A curse

I think I’m done with Bermuda. It’s all so samey now! Get up, walk to a beach, acknowledge guy smoking weed, shoes off, walk through the surf, take ANOTHER photo of the sun rising, video the waves lapping against the shore. Now do I walk up and down the same beach again. I dunno, will those girls run mostly naked into the sea? Oooh look a cute doggo. You know retirement really is ok at 6.30am in Bermuda. We have like two days left. 

We should probably go and see that lighthouse, or another beach. Maybe we could find a bar that does a rum cocktail to their own original recipe. No, today is a pool day. From beach to pool. Yeah but first breakfast… We are on the 9.20am ferry to bacon sarnies and beans on toast. Obviously, I’m having avocado toast with added cheese and egg and shit. It’s what all the up and coming Bermy wankers are having. Snuckems is having an Omelette. Sorry. And sorry if this is getting sweary quite early. Snuckems had a fucking Taj fucking Mahal fucking Omelette. Fair play, she likes a curry. But a fucking Taj Mahal Omelette for breakfast, dear lord.  


Breakfast annihilated, we did what any real man would do. We got back on the ferry to the hotel and crashed on to a sun lounger. 


Unfortunately, today it appeared to be bring a dumb American to the pool day. Not sure if I mention “Thermometer Guy” the other day. He has his own floating fucking thermometer and knows the temperature of the fucking pool and hot tub to the nearest one degree fucking Fahrenheit at any point in time. Why???? Because he’s a twaaaaaaaat. 


They had friends today. I was trying not to listen but my noise cancellation headphones don’t have an “annoying American twat” setting. “Oh my god Mable, you know Tony wants to go playing golf at 8am, like in the morning, well I said I’d go shopping and meet him for lunch. Brandon said, he’d meet him on the 9th hole. I mean he likes golf, but on vacation a man has to rest, am I right? So Tony says to Brandon. If Mable goes shopping again he’ll have to sell his golf clubs to pay the credit card bill. Which is funny because he just bought new clubs and put them on the credit card. Men!! It’s one rule for them and another rule for us! Am I right? I am right!! I’m telling ya!”


For the love of god take a fucking breath Mable!!


I go and try to drown myself in the hot tub. It’s still a cozy 38C, that’s 100.4F just ask Tony. He knows!  I look back at the war zone that is the American district of the loungers. Mable who had disappeared previously is now back with the fucking pillow from her bed. Oh lord they are doggers I knew it. Wait a minute. Didn’t we establish the other day that Thermometer Guy was 80 and Canadian.  He’s still American in my eyes and anyway, he ain’t dogging at that age. 


If any of my more innocent readers don’t know what dogging is… Google it. But be careful where you park your car at Tesco. You don’t want to give the guy collecting the trolleys the wrong idea eh grandma?


I had tactfully judged my arrival at the hot tub to avoid having to look too closely at the ass cheeks of the young lady who had clearly positioned herself in the eye line of any gentleman in the hot tub. I don’t know what she had to gain from flaunting her ass so provocatively. But as my old man would say, it certainly seemed to be a convenient location to park your bike. I wonder, does this make her the butt of my jokes? Get it? Anyway, I’m a happily married man. Luckily, she decided that her rump was suitably broiled and turned over to cook her frontage. Oh my … well… what can I say.  I think she’s inflated her life vest before exiting the plane! It looked like she’d brought down two pillows from her room!  I fainted. 


I came to on my bed in our room. Maybe it was all a dream. But if it was, how do I have a picture of Mable and her pillow on my phone?




After making myself look beautiful in previously worn clothing from earlier in the holiday we once more venture into Hamilton to find Ruby Murry’s Indian Restaurant. (Yes they spell Murry that way, because Bermuda is foreign, you racist). We find it in a building site. Obviously it’s just on the left before the road cones. 




The cones are there for your safety and for the safety of our workman. 


