanning around over here in Espana. Cartajena, a coastal town with a Roman amphitheatre is our destination today. Dave particularly excited being an amateur archeologist and enthusiast of everything ancient. I like a bit of culture myself so all was good. Pat’s looking like he’s raring to go after  a good night’s kip catching up with some zzzz. Looking refreshed. Chef Dave is up first and has the breakfast of bacon and eggs on the go before we emerge - superb effort I have to compliment. 

Wolfed down with a mug of coffee, we were off. No hanging around today. 

Adopting his tour guide mode Pat drives us through various view points with all the aplomb of Judith Chalmers. Pointing out various landmarks, describing the appeal of the Salt Flats. “Best air in Spain”, “breathe it in, wonderful” he purred. And it would have been had it not been for Dave lighting up a Lambert & Butler. The salt flats are more like lakes. Why do they call them flats I wondered? The less intelligent could assume they constitute an estate of houses built with Saxa but maybe not. Couldn’t be anyone that thick. Soon however, the conversation switches from the wonder of the salt flats, beautiful as they were, to more serious matters like football, music, literature. Yes, quite an intellectual bunch we were. Somehow the topic of Sherlock Holmes came up. Dave, sitting in the back of the car giving his appraisal of Holmes and his sidekick Watson. I was day dreaming at this point. Pat concentrating on the road ahead. Interrupting Dave’s monologue I butted in; “who wrote that Sherlock stuff?’ Quick as a shot Dave answered with Mastermind confidence, “Arthur Conan Doyle”. 

“Oh, I was going to say Edgar Allan Poe”.

‘What? No, it was Arthur Conan Doyle”

“Well, I knew there were three names involved” I said.

Pat who has been quiet throughout all this piped up, “F—- me, you might as well have said Peter, Paul and Mary!”

Cue laughter all round, particularly from Pat, chortling at his own wit.

Getting back to radio stuff I asked Dave what time he normally arrived  at the station in Market Harborough for his 7 to 10am show. Thinking he was going to say an hour before kick off for preparation, coffee etc.

“I normally get there about five to seven…sometimes I just make it with a minute to spare!”

Well, that was a surprise. There’s me imagining these radio presenters are up hours before their show, like those people on Breakfast TV, showered, script organised, bright and breezy…and I picture Dave turning up dishevelled, cup of coffee in hand, cigarette in the other, tuning in with ‘Good morning Britain!’ Been at it that long I guess Dave has got it off to a tee! 

I remember Pat on the other hand would be at Corby Radio a good hour before his ‘Aboot the Toon’’ show to catch up with the gossip before easing himself in. Mind you he didn’t start until 10am.

I ask Dave what sort of music he starts the day off with. “I like to ease the listeners in” he says with all the professionalism of a veteran, “something soft and gentle, maybe Fleetwood Mac…Little Lies for example.” Makes sense I think. “You wouldn’t wake everyone up with Jailhouse Rock then?”

Takes about an hour to get to Cartajena. Another hour finding a car parking space. We drove through the town’s narrow streets, Pat getting more frustrated by the minute. Then we find ourselves by the seafront, alongside the harbour. Hills in the background, yachts and boats of all sizes in the Marina. Beautiful. And we find a spot where we can park up! Hoops of delight! “Right, make a note of where we are” I suggest. “Can’t go wrong remembering this place” Dave adds. Pat looking doubtful. 

Walking into town, much to our surprise, there was the Amphitheatre. Right in the middle. Dave is wetting himself. I thought he was kidding about the archeology thing but no he’s a genuine enthusiast. No doubt if he ever managed to get on Mastermind, archeology would be his favourite subject! Speciality? ”Roman Empire” 

He tells the tale of being in Crete with Shirley when he picked up a stone and told her it was a couple of thousand years old and he was taking it home. Until an advisor told him if he was caught he’d end up in jail for five years. Believe that if you will. 

We paid our entrance fee to the museum and theatre, the equivalent of a couple of bob and off we went to explore. Pat was equally impressed as Dave whilst I have to hold my hands up and say I can take it or leave it. A few old stones and things are interesting to a point. But you do have to marvel at how these buildings were built, ‘couple of thousand years ago’ Dave reminds us. “No cranes those days” he says with the air of a university tutor. He knows his stuff that was clear. He then regaled us with more tales, this time of Mexico when he treated Shirley to a trip to the Aztec pyramids. Similar yarn about the pyramids being built without the aid of a B.C. McAlpines or Wimpey. Quite. 

Anyway back to the museum, we take numerous photos, enthral at the  theatre with steep rows of stalls, the hills in the background, the sea in the foreground. ‘Can you imagine the planning that went into this?” Dave asks.

