Christmas, France, and Rabid French Dogs.

This Christmas fourteen of my family; cousins, brothers, sister, aunties, uncles, grandmothers and great-grandmothers all congregated in a little French village on the left side of nowhere, in a land of wine and cheese and pan au chocolats- otherwise known as France. My aunt and uncle have lived here for many years now, my grandmother living in a house in the next street, and through snow blizzards, ferry trips and Ryanair flights, we all made it here to spend christmas together.

My brother in his pre-army training fitness mode went off for a run Christmas eve while the rest of us did what appeared to be the main activity of this holiday; eating and preparing the next meal. It wasn't until we were laying plates and mis-matched cutlery that someone pointed out his absence.

"Didn't he say he'd be thirty minutes? And hasn't it been nearly two hours now?"

"Well we'll have this cup of tea and then start to worry." was my mother's reply.

My brother was indeed lost- being a typical man he had run off into the the distance without a mobile phone or the name of the town we were staying in. Now when I say this place is rural, I mean rural. There are no shops for miles, no public transport, no people apart from the odd nutty French farmer called Jon Jon, nothing but fields and sheep. Now to be fair, I couldn't point you out this place on a map of France either- I know we're roughly in the middle of this large green country, but that's certainly not enough geography to make me feel comfortable enough to run off into the horizon without some sort of Hansel and Grettle style breadcrumb trail in order to find my way back.

He returned eventually, 'puffed out' not quite covering the pale shade of sweaty yellow his skin had turned, and consequently slept most of that afternoon.

Christmas eve is surely the most magical night of the year- the buildup of weeks of preparation to the day that will follow felt in the air, when presents lie ready to be opened, fridges jammed full of food waiting to be eaten. We had a Christmas 'warm-up' meal as it were that night- practicing getting everybody around the table for a start.

Looking around the large table full of people, ranging from the ages of 'nearly two' to eighty two, we had a particularly extraordinary range of beliefs. From Catholic to atheist, Buddhist to spiritualist, psychic to Reiki healers- that's a rather interesting mix between fourteen people- and although supposedly a 'clash' on every level possible; readers of Richard Dawkin's 'The God Delusion' sitting with readers of Diana Cooper's 'Angels', with pretty much everyone having read 'The Secret', despite all of this- it didn't affect the meal, the conversation, the fact that we're the same family. Religion isn't the dynamic that defines the bond between these people, it doesn't even define the reason that we were gathering. I'm not saying that 'if we can sit in religious harmony, then why can't the rest of the world,' but it was interesting that we were all celebrating what is generally recognised as a Christian festival, when the majority of its participants at our particular table would have very different views and feelings on the day's meaning.

I'm sure this is the same for many families- perhaps not so much in reference to the rather impressive multi-coloured range of the theology- but the celebration of Christmas transcending Christian, or arguably pagan roots. When I thought about this a bit more, I didn't think of it as a negative thing- I was brought up as Roman Catholic and my religious roots have always been important to me, but I didn't see it as people forgetting the 'true' meaning of Christmas, because I think Christmas isn't just the history of a religious and historical figure. From Christmas traditions have been born, traditions that mean that my family had driven and flown hundreds of miles from Essex, Kent and Sussex to all get here, to this table, and eat a meal together.

And an even more powerful thought, was that there were millions of people doing this same thing, at the same time. On this date people shared food and gifts (and washing up) with the people that meant most to them in the world. As simple as that, and as important as that.

We went round the table that night and everyone had to answer the question "What does Christmas mean to you?" Family was indeed the main word that came up, along with Christmas lights, tradition, carols, opening presents, giving and Children. We all decided how much more fun Christmas is with little kids, adding magic to the list of answers to that question.

"I reckon we should keep banging out kids for the sake of Christmas." My cousin's husband interjects.