The curry house had like a courtyard out front. It was filled with chairs and tables which hadn’t been used since they erected a building site next door. It gave off clear derelict vibes to the restaurant. The inside was a little like a cave crossed with a 1970s living room. There was one guy sat at a table. He was refreshingly Asian. And before the woke police hunt me down. You all know that if an Asian guy is in the restaurant eating, chances are the place isn’t run by a load of white Bermudan’s who once saw a curry in a Delia Smith’s recipe book. 


We started with popadoms. The dips were already on the table. I’m not sure how long they’d been there for. A week maybe. Luckily, at least one of them was radioactive. It was a mint sauce but kind of glowed an unhealthy artificial green colour. It tasted like really fresh mint, but gave the impression Brian the chef had panicked when it looked like rabbit’s diarrhoea and threw in some food colouring. 


We weren’t having starters but in the panic of ordering whilst under the influence of radioactive mint, asked for veggie pakora to share. The sharing bit was the waiter’s suggestion. It was a good call. 6 large pieces of barely cooked vegetable chunks duly arrived. Each coated in a soft chickpea ‘batter’ that may have been deep fried but not for long enough to cook either it or the vegetables well. We had pepper, cauliflower and potato. I swear the potato was a McCann’s oven chip. 


My main was a chicken Jalfrezi, that wasn’t how they were spelling it. They seemed to like to put an extra letter into each dish. With JalfHrezi it was an ‘H’ but now I can’t remember where the hell it was. Snuckems went for a traditional Vegetable Platter. (Let me know if you want help pronouncing the Indian words there!) Which when it arrived was indeed a platter of vegetables. Each had been abused in some way by the chef so they could be represented as Indian food. I swear the garlic mushrooms I’d seen previously at a Harvester. Maybe that is where this guy learned his craft.


My JalfraHzi when it arrived looked very similar to an actual chicken jalfrezHi you might get in Wolvo. With the exception the chicken here tasted really fresh. That may have something to do with the feral chicken problem they have in Bermuda. With chickens roaming the streets in gangs looking for tourists to rob, it’s not surprising that local restaurants can “guarantee freshness”. RIP old friend




The clientele here was eclectic to say the least. They even let in Americans. Dishes were served at your requested spice level. Which ranged, mild, medium, spicy, Indian spicy hot. The latter being reserved for complete mentalists who had some how decided that having a tongue and or an anus was not really for them. Ewww I never thought I’d be putting those two words in a blog about a meal.  I went medium because I’m WEAK! Also, I like my tongue and anus as they are, thank you very much. 


Here is the bit where I slag off the curry for being absolutely rubbish and inedible. But actually it was really nice. Sadly they hadn’t used lumps of dry over cooked chicken breast. But it was a decent medium spiced chicken jHalfrezi that you might have got in a more traditional English  Indian restaurant. 


Sadly, we had to leave before the American business man opposite us consumed his Indian spicy hot curry. But we said a little prayer for his anus as we left. 


We arrive back at the dock in plenty of time to catch the last ferry home. This subjects us to 15 mins chat with our captain. Who is sat stuffing his face with take away Chinese. He’s a lovely guy but you get the impression he has like 5 or 6 tourist conversations he selects at random when cornered.  We started talking about curry and all of a sudden were embroiled in a chat about how Bermuda was found(ed) by some hapless sailors who accidentally managed to not get shipwrecked on the reef. Somewhere I’ve missed detail of a volcano, and somewhat related what strength of vindaloo his anus can take. 


Soon we are on our way and dock back at the hotel’s jetty. We separate for the return journey to our room. Snuckems taking the direct route over the fence to our patio. To wait at our French windows like a murderer waiting to be let in. Whilst I get to climb and descend 3 flights of stairs up from the dock to reception and then back down to our room. She still complains it has taken me too long. I punch her in the face and mutter a curse on her anus.


Stop Press: Packing for the journey home has started. Which is good. I tire of these long sunny days, cocktails and curry, he lied. I didn’t actually have a cocktail yesterday. I had a couple of glasses of ice cold Amstel. I’d forgotten the pleasure of a drink without fucking fruit, rum and shit in it. Perhaps, I may have another beer one day soon. Not sure where I’d get a frigging banana Daiquiri in Wolvo anyway. 

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