In my mind’s eye I picture a few Julias Caesar type characters poring over blueprints, organising work gangs, digging holes like Charlie Dunn’s odd job gang in Corby steelworks. 

“And they had to keep everyone in Rome informed of progress” Dave adds.

“How did they do that?” I enquire, “Pigeon?”

“Horse”

“Horse! from over here in Spain, all the way to Italy?”

Couldn’t quite comprehend that, ‘That would have taken years for one trip” I suggest.

Dave, trying to keep on top of this debate added “Well they would have had it organised like a relay I expect. Hundred miles perhaps and then they would hand the plans over to the next chap on a horse and so on.” 

Sounded a bit dubious to me. Pigeon would definitely have been quicker.

Dave explaining his theory about the horse...

The amphitheatre was impressive, ‘like a mini Pompeii’ Pat affirmed with all the knowledge of Judith. Out in the midday sun was taking its toll though and a  coffee and some lunch was needed.

Pat took us past an interesting place called The Arsenal. A military compound complete with sentry outside tooled up with machine gun. “Have to try and get a picture with the bloke” says Dave..

“Looks more like a prison”.

“If he’s still hanging about on our way back I’ll ask him to pose with us.”

Nearby was the town square with bars and restaurants and a guy entertaining customers with his accordion. Taking a pew, the accordionist, dressed in ‘traje de luxes' costume, matador’s gear, (I googled that) comes over to us. And I make the mistake of singing a verse of ‘Viva Le Spana’. “Ah” he looks at me with a big smile. Taking that as a request he thus bursts into the tune, warbling a couple of bars of “hey, hey, we’re off to sunny Spain..” Then held his cap out!

We gave him a couple of Euros and he cleared off. 

Cheese and egg omelettes were ordered with a beer and a coke for Pat, which must have been driving him crazy by now. Fair do’s to him, he didn’t quibble, Sensible hat on with him being the driver. It was appreciated and both Dave and I promised him some respite when back at base when he could dump the car and enjoy a few beers. 

The omelettes turned up and I’ve never seen one like it! ‘Christ how am I supposed to eat that!” It was huge! Overlapping the plate. Pat and Dave were likewise surprised. Struggling through it we all eventually gave up. “Take it back with us to feed the birds” Dave suggests, with his ornithology hat now on.

Thought about that for a second and then said, ”bollocks to the birds, not carrying that around”.

Time was passing quickly, Pat wanted to get back to Algorfa before darkness fell. We head off in roughly the direction we came to look for the car. Past the Military Base where it looked as if the soldier had disappeared. Peering through the archway, there he was. Chatting to a pal, he might have been asking how Barcelona got on last night. They must get bored these fellows. Dave shouted to get his attention. The soldier turned round, wondering who the hell was shouting at him. He sees us three staring at him and Dave mimicking the taking of a photograph, like they do on the Charades TV programme. ‘Looks like, sounds like thing…’ 

The soldier glared at us, waved his gun, shook his head. With a look that said ‘F— Off!’

“Worth a try” Dave said dejectedly.

Pat was getting stressed again, not sure which way we were heading. ‘Keep going” I say, confident of my instinct.

“No” Pat says. looking at the GPS on his phone, “it’s this way”.

“Don’t think so Pat”  

“It is, follow me” and charges ahead. Coming to a side street he stops, checks his phone again; “Right, according to this, it’s turn left here.”

We’re not convinced but follow him like he’s the Pied Piper. I daren’t suggest we are nowhere near where we should be but Pat is dogged if not convincing. We come to another junction. “I can’t figure this out, it’s leading us up a dead end street!” he wails.

“Told you we should have turned right”

If nothing else, it was worth the diversion to see murals painted on the side of derelict buildings. 

Quick about turn and Pat’s phone is again telling us to turn left. “That’s going away from the marina” I tell him but he was adamant. “It’s telling me this way..”

‘Stick that phone up your arse Pat, it’s wrong, we turn right here..the sat-nav in my head is more 

Dave following the Pied Piper

reliable!’

And who was right? Of course, no need to say. We stumble across a car park behind a building and way over behind a wire fence we see the car.  Parked in the street. 

Dusk was creeping up on us as we headed home, all was quiet. Then Dave stunned us with a news flash on his mobile. With the stoicism of a BBC reporter he announced; ‘Alicante Airport is on fire!” 

Sounding like an attack, like during the 1940 Blitz. The airport bombed and destroyed. “How bad is it?” “Any casualties?” Dave showed us live coverage on his cellphone, flames shooting high into the sky. Looked bad. I’m thinking to myself, ‘We are due to fly home on Friday. Looks like we’ll have a few more days than expected!’ ‘The weather is still crap back home so a couple of more days here in the sun won’t be too bad!” 