No one, interestingly, mentions baby Jesus. But there's no right or wrong answer to the question, just as in my opinion, there's no right or wrong answer when it comes to religion. Without causing offence, I feel that religion, spirituality and belief are a matter of individual experience, one no less true or deserving than another. It is unmistakable coloured by culture, upbringing and experience, but this makes it no less valid, no less real, no less deserving to stand tall without feeling the need to stamp on the toes of another's individual belief. We don't expect to describe an event in perfect symmetry to or neighbour- in a statement of an incident lets say, each person would describe what they saw differently; a reflection of the different places they stood, the different angles they saw, the different language and adjectives they'd use reflecting individuality in terms of vocabulary, taking into account any personal experience of feelings towards this hypothetical incident. But essentially, they're all describe the same event.

Human beings in their complexity and individuality can never hope to agree on something so personal as spirituality, something so complex as religion. So why do we have to?

When it was my turn, I said that to me, Christmas meant tradition. From my mum's homemade mice pies that rock the socks off Mr. Kipling's lame attempts, to me and my bother's sleeping in the same room on Christmas eve, waking up and opening stocking presents at ridiculous o'clock. I was personally outraged at the shattering of that particular tradition- I could get away with it before saying that it was for the benefit of my younger brother, but now even he is nearly 16, and neither of them are having any of it. Over the last few years as i've hit the Christmas-magic-shattering-age-of-adulthood, i've held onto this particular tradition rather hopelessly. Even when me and Alex were old enough to be going out and getting completely pannined and utterly bungalowed on Christmas eve, I would shake him awake Christmas morning in his sleeping bag, hangover and all, and we'd all open our presents- my poor brother unable to speak with the hangover hat that sat upon him at 7am...

I gave in but still woke up early (by my standards) Christmas morning, because by my reckoning, its the one morning of the year apart from my birthday that i don't need a cup of tea or the smell of coffee to lure me from my bed.

"I feel like getting a little bit tipsy." My wonderful grandmother said to me a couple hours later buried in wrapping paper. She passed her empty Champagne glass over, eyes sparkling.

"No problemo Grandmama- it's Christmas."

Ahhh those two wonderful words that excuse all face-stuffing, chocolate-scoffing, alcohol-guzzling activities. I topped up her glass, smiling at the beauty of Christmas etiquette; it being acceptable to be drinking before 11am.

Since we had all realised that looking glamourous and presentable was just not going to happen out here on the farm Christmas day, we thought we'd go the other way- having a cheesy Christmas jumper competition- and the turnout was rather impressive.

My mother was sporting battery-operated Christmas lights that were wrapped around a red jumper teamed with a pair of OTT earrings (that perhaps were more Essex that Xmas...) making her resemble an overexcited tree decoration. My brother had opted for the Rambo-look with a strip of wrapping paper tied around his head and upper forearm, which gave him a slightly more threatening that festive edge considering he's a 6ft 2inch rugby player enlisted in the army. My other brother (the smart one) had selotaped wrapping paper to the back of his hoody like a Batman cape, but grandmother refused point blank to participate in what she called the 'who can look like the biggest idiot' competition. Under my car-crash of a jumper (that to be honest I secretly loved due to its size being adequate enough to hide my protruding tummy full of chocolate) was a shirt that in reality, made me look like I was about to decorate someone's living room, not eat a Christmas dinner.

Feathers, sparkles, shoulder pads and ribbons later, the winner was my cousin's partner- who had meticulously sewn brussel sprouts to the front of his jumper around a hug yellow star. When it comes to Christmas competitions, brussel sprout-related fashion is always going to win ands down.

So to recap on my particularly stunning outfit, I was wearing a pink knitted jumper that had so many colours and patterns on it, I suspect it was knitted by someone who was colourblind, had epilepsy, OCD and ADHD, matched with leggings and my new Reebok 'easy tone' trainers. This is strategic fashion- the jumper hides a greedy stomach, the leggings allow extra room to eat that second round of cheese, and the trainers in theory will burn it aalll off as I walk from the dining room table to the living room and between my grandmothers house and my aunty and uncles. A good plan I reckon.

