Love Island
Another day in Britain by the sea. I awake at the crack of dawn to find that surprisingly no one else on this god forsaken island has stirred. My fellow inmates, if they exist, are no where to be found. Snuckems is doing her best impression of Sleeping Beauty. She lacks one of the essential components. I’m saying nothing but I can guarantee she is sleeping.
I stroll the deserted corridors of this Bermudan Premier Inn in the hope of meeting someone, anyone. This is the hotel equivalent of the Marie Celeste. Cast adrift in the Atlantic, has my hotel become the Bermuda Triangle’s latest mysterious victim. Are they just all very shy? I find that hard to believe when I know for certain a number of them booked this hotel knowing that the shower had an effing spectators window.
Enough is enough, I need to escape. When the going gets tough the tough get walking. Looking at the map the island is no more than a mile from one side to the other. I plot my course to the beach, put on my shortest shorts and set out. The new light of the day making my freshly oiled calves glisten like they are hewn from granite. Hard as nails, yet shockingly white! It’s probably a blessing no ladies are awake yet. I don’t want to be responsible for them fainting in the presence of my beauty.
In no time at all I have traversed the width of this lush island paradise and emerge onto a coral pink beach. Yes the steps down to the beach are an industrial concrete monstrosity by the side of an even more ugly drain culvert. But you know this Is paradise compared to the beaches of Wolverhampton.
The sun has just made it over the horizon. It’s possible that by Tuesday lunchtime in the UK. Many of my friends, relatives and former colleagues are having a really shitty day at work. I don’t want to be a dick about it or brag too much, so I record a couple of videos and send them to more or less my entire contact list! I start to think that Bermuda may be more beautiful than Star Wars Galaxy’s Edge in Disneyland. Jeez what has happened to me? Could it be after nearly 57 years on this planet I may be growing out of spending my vacations at fun fairs becoming excited by men and women dressed as fictional furry creatures???!
I head back to the hotel to tell the little lady what a fantastic time I’ve had without her. Maybe one day I’ll take her to an idyllic beach in Bermuda. But not today. It’s breakfast o’clock and she’s been afflicted with the same lazy bastard sleeping sickness as the rest of this island. We eventually emerge into the morning not long before lunchtime and head for the ferry into town. The plan, as far as I can determine, is to get coffee, breakfast, and then take some random form of transport to another destination and have brunch / lunch / dinner or all three. This kind of “I don’t give a shit” planning seems to have taken over my life since I retired and I’m loving it.
We arrive to catch the ferry to town accidentally a whole 40 minutes before it departs. The driver who 100% isn’t hiding around the corner having a smoke of ‘something’ greets me “Good afternoon!” … it’s 10.40am Brian. Wow… at least he’s got 40 minutes to sober up before he’s driving a boat across a busy shipping lane!
We do get into port safely and have a potter around the shops culminating in coffee cake and more aimless wandering. I don’t know how it happened but as if by magic we find ourselves in what I can only describe as the Bermudan equivalent of the Birmingham Sea-life centre. This is a real low light of the holiday. Seemingly some rich twat in Bermuda is bankrolling this place. He doesn’t provide sufficient funds for them to actually buy fish, so they get by with some dead one’s in jars and some videos of the ocean.
The highlight of the exhibition is a lift akin to the Tower of Terror at Disney. Gone are the death defying drops causing stomach churning fear. In is a 55 inch Samsung TV screen. This lift (it’s supposed to be a flying submarine) transports you to the “Bermuda Triangle”. When we arrive the exhibition explores every conspiracy theory known to man, but doesn’t dismiss any of them. These range from natural phenomenon causing disappearances to actual fecking alien abduction. In line with the spooky nature of my empty hotel. This “hot” tourist attraction seems to only have two visitors today. (One of them is called Steve.)
Someone cheerily pointed out to me that by retiring early I was more likely to die early. Honestly it feels like the process has started. It is now sometime later in the day, the Sea-life centre is a distant memory. We are reenergised and looking for ice cream as the temperature has reached a Bermudan high of “really quite jolly warm”. You are going to struggle to comprehend how, but ‘suddenly’ I’m eating Paneer Tikka Masala in an Indian restaurant. I know what you’re thinking. This blog is a bit random today Steve. You should worry! This is MY life and I can’t make any fecking sense of it.
Our bus trip back to the hotel was a highlight of the day. We slow at a stop to pick some Bermudan guy up. The guy waves in a friendly fashion at the driver who waves back and accelerates away. In the next seconds the chap is effing and a jeffing at the bus as he attempts to out run it. Eventually, we stop and local character “Timmy” climbs aboard. His anger dissipates instantly as he greets everyone on the bus by their first names. Over the course of the next 20 minutes he works his charms on every Bermudan lady present. I don’t know for sure but it seems Timmy may have been related in some way to Clive. I say related, but actually what I mean is, they may well have the same dealer. And who knew that being off your tits on Bermudan Backy doesn’t actually make you attractive to any middle aged married women on a bus. Sadly, our stop comes before we witness the conclusion of love island’s least eligible bachelor competition.
We stop off for a $10 iced mocho choca latte with a shot of caramel and a free appointment at the diabetes clinic and head back to the room. It’s getting late and the little lady doesn’t want to miss the Villa game. It does seem only fitting that I conclude my dull day watching Aston Villa’s dramatic exit from The Champions League. The dark muggy evening has light shone into it by the pleasure and joy one can derive from observing the unbridled suffering of Brummies.
As we settle in for the evening I hear sirens outside. I open the door, in the distance an emergency vehicle whizzes away. Instead of silence descending upon us, a high pitched noise continues near by. This could be either the most annoying but yet laid back Bermudan car alarm, off it’s tits on wacky backy or … or it could of course be bloody Whistling frogs!! “How did you not know about Whistling Frogs?” My darling questions me. “Everyone knows about them. I mean, David Attenborough covered them at great length on” … I punch her.
I swear this blog has been influenced by people telling me it sounds like I’m having a terrible time. So I've just made it sound even worse. I’m actually living my best life, a life without work, without responsibilities and a life with wacky backy.
Having a lovely time, wish you were here. Obviously, I don’t mean that! You can do one!