A running commentary ensues; “The airport has diverted all aircraft to Murcia”, “the airport will be closed until further notice..” 

We get back to the flat and Dave and Pat both phone home. Dave asking Shirley if she can find out anything about what’s happening, what’s going to happen. Pat similarly with Yvonne. Well I’ve got no one to phone, no real agenda, didn’t matter to me if we were here for another week or not!

A ‘chinky’ was planned for tonight, ‘best Chinese in Spain” Pat assured us. “It’s self service, help yourself to what you want, it’s amazing” Not being an expert on Chinese cuisine I wasn’t sure what to expect. You do indeed help yourself, it’s more like a Chinese carvery! Very nice too. The Chinky finished the night off perfectly with a couple of bars, one called Jilly’s run by an English couple on the way home. 

Thursday was a day dedicated to Alicante. Not the airport which was in shutdown but the resort itself. To my surprise Alicante was beautiful. A large marina with yachts worth billions tied up. We kept our ears open for the news all day and by afternoon the signs for our departure on Friday was looking more promising. Turns out a building on site had gone up in flames. Not the departure hall, checking in, control tower etc. Checking the internet, Shirley and Yvonne keeping their mince pies on the TV news which didn’t reveal much had us feeling we could relax. “Better make an earlier start tomorrow though” Pat says, “up at 5 and off by 6”. Which after some debate was put back back by an hour! 

Arriving at the airport we find everything as normal. Good news. 

Alicante

Lovely week it had been, a few balls ups along the way, plenty of laughs, a few disasters but hell, it had been a great week. But it wouldn’t have finished without another hiccough. 

Back at East Midlands Airport we make our way to the car, drive up to the barrier to get out. I had pre-paid this and put my token in the machine confidently. And the f—-ing thing wouldn’t open! A message comes on the screen - please pay £234!! “What the f—k!”

We tell people behind us to back up so we can reverse and go the car park office. Pain in the arse for everyone but what can you do? I explain to the guys in the office, show them my receipt and they tell me to try again and if that fails press the button with a telephone sign on it. “They’ll recognise your registration sir”

Eventually we were through and on our way home. All agreeing; “We gotta do this again!!”  Deffo!

Tired of Waiting, Tired of Waiting…

Tired of Waiting, Tired of Waiting…(Kinks)

Fancy a lemon?

Surprisingly, considering the late hour we all retired to bed, Dave was up before anyone and cooking breakfast of scrambled eggs! Don’t know if he suffers with insomnia but there he was, coffee ready too! What a man! Better than your maw! Suppose it comes with being up at the break of dawn every weekday for the last 23 years to host Harborough FM’s Breakfast Show. 

Pat didn’t show for some time, struggling with his chesty cold, he looked like shit it has to be said. I’m no picture in the morning I suppose and I guess I looked like crap! Dave on the other hand always looks the same. Does he go to bed with that leather jacket on? “Only cost me £20” he boasts, ‘best 20 I ever spent!” Well it seems he’s determined to get his money’s worth out of it. Even Shirley noticed it in their daily skype. “You’ll need surgery to get that jacket off!!” she bellowed down the phone. 

Dave is a Beatles fanatic, collects anything and everything concerning the Fab Four. Talking about this over the eggs brought to mind the balcony inside Pat’s apartment block which resembled the cover of the Beatles’ Please Please Me album. “I can take a photo of you and Pat looking over the balcony to re-create the Beatles picture taken at Manchester Square if you like” I said. I threw ‘Manchester Square’ in to impress. “Manchester Square?” An example of my knowledge of useless information and trivia which I quite excel at!. 

Please Pleas Me

I have been caught out a few times though. The famous question, ‘what was the first record played on Radio One’ for example. Everyone of a certain age knows it was ‘Flowers In the Rain’ by The Move. Being a smart arse I always asked, ‘Ah, but what was the second one?’ Guarantee nobody knew it. For years I would enlighten one and all; Eric Burdon’s ‘San Fransiscan Nights”. Never failed. Drawing gasps of admiration, ‘He knows his stuff!” “Anything you want to know about the 60s ask Clive.” Until a couple of years ago that is when the ‘Flowers’ question popped up on Facebook and I fired in with ‘What was the second disc…’  Couldn’t help myself. ‘San Fransiscan Nights’ I duly informed everyone. “No it wasn’t” said my friend Cynthia Douglas. What! Nobody had ever questioned my answer. ”It was the Bee Gees and Massachusetts!” Cynthia retaliated. Couldn’t believe it. I had to google it and blow me, Cynthia was right! 