The littlest of the 'Christmas Crew' (and arguable the cutest) was wearing a beautiful pair of shoes, and even though she was shrieking in pain because they were hurting her little toes, she simple refused to take them off. This little thing was still wearing her PJs over her nappy, but the beautiful shoes were not coming off under any circumstances. Where does that come from? That innate sense of being a girl; knowing that shoes are more important than the pain they cause?

A fabulous Christmas lunch feast was presented- truly spectacular, with guinea fowl, parsnips, stuffing, roast potatoes in duck fat- a feast where infamous brussel sprouts for the first time could have the word 'delicious' used in the same sentence; cooked with chestnuts and pancetta, they were divine.

Usually around a large table of hungry mouths, particularly in reference to Roasts and Christmas dinners, you will find yourself thinking- "Now what is the socially acceptable amount of roast potatoes I may take in front of these other people?" This question doesn't seem to ever relate to veg, stuffing or even meat- somehow its always the roasties that need to be rationed (and often Yorkshire puds in truth.) No such problems were encountered with good old Uncle Coop wearing the 'head chef' hat- roasties sprinkled with rosemary were in abundance, appearing in a huge white bowl that seemed to reproduce them as we helped ourselves.

After lunch, and a never-ending round of present opening- came cheese and desserts- most notably a 'chocolate millionaires shortbread' cake that I had made as a present for my cousin's husband. I proceeded to slice it up, portion it out, and then eat a significant amount of it myself. (To my knowledge, the poor guy is yet to taste it.) After this came the legend that is Articulate. This game proved very popular this holiday, although I wouldn't say that everyone in my family was particularly good at it. The game spiraled into an all-out war when everyone started practicing the cards and reading them before-hand. One member of the group who shall remain un-named, got 'Edam' as in the cheese, confused with 'Eden' as in the garden- leaving everyone bewildered at the description of the cheese being "something to do with all this Christmas stuff." (Sigh.)

I'd written childrens stories for the kids as their presents from me, and tucked them up that night reading them to the tired little things. My favourite thing in the world when I was a kid was bed time stories, and realised this was possibly another reminder this Christmas that maybe I'm the grown-up now, now that it's me doing the reading.

* * *

Boxing day was spent doing a treasure hunt around the fields, past horses, chickens and over-friendly sheep, treasure maps clutched tightly in little mittens, chocolates found hanging from gates and trees as we followed clues, jumping in puddles and feeding the sheep as we went along.

Most children, for reasons unknown, seem to have a distinct lack of 'gravity awareness', meaning that when one of the little tykes jumped on my back 'piggy back' style, he then happily let go ten seconds later and furthermore, lent backwards. I panicked and yelled "Hold onto me you Twat!" Receiving a bollocking myself from the little tyke's mother- apparently you don't call small children, Twats.

Apart from little twats, I mean, little tykes, my other favourite thing here is the animals. There are the sheep in the Reiki Field; Rodney, Gabrielle, the rather amorous DeDe and the little cats Willy and Lilly that border on wild things that pounce in the bath when you think you've found a quiet moment to yourself. Then there's my grandmother's little black sheep; Jack, Eric, Marta and the affectionally named 'Kieff' the the donkey who lives at the bottom of the garden. 'Kieff' (Kieth) has a far more sophisticated name, but as she can never quite remember it, 'Kieff' stuck rather well. It suits him. This soft and slow creature with a fog horn of a voice, peers over the fence watching the three sheep run around, the kids rolling in the mud play-fighting, (or real fighting judging from the tears.) Mitsy the fat cat watching it all from the window- the fattest of fat cats with her stomach that hangs down touching the grass.

* * *

Bike- riding is another favourite past time out here, with endless hills and green, and my younger brother (the smart one) and I disappear one afternoon We ride past beautiful cottages, farms, winding lanes and fair amount of smelly cows. With Paolo Nuttini playing on my ipod I reckoned I had the right soundtrack to the landscape, until we hit the problem of the French Dog Brigade.

Going past one of the farms, I spotted a huge Alsatian (actually, IT spotted US) tied to a chain, which came from a tiny wooden kennel outside the barn it was guarding, a kennel that resembled more of a bird house than a viable home for a large, barking, dirty dog.

-A word on the French and their animals- as a generalisation out here in the countryside, they don't treat them very well. At all. Animals are there for a purpose; hunting dogs, guard dogs, animals are livestock rather than pets or companions. You see dogs on cages everywhere out here, cages outside in all weather, horses and donkey's looking dirty in empty muddy fields-they just don't seem to think of animals as worthy of love and affection.

So me and smarty-pants are on bikes in the middle of nowhere and there's a nasty looking creature eyeing us hungrily from its pathetic bird house. I feel pretty safe riding past looking at the heavy chain around its neck, even when the thing starts galloping towards us; its on a chain, i don't even change gear.

Then I realise that the chain is only attached to the dog. Nothing else.

"AAAHHH" I immediately loose my footing, cant change gear or speed up- all can hear is the sound of the chain flying across the mud. I can't even turn around- fear focusing on my eyes on the road and on smarty pants who is disappearing in front. By the time I remember to breathe I see the dog hasn't followed- it wouldn't quite leave it's patch of land; territorial instincts thankfully stronger than the killing instinct I'm presuming it possessed.

"Oh my God, oh my God." (I'm good at articulating myself in a crisis) "I thought that dog really had us there!"

We laugh, until we get round the next bend. There's anther huge barn and a lot of loud panic-inducing barking coming from within. We screech on the brakes and freeze, hiding behind the bushes. This did nothing to protect us, but not being able to see what was making the barking made me feel safer- ignorance is bliss as they say.

"What do we do?" I look fearfully at my sibling, who being the youngest, was looking at me with the same question. "If we go back that way there's a mad dog running loose, but if we go forward we don't know if this lot are tied to anything either." The barking is loud and ferocious and sounds likes they've definitely got rabies. Maybe we could just live here? In this bush, get someone to drop food off, build a shelter, we don't have to make a decision...

Eventually we pluck up the courage and build up some speed on the bikes as we hurtle past the barn's entrance. Three large yellow-eyed Rottweilers snap their teeth and pull against chains that thank God are actually attached to something as I skid past yelling in fright.

I'm starting to feel slightly more safe as we hit to 2o meter mark when smarty pants drops a bombshell;

"We've missed the turn off. It's back there."

"Fucksake Dom! Shit, I fucking hate dogs! I fucking hate France!"

My little little brother takes this outburst on the chin and quietly directs me back towards the savage dogs, the road home being just behind the barn where the creatures lay in wait.

Can I just ask here, what the hell do these bloody French farmers have in their barns out here in the middle of nowhere that requires blood-thirsty animals to protect it? And protect this mysterious 'it' from what? Other crazy French farmers? It can't be from elderly locals or the odd lost Essex girl on a bicycle.

You know what, I don't want to know. I just want to get back with my ankles intact.

We do. Me and smarty pants survive to tell the tale to our other brother who says;

"Yeah, I had the same problem on my run the other day- this little Jack Russel followed me nearly all the way home snapping at my ankles."

Jack Russel/ Alsatian and Rotwieler. Not the same thing mate.

Still muttering about the French and their bloody dogs and weird farming habits, I console myself with some homemade French fudge- which is awesome.

I love France again.

*My cousin has interjected this comment via 'Facebook'

"Hay! I won the jumper competition! Don't you remember me sticking my fingers up at your mum, who had said my jumper was too 'obvious' and rude!! So back off ameretto sprout boy. The tittle is mine."

this, i guess, is a retraction (of sorts.)