This was the discussion over breakfast when Pat emerged from his slumber. ’You’re full of shite!’ he said, looking for his pills. 

Ready to go out I noticed Dave had changed into a blue denim collarless shirt. ‘Hey, I like that” I say. ‘Where did you get it?”

‘“Don’t know. Shirley gets all my clothes. Just orders them. She always packs my case as well. Haven’t got a clue what’s in there. Same with holidays, I never book them. I just say to her ‘anywhere in the sun will do darlin’. Then she tells me where we’re going.”

Shirley confirms this during the conversation they have on Skype. ‘He’s bloody useless. Be lost without me!”

‘“I know darlin’” is Dave’s meek response. “But can you order one of these shirts for Clive!”

We decide on a walk to explore the countryside behind Pat’s apartment block to get some fresh air in our heads whilst the sun is at its brightest. With his tour guide hat on Pat tells us; “This whole area was under water a couple of years back after the worst storm in a hundred years”. Hard to imagine. “The river burst its banks, washed away houses, cars, a bridge and flooded an area the size of Desborough.” Bit random that I thought but I guess Desborough was as good as anything to compare with. We took a breather to watch men working on the reconstruction of the bridge, walked through fields, picked some lemons and oranges off the trees. Almost sounds romantic. We weren’t holding hands or anything but there’s something about picking your own lemons. Novelty. Picking lemons and oranges..not holding hands. There’s even a street here named Lemon Tree Road. 

Back at the ranch, another coffee, a munch on my ‘steak’ nuts and it was time to get back on the road. ‘Where we going Pat?” 

“La Mata…then Torrevieja.”

Dave sits in the back of the car, I’m coerced as co-pilot. As if I know anything about driving around these parts! Pat does knows his way around thankfully, should do after ten years but blimey, he’s heavy on the brakes. Every junction, roundabout has me and Dave rocking back and for. Dave’s head bashes the back of Pat’s seat. My head nearly bashes the windscreen. ’Christ almighty I’ll have bloody whiplash by the end of the week at this rate Pat!” 

‘Sorry, didn’t see that car coming.”

Didn’t want to labour the point but I added, ‘I can see I’ll end up wearing a bloody neck brace like that woman on TV’s Doc Marten!” 

We dropped by a place called Benahoffa, that’s how it sounds anyway, to call in at a supermarket to replenish the bread bin. And an opportunity for Pat to exercise his Spanish. ‘Ola” he says confidently.. then mumbles something indiscernible but just about gets through to the lady behind the counter. 

“Come to think of it” I say, “what’s goodbye in Spanish?” 

“Gracias”. 

“Oh yeah! I’ve heard of that” Made me think of how ignorant we are though. Learning foreign lingo. I mean, my son Gareth has lived in Sweden for nearly 20 years, my Swedish granddaughter Polly is 7. And all I’ve managed to learn in all that time is ‘Hey Hey’ and “Hey Dor”. Hello and Goodbye. Oh, also “Tack” which is thanks. Pitiful really. 

“Ola”, “Gracias” and paella is about the limit of my Spanish which you could say is piss poor. If we had a car crash for example and an irate Spaniard started ranting at me, in his native tongue of course, ’What were you doin’?” “You were on the wrong side of the road!’ Responding with “Paella” wouldn’t really cut it I expect!

Nice place to bring a lady..

Anyhow, La Mata turns out to be a lovely little place, nice beach, deserted, sand dunes, peaceful. I could imagine it would be pretty much the same during summer. Main feature was a Lifeguard post. Not much else otherwise. Be a wonderful place to entertain a lady I was thinking. Nice little picnic, blanket on the ground, Billy Jo Spears on the radio, glass of beer, wine..

There was an old couple sitting nearby doing just this..didn’t hear Billy Jo mind and come to think of it..old couple..I forget I’m bloody 70 myself next month!

Anyway it was nice, a few photos were taken, Dave managed to get a good shot, shadows of the three of us! Quite artistic. We headed onwards to Torrevieja which has a special interest of sorts for me. 

The Shadows

Couple of my friends moved here years ago, haven’t been in contact with them for donkeys but the fact that they moved out here way back has often intrigued me. By all accounts though, Torrevieja isn’t one of the favourite resorts in these parts. If you listen to Mick and Lorraine, Pat and Yvonne that is. Even Dave appeared less than enthusiastic, having been here before with Shirley. ‘Shit hole” Lorraine called it. Pat concurred. 

I was still keen to discover for myself however and Pat agreed to drive there despite feeling knackered from his late night with Dave, who by the time we got to Torrevieja, had nodded off. 