Weddings, Snow and a Whole Lotta Jaggerbombs....

My travelling pen and wandering feet have led me to a casino down in Broadstairs, Kent, where you will find me happily making cocktails, serving drinks and making tips off poker players by night, secretly plotting to become a croupier and play cards on every cruise ship and every casino in Vegas, while by day, I write my little socks off using up half a rainforest in paper, printing material I’ve sent to anyone and everyone I think will read it. I feel that someday soon, someone will decide they just need to make me what I describe as the next Carrie Bradshaw/J.K. Rowling and set me one more step forward in finishing this post-uni answer this blog has generally aimed to explore.
A good old Kent update is sorely needed, but my moijto-making skills were recently called upon back in the Land of Essex at a friend’s wedding and I do love a bit of ‘Essex writing’ so in the meantime… here is the story of a beautiful bride, a wonderful groom and a whole lotta snow and jaggerbombs…

I had what can only be described as so much fun that day, I feel guilty calling it work. My beautiful friend was getting married and I was running the bar which was I was pleased to find was very well stocked, and had enough fresh mint and brown cane sugar to keep the whole of Essex in mojitos.

One word. Snow. It’s very pretty and all, but a pain in the arse after the novelty has worn off (about thirty seconds after its stared to fall and we remember our country is ill-equipped and too tight to invest a bloody snow plough.) The night before the big day, snow fell out of the sky all night long and all morning, and anyone else perhaps would have been slightly miffed, but this girl was getting married and God and his good old white stuff was not going to stop her. After the wedding car got stuck in the snow, the bride of our story hopped out and stuck her thumb out- hitch hiking a ride to the registry office in a truck. Personally think it’s a fabulous way to arrive at your wedding and I would have paid good money to see that truck driver’s face, but I was busy chopping lemons and setting up the bar back at the marquee- when it all went dark…

The newlyweds and fifty guests were due to arrive at the venue shortly, having been delayed (thanks to the snow) when the lights and the heat went off. Since none of us between me and the caterers knew where the generator was and none of us had anyone’s number apart from the bride, and since I guessed she wouldn’t want a phone call in the middle of the ceremony informing her we’re all freezing our arses off in the dark as we might kill the moment to say the least, we sat tight and waited.

Between us we lit all the candles, lanterns and tea lights and I have to say, it looked spectacular- worth being a little bit chilly to see the beautiful silver candelabras lit against the perfectly laid tables, lanterns alight to guide the guests down the path to the entrance of the marquee in the early evening. The bride had designed the whole thing- everything was black and white and in the snowy dark with flickering candles, she’d done a impressive job. It looked gorgeous.

I know all brides look beautiful on their wedding day, and this is not a biased opinion because this particular bride in question is a friend, but this girl was something else. She’s stunning anyway- and I don’t say that lightly, but this girl is one of those maddening people that even with no makeup and a one year son to run around after- she still looks good enough to eat. Clear complexion and bright white smile, she was wearing the perfect dress- strapless and fitted perfectly with a fish tail kind of finish, wonderful soft layers that hit the floor and stole the show as all brides in their dresses should. She arrived at the marquee along with her lovely groom, both slightly bewildered at why all the staff were shivering in the dark. The groom in his first job as husband, saved the day- as being the only person out of the lot of us that possessed the knowledge and the know-how, turned the generator back on. Light and heat and a glass of champagne later, we had a party on our hands.

The speeches are my favourite part of any wedding. There was a perfect mixture of jokes and tears between the mother of the bride, the groom, father of the groom and the best man. I didn’t even know half these people and I was choking up slightly hiding behind my apron. I’m not exactly soppy, but doing a speech is hard, and telling someone you love them is hard when there’s a room full of smart-looking people all staring at you, so a speech deserve credit. Words that have been crafted with care and love deserve a tear in the corner of your eye, even if you are just the barmaid who doesn’t know anybody’s last name.

I’m serving wine as the guests enjoy the dinner when the bride says “Come here, have a bit of pudding.” The groom joined in, “Yer, sit here.” Pointing at his knee. I’m not quite sure if he’s joking, but between bride and groom I plonk down, happily taking a spoon of creamy dessert. So to recap- I’m sitting on the groom’s knee eating the brides dessert. An interesting wedding picture. I officially love this couple.

I have to admit here, as day turned into night, even I was slightly taken aback at the evening guest’s ability to gulf down jaggerbombs at quite the rate they did as the party really kicked off. I should have had a little more faith in my fellow Essex-landers, a tux can be deceiving…
These guys went through 16 bottles of jaggermiester in the form of jaggerbombs- the beverage which defines this generation. That’s two crates. In the end even the father of the groom, even the old grandmother in the corner- they were all on the jaggers! And their faces when I told them that there was no more of the devilishly delicious beverage… To paint you a picture, I’d compare it to a child being told Christmas was cancelled. Forever.

Jaggerbombs confuse the brain in so much as the red bull stimulates the mind while the jaggermiester deadens it. I remember being given a shot of the black stuff as an after dinner aid to help digest your meal when you’re suffering chronic digestion pains. This stuff has a medical purpose of burning the contents of your stomach and cleaning out your intestines- so what do we do? Mix it with another slightly dubious drink (which is interestingly only available on prescription in Scandinavia- I swear to God I’m not making that up) and viola! We have before us a drink that makes brain cells die in a confusing stimulated death, all for our drunken pleasure.

“What shots can we do now??” was the howl of despair at 2am.

A word on shots. Why, being the main word. Why do we do it to ourselves? I’ve long suspected that the line between being ‘merry’ and being ‘out of your nut/on the floor/memory wiped/completely panined/utterly bungalowed’ (take your pick) lies between this option of shots; sambuca, tequila, jaggerbombs- gin shots seemingly being the latest fad. They are the undoing of any good man or woman.

But I am a good and helpful bartender, so out came the tequila rose- pink gooey liquid that looks like Frigi strawberry milk, but contains more of a kick shall we say. Then there was southern comfort and lime, then, well then everyone started getting involved behind the bar. By this point I’d worked nearly twelve hours, had a joined in a fair amount of jaggerbombing shenanigans and so welcomed these volunteer bartenders (especially the best man I’d taken a bit of a shine to.) I was taught a man’s cocktail- none of your fancy ‘chill the martini glass first and garnish with a slice of something pretty.’ Nope, this was served in a pint glass- a green bogey colour potion that consisted of a shot of gin (we were free pouring by this time of the morning) shot of vodka, half a WKD blue, and half an orange Bacardi Breezer. This wonderful concoction is apparently named after a football player, (forgive me the name escapes me) who was given the honour of having a bogey-green cocktail named after him after consuming so much of this delightful coloured beverage, he proceeded to smash up most of the nightclub he happened to be in at the time.
-Bravo Mr. footballer, cheat on your wife and sleep with a couple of prostitutes and who knows- you may even get a pay rise as well as your own cocktail…

The evening drew to an end around 4am whereby the groom and his friend got butt naked and ran around the marquee, despite the fact the diesel ran out for the heater by this hour and it was cold enough to see your breath. I wasn't sure where to look, but was told- ‘this is his (the groom’s) party trick.’ Magic.

All in all I’d say it was the definition of a successful wedding- everyone was happy, more than happy- joyous; there was snow, family, first dances, live music, cupcakes, tears, nakedness and jaggerbombs (obviously not in order of importance there) So all that along with the phone number of the best man, made this best night’s “work” I’d had in a long time. And no, there aren’t inverted commma’s big enough there.

Much love to a beautiful couple and their beautiful family xxx

Farewell Fair Essex..

Billericay Brawls and Family Fun.