Driving into town Pat was rapidly getting frustrated. Traffic was busy, parking slots hard to come by. “Always the same here”, Pat moaned, “never find a f—-ing car park!” Then, all of a sudden, lo and behold, we come across one. An underground car park with a tiny entrance on an incline, bit tight to say the least. Compounded with a group of workmen farting around laying cement or christ knows what. They had placed some bollards up in the middle of this road into the car park which made it an even bigger squeeze. Pat attempts to negotiate and next thing there’s a big scrape and the wing mirror on my side has been bashed on the wall which is level with the windscreen. “Bollocks!” Pat shouts. “You mean bollards?” I say, trying to lighten the tension. While we’re trying to establish what happened, one of the workmen appears alongside my window, pointing to the top of the wall which has been damaged, shaking his head as if we were a bunch of numbskulls. ‘F—- Off!” Pat shouts at him. ‘Prick!” I add. Dave calls him a ‘Dickhead”. 

I could see why Pat hasn’t got much of a love for this place. We have no option but to continue down into the bowels where we found plenty of  space but it was Dave who said; ’Drive right through Pat, let’s get outta here..” Pat didn’t need much persuading. 

We drove right on out of Torrevieja. ‘That was brief’ I was thinking! 

Pat was pissed off, so we all agreed to head back to base. “Looks a dump anyway, bit like Skeggy” I said in case Pat thought I was sulking.

We were all feeling grubby, unshaven and looking forward to a shower, if the water had been turned back on. First thing Pat does is turn the tap on. And still, nothing! “This is ridiculous” Pat explodes, “effin’ wankers!” Raging, he phones the water company up, then calms a little as he’s told he can turn the water on himself at the mains, which is situated in the apartment block cellar. To show some support I tell him; “I’ll come with you Pat’. 

Making our way down to the second floor, we find a crowd of people  milling around, looking upset, worried. The front door of their apartment is ajar, an old guy has a box of spanners and is trying to dismantle bars over a window adjacent to the door. They ask us something in Spanish. I was tempted to say ‘Paella’ but thought they might think I’m taking the piss. Pat asked what the problem was. One of the ladies is beside herself. In pidgin English she tells us there was an earthquake last night! And points to a hole in the wall inside their flat that the quake had made and which had jammed the toilet door! “Did you not hear the bang last night?” she asked. Well to be honest we were too busy drinking, listening to music and talking shite to be honest. We wouldn’t have noticed. The old boy with the spanner explains he’s trying to get the window frame off so one of the younger lads can climb through and open the door from the inside. Honestly, you couldn’t make this up.

Dave meantime is still upstairs waiting to yell down to Pat when the water arrives through the tap. “What kept you?” he asks when we return. “You wouldn’t believe it..”

Relief that Moses had given us water again was joyous. A nice hot shower, shave and we all felt like spring chickens again. 

Tonights meal was to be at a fish and chips restaurant. “Best fish and chips in Spain” Pat and Dave hailed. “Fish that size” Dave said with his hands spread wide like the exaggerated fisherman’s tale of ‘the one that got away’.

“You don’t want the large cod” Dave advised, “you’ll never get through it”. I was beginning to feel frightened by this fish! Well as it happened, there must have been a fews gluttons in before us as there was no large cod, or haddock left! Medium samples only. “That’ll do” I tell the waiter. 

For all the big build up, have to say the fish and chips was no better than what you get at the Frying Scotsman in Corby! Didn’t really matter. It was lovely. And ample!

So came the end of another day, Back before 10pm Dave tells Pat to get to bed. “You look shattered mate, go and get a good night’s sleep”. Pat admitted he was aching to get his head down. So me and Dave sat up, a couple of cans of beer were downed, a brandy, coffee. Dave reminiscing about being born and brought up in Dundee. His parents running a boarding house for the stars who appeared at the Dundee Empire or whatever theatre it was. ‘Florrie Lindlay from Coronation Street stayed with us’ he proudly proclaims. Very interesting too. Florrie ran the corner shop in the early years of the Street. In the days of Ena Sharples and Elsie Tanner. Before we knew it, it was 1.30am. ‘Right, I’m off” I say, weary myself now. Dave is a nightbird, likes a smoke, looking at his phone, watching the tele, even if it was only the Film Four Channel. How he does that and still manages to get up before me and Pat I don’t know. By the time he calls it a day, I’m asleep. We are sharing a room. I hear the door open tentatively. I’m dozing. Dave’s doing his best to be quiet. Tip toeing about. Then there’s a humungous clatter! His money has fell out of his pockets onto the floor! Waking the whole block up no doubt! 

I lift my head;  ‘F—-ing noisy bastard! 