Billericay- home of ‘Gavin and Stacey’- Gavlaaar, Pamlaaar and ‘Smiffy’; the heart of Essex. Southend- home of Peter Pan’s play park, Adventure Island (a rite of passage for any child of Essex origin) and boy racers cruising the boulevard with gadgets attached to their Ford escorts that are worth more than the vehicle itself.

Combine the two on a Saturday night, throw in a few gallons of alcohol, a couple of birthdays, a bunch of people that in the words of Shameless’s Frank Gallagher “know how to throw a paaaaartay,” and you have an evening destined to be filled with jaggerbombs, brawls, vomit, and most importantly- cheesy chips.

Having decided to leave Essex for a while, this combination seemed as good as any for a bit of a ‘goodbye-Essex-blowout.’ My ever itchy feet are leading me to Kent for a while, living with my cousin, living by the sea again. :) My inability to stay still somewhere for more than thirty seconds is becoming a bit of a running joke with my friends, but I love being in new places, new jobs and people, and my life and various wacky plans may change at 100 miles per hour, but until I find what I’m looking for, (your guess is as good as mine) I can’t imagine being able to learn how to stay still.

With a pre drinking session in Billericay, followed by clubbing in Southend, I got the feeling I’d leave Essex with a bang. Now I’ve got a little bit of history with this particular gang of party-goers that deserves a mention before we continue this tale of Essex shenanigans …

I was eighteen years old, working in a bar in Spain that was a swimming pool, bar and restaurant -a place of various colourful characters and goings on shall we say, a job that could take up a whole separate blog post. Eighteen and living alone in a foreign country- I was having a whale of a time. I don’t think I ever slept in those first few months; living in a beach town in the summer season, learning the language and ways of the world as I went along in my own usual backward way- a beer in one hand, an ice-cream in the other, I was as happy as Larry.

Spain has a liberal way of doing things, as do its inhabitants; the chef at work used to get so drunk during the day, you’d hear him start to crash pots and pans together singing loudly at the top of his voice, and by 6 o’clock we’d be thinking- shit, how we going to get through evening service? There were various punch ups; (between staff not customers) the manager once wandering through the restaurant with a kitchen knife in his hand, looking for the waiter who’d just punched him in the face, sending him flying into the rack of crisps and then fled. God knows what the holiday makers made of Walkers packets flying everywhere- I remember being quietly amused, thinking- oh, this is what the real world, this world of adults is like then.

Anyway, one night while I was working, I met a young couple on holiday together- the nicest couple you’ve ever met and was amazed to find out we lived within a couple of streets to each other back in England. I spent the rest of their holiday loading them up with toxic sangria; knocking any type of alcohol into a jug of chopped fruit, topping it up with red wine and watching the girlfriend drink her boyfriend under the table every night. When they went home, they told their various cousins due to arrive the following week, “when you get to Mil Palmeras, go to the swimming pool bar and look for a girl called Melody.”

Hence some slight confusion when a group of rowdy boys and girls turned up at my work one day: “Are you Melody?”
“Yeh, who the hell are you lot?”
Two weeks of fun followed this little introduction, involving stolen wheelbarrows, death-defying drinking competitions and eating cigarette butts (I'll explain later…) I was a beach bum through and through by this point in the season and joined in their various holiday antics looking as scruffy as hell, I didn’t have a makeup bag or a pair of straighteners out there and I used to wear the same pair of green shorts all the time to the point that when we all met up in England when I visited home for Christmas, one of them said they half expected to see me walking down Romford high street in them.

They’re a great family and over the last few years in Spain and England I’ve somehow managed to integrate myself and meet them all; various brothers, sisters, mums, dads, step parents, cousins, step brothers, step sisters and boyfriends are always appearing out of the woodwork- this family is never-ending and so a birthday booze-up in Billericay was not to be missed.