’Sorry” he says. 

And I drift off again into the land of nod.

‘Tap Turns On the Water’ (CCS)…

Pat is up early, probably didn’t sleep too well with the business over the unpaid bills and the water being turned off in his flat bugging him. Lovely morning again. Hard to believe this is January and not June. To think just a couple of hours away the UK is getting blitzed with torrential rain. As was confirmed when Shirley skyped Dave to ask how we were getting on and for a nice loveable chat with her husband. “Good morning darlin’” Dave responds, “how are you?”. Shirley informs us all that it’s been hammering down all night, she’s just back from the gym, got soaked right through to the skin getting back into the car, she was dripping wet, her backside was stuck to the sodden car seat - that’s what she said - but for all that, she still looked happy. Dave looks and listens intently, summing up some sympathy. “Well, that’s a shame. It’s lovely here. Sun is out. Temperature is around 12%. Really nice…” To which Shirley replied with an expletive which would be impertinent to say here. I caught the second word.. think it was Off.

Lorraine is up bright and early too, offers us a breakfast, a fry up but Pat is desperate to get moving. “I want to be at the bank at 9am when it opens! Sort this shit out! I paid the bills last month.. it’s ridiculous…” Right, let’s get going. A quick wash to refresh and we were on our way. Past some mountains, one which is prominent that Pat has renamed Paddy’s Mountain. Assuming it had a name in the first place that is. “It’s a great landmark” Pat says, “you can never get lost around here. The mountain is always there.” Well that’s true I’m thinking. Not gonna go anywhere is it? It is really nice though, if you like mountains. “Reminds me a bit of Table Mountain in Cape Town” I say.

Takes us around half hour to get into the nearby town of Almoradi  where the bank is. Main street resembled a Western town, a cowboy town, to my eyes anyway. “There it is” Pat triumphs. We found a parking slot, Pat went off to give hell to the bankers and me and Dave went in search of a cafe. Which was easier said then done. Everywhere was closed. Maybe it was too early for them, thinking about it. But, eventually, there was one establishment open, quite a large cafeteria, a few punters in there and we ordered some cheese toasties and coffee. Amazing how quick time flies when you’re rabbiting. Music was the pre-eminent topic and a conversation ensued about working on radio stations. “Do you get many boring people phoning up for requests, crap tunes that you think ‘oh! no!?’ I ask.

“Yes. Sometimes it’s the same one phoning in at the same time every day, basically because they just like to hear their name mentioned on the radio. They might ask for a 10cc record and I’ll say ‘we played that about half hour ago, can’t play it again.” And I might select another 10cc record and then again I might give them some waffle just to get rid of them!”

It’s fascinating listening to the way the DJs operate on live radio, having to intermingle weather and news reports, jingles, choosing what track to play next. I used to enjoy working with Pat for a brief spell on his Corby Radio Sunday morning show a few years back. Baffled me just looking at the monitors! Something I’ve always admired though and would love to do but fear my lack of pc would possibly be a hindrance. I’ve gone through life with the ideology of being ‘bullshit free’. And apart from that, all those knobs and dials would send me stir crazy. Now if it was just a case of putting a 45 on..

Time moves on, the toast and coffee had hit the spot and we decide to go and see if Pat is out of the bank and looking for us. He’s nowhere to be seen. Right opposite the bank was a doorway and we stand there continuing our chat about live radio, wondering if Pat is ever going to emerge from the building. People are going in and out so somebody is in there, we ascertain. Has Pat been kidnapped? Is he being interrogated? Two hours are nearly up and finally Pat comes back out into the sunshine. Face like a smacked arse.

“Ignorant bastards” is his opening shot. “They couldn’t understand a word I was saying. They had to get an interpreter. I’m sure they were being racist! I told them all the bills set up in this bank had been paid. They claim there was still some outstanding which resulted in the water company turning the tap off.”

All sounded confusing, cross wires and all that. Bottom line was, it was sorted but we would have to wait for the bank to confirm to the water people all is well and that it could be 24 or even 48 hours before they got round to giving us water again. 

At that we headed back to the cafe for a beer.

Next stop it was agreed, was a supermarket. Get some goods in. Four two gallon bottles of water were purchased. Boil the kettle, add some water and we can have a wash and a shave Pat informs us. “Yes” I say, “I don’t ming minging for a day or two but you get fed up of feeling like a grub.”

Felt as if we were getting somewhere now. Settled finally in the flat, bacon, eggs, a few cans of beer

"get the kettle on Pat"

, bread and milk stored away, and my packet of nuts, which had Dave looking at me sort of bemused. ‘Good for you, these are” I tell him, “walnuts”. “Why?” he asks. “Don’t know really” I reply, “somebody told me!” 

“So is steak” 

So as juvenile as you can be, my nuts were referred to as steak for the rest of the week! 

Back on the road, Pat takes us on a trip to the nearest resort which is Guardamar, doing a wonderful job as a tour guide. A quiet reserved looking place but then again, you don’t get many people hanging around in January I figured. 
It had been arranged that we would meet up with Mick and Lorraine, and Ali and Rachel, for an Indian meal so it was time to get back to scrub up best we could. Nice evening it turned out to be. Much joviality, few beers, nice meal, yap, almost like we were carrying on from the previous day’s activities. 

Pat had chilled proper now. We walked back through the deserted streets, stopping every few yards while Pat explained the lay out of the town. 

‘The Square is bustling in the summer, all the bars open, crowds of punters milling around, music, buskers, having fun, getting drunk, it’s brilliant’. Could imagine it would be. Traversing down the myriad of side streets he pointed out various restaurants. Italian, Chinese, Spanish, an ‘English’ shop, and a dentist. Which immediately had us telling Dave a tale about our friend Danny who Pat was trying to persuade to have his apartment for a week, one night in our local the ‘Rock’. After extolling the virtues of Algorfa, all the above as mentioned, how far it is from the coast, the accessories in his flat, TV, community swimming pool, kettle, barbecue on his roof…Dan looking serious, interrupted.. “Is there a dentist there?”

Our friend Wilf was with us at the time as well. Dan’s question threw Pat. Stopped him in his tracks! Me and Wilf look as befuddled as Pat. “Do you think you’ll get toothache or something there?” I ask Dan. “Well, you might” he says!

Course we fell over laughing, who the hell asks that sort of question when you’re booking a holiday! Only Dan!

Back on home turf, we put some music on, from my mobile, had a few beers, and Pat’s Remy Martin which I had noticed in his cabinet. 2.30am I called it a day, or night. Retired to my bed and left Pat and Dave to reminisce about the old days working in the Corby nightclubs. 

Two hours later they were still rabbiting away…woke me up!

What was that about talking the hind legs off a donkey..

Three Men In a Boat...

Storm Brendan was closing in. It’s 3.30am, I’m picking Pat McMahon and Dave Irving up before heading off to East Midlands Airport. Pat comes out coughing and spluttering with the virus he’s been trying to shake off since before Christmas. ‘Few days in the sun will sort you out” I tell him. Feeling frazzled myself at this unearthly hour we head off to pick Dave up, and he shatters the tranquility with a bellowing ‘Morning Pat! Morning Clive!’ Jesus, ‘It’s Storm David!’ I’m thinking. Is this a sign of things to come? Pat has a look on his coupon that tells me he knows Dave of old. Of course he does. Friends and fellow comrades in the DJ, Disco and Radio business for over 40 years. Both could talk the hind legs off a donkey so I’m looking forward to some banter this week! Greetings exchanged, we make our way to the M1 and the first leg of our destination of  Algorfa on the Costa Blanca.

Originally I was going on my own. I had mentioned over a pint or two with Pat my desire to get away for a week in January and Pat graciously offered me his pad in Spain. A few pints later he decides he too fancies a bit of sunshine and so suddenly there was two of us. Next came Dave, who following an evening with Pat and Yvonne, and his wife Shirley, also joined the gang.  So, gone was my idea of a quiet peaceful week, relaxing with a book, contemplation. But what the hell, it’s more the merrier!! 

The Met Office had been warning everyone in the UK about the impending Storm Brendan and we felt the full brunt of Bren as we tore up the motorway. Torrential rain lashed down. We made East Midlands airport in plenty of time all the same, arriving at 5am, two hours ahead of departure. Car parked up, through the security, chirping away full of excitement, we grab some breakfast… and then Dave looks at us, aghast, his face one of horror, disbelief. “Where’s my phone?” he blurts out in a state of panic. Sifting through his pockets, his bag, he looks at us despairingly, “my cards are in the wallet with my phone too! I must have left them in the car!” “What am I goin’ to do!”

“Don’t panic first of all” I say, “look, here’s my car keys, car reg, you know where we parked, go to the security, tell them what’s happened and I’m sure they’ll let you go back out. Might have to go through the whole rigmarole of getting back in again.. but don’t panic! ” “I bet there’s been loads of dickheads who’ve done the same!”  

“My appetite has disappeared” Dave wails. 

“Get going!!”

Half hour later he’s back, his relief is palpable. ‘There you go” Pat and I say smugly. Crisis is over. Right, relax! 

“Another coffee?”  

“Can’t beat a bit of drama to start the day!” says Pat.

I have a feeling there was going be a few more dramas this week. 

Because of the haphazard way this all came about, we were all seated separately on the plane. My companions were a middle aged Birmingham couple. Now not being funny but that Brum accent grates me. I’m not at my best first thing as it is and I do like my own space.  No sooner had I settled in my seat and Mr Brum is asking me jovially, “You going to Rome too?” Hilarious, not. Trying to be convivial I answer, ‘shit! I’d better get off!’ Not exactly a humdinger of a retort but enough to make Brum chortle loudly. Mistake. He thus tries to engage me in some inane patter, cracking jokes, which has Mrs Brum rolling in mirth. That’s enough I thought. Can’t be doing with this. I closed my eyes, and ears..and that was that. The Brums got the message, ordered a gin and tonic, and settled down for the two hour flight..and left me in peace. 

Dave’s journey was more frenetic. Seated at the back of the plane next to a chap who suffered with the complaint, Tourettes Syndrome. “Every second word was ‘f—- me, f—- this.., f— that’ and he never shut up the whole journey!” Dave laughed, “it was funny though. Even if a woman sitting the other side of me looked on in disgust.” 

Pat’s trip was relatively reposeful. He slept all the way!

Arriving at Alicante I made my way through the customs, passport control and waited for Pat and Dave to show. Being at the head of the queue I couldn’t see no reason for hanging about waiting for them to catch up. Pat eventually shows up and is worried that Dave will probably get lost. “We’d better move down to the passport gate and wait for him. He’ll panic.” He of little faith! Dave arrives with that non-plussed look I’ll get accustomed to. No worries. 

Pat has arranged for us to be picked up by his friend Ali, a Tunisian taxi driver. Big smiles, hugs and Ali takes us off to Algorfa and Pat’s apartment, leaving us his car for the week. It’s still only around 11am, the sun is welcoming, the scenery splendid and we are all quite excited. Pat is keen to show us his flat which he and Yvonne have had for over ten years and first impression was, ‘it looks great’. Then we discover the water had been turned off! No running water!  Pat is flummoxed, angry. ”I thought I’d sorted this out! I phoned the utility companies last week, phoned the bank, paid the bills!” .. “’effin wankers!”. “Well at least the electricity is working” Dave said sympathetically, trying the switch. 

So we had some light, but unfortunately, no TV. Switching the set on, there was only one channel working. The Film Four Channel. “F—- me” Pat moans, “the remote is knackered.” New batteries are tried. No luck, no change. Can’t even turn the channel over manually. Pat looks exasperated. “Gonna change this tele, it’s effin’ shite! Sorry.” 

“We didn’t come all this way to watch the box anyway Pat” I offer. Dave,  oblivious with cigarette in hand, looks on with indifference.

“I’ll have to get down town first thing tomorrow, sort this shit out, I was on the phone only last week..” Pat has a habit of repeating himself.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not the end of the world, worse things happen at sea..” we try to placate Pat, clearly distraught and embarrassed.

“Right, we can’t stay here.. I’ll phone Mick and Lorraine to let them know the situation.”

Mick and Lorraine it turns out, are Pat and Yvonne’s neighbours in Weldon who also, conveniently, have a home a couple of miles from them in Algorfa. Lorraine is also Dave’s sister in law. Well it couldn’t have been handier really. Explaining the trauma, which Dave and I were less concerned about, ‘don’t worry Pat’ we kept telling him, Mick and Lorraine insisted we could stay at their place, a huge house up in the hills, and also share a roast dinner with them! Well, that was unexpected but what a delight! Ali and his partner Rachel were there also. So ensued a wonderful afternoon, and night. A lovely Sunday dinner, lots of wine, and beer, laughter, swapping stories. Lorraine’s mum and dad, Joy and Malcolm Anderson were big friends from way back with Sue’s mum and dad, Peggy and Sam. Malcolm and Sam used to go sea fishing in Torquay with their other pal from Golden Wonder in the 1960s, a gentle giant called Big Joe. A massive guy I remember too. Must have been not far short of 30 stone. A real character. The Andersons are also neighbours and close friends with my brother Alan and family in Corby. Small world! There was no shortage of conversation!

Pat and Yvonne's Spanish abode

So came to and end an unusual and unexpected start to our sojourn in Spain. Mick and Lorraine were amazing hosts. We eventually retired at around 2am, stuffed and knackered! Me and Dave in one room, and Pat, still coughing - he told us he’d very nearly called his trip off the Friday before we came out - in a separate room on his own. Which was rather thoughtful of him. 

Reckon we all slept like logs! Apart from Pat maybe..