* * * * *

Pre-drinking is an important, or rather a vital part of today’s culture- being an event designed to save you money; drink before you go out = less need to spend money in the club. The byproduct of this however is that you seem to drink twice as much twice as fast, which in the case of this particular evening, meant twice as many people being sick. (Not me before you ask.)

Perhaps it was the fruity punch (which more accurately was a bowl of every brightly coloured liquid in the kitchen poured into a mixing bowl,) or the little cups of florescent vodka jelly being passed around generously, but whatever the ingredients, the outcome was that everyone was feeling pretty jolly by the time the taxis pulled up to take us onto Southend. I managed to shotgun a lift with a designated driver, although his girlfriend calling shotgun to the front seat made a good call- puking out the window the whole way to Southend, yelling at a signpost she mistook for a human being, (an easy mistake to make with that much vodka in your system.) But the show must go on, and indeed it did- cutting some rug, making some shapes, free bubbly and little cards offering free shots to the group. We managed to loose at least half of the original number during the course of the evening- people throwing up in the bathroom, being thrown out and bundled in to taxis- but a few survivors lasted until around 3am- when followed the obligatory ‘kebab-and-a-punch-up’ routine.

The ‘kebab-and-a-punch-up routine’ involves two main elements:
A. buying large quantities of regurgitated meat wrapped in pitta bread smothered in cheese and mayo.
B. Throwing it all on the floor before you’ve eaten it to passionately fight a worthy cause in the middle of the street whilst waiting for your taxi.

I’m going to say that the origin of this particular punch up is irrelevant, merely because all I remember everyone saying was ‘he was being a dickhead’ being presented as the main justification for why everybody turned on this bloke. (Who I was sure had started off as one of our party?) I think the best way to judge whether it’s worth getting involved, is to ask yourself whether you would bother if you were sober. If the answer is no, then perhaps it’s the jaggerbombs churning inside that want a brawl rather than the decision-making part of your brain.

“Hold my cheesy chips, I’m going in.”
I was solemnly handed a polystyrene box and off one of them marched into the battleground. All that was missing was the theme tune to ‘Rocky’ with slow motion effects. I had the feeling that the fellow underneath them all was beginning to seriously regret ‘being a dickhead.’ Before anyone panics- it’s wasn’t blood and guts, indeed kebabs went flying and voices were raised, but there were a lot of punches that hit nothing but air, a lot of swinging and stumbling, a few repetitions of ‘cumon then, cumon then!’ and a fair bit of prancing around like ballerinas on steroids.

But all is fair in love and war as they say, so I strolled around from one end of the street to the other watching this little parade, the box of cheesy chips in one hand, a banner in the other cheering them on (I'm joking, I swear.)

The bouncer standing outside the club we had left nearly an hour ago gave us some friendly advice as the punch-up-parade shimmied past him; “Here’s a tip for you guys- if ya want to have a punch up, don’t do it the middle of the high street were ya ugly mugs will be caught on camera at every angle.”

Ah.

Hence the speedy exit into a mini-van back to Billericay, the cabbie kindly letting 8 people in the 9 seater, a cosey journey where we were all given a blow by blow account of what we had just witnessed from the punch-up-parade’s participants. Cheesy chips dude was convinced he’d strained his shoulder as a result of his contribution (either that or it was an excuse to ask for a back rub) and their battlefield tactics were still being repeated at 6am by the more enthusiastic members of the punch-up-possy;
“Yer and then I swung for him, and then I ducked and then I was like pow…”
By the next day when the story was being retold at the pub to another uncle, (this family is everywhere) it turned into a tale resembling a Mission Impossible style sequence. I was tempted to ask who was going to play them in the movie.

The guy on the receiving end of all this drama was left in Southend. He’s probably still there now.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself as the night was far from over. Back at their house after we bundled out of them mini-van, I took the liberty of putting the kettle on, making cups of tea and was half way through pouring the milk when I realized shot glasses were being lined up. It was 5am, the logic behind it being; “we bought all this alcohol, we might as well drink it.” A few rounds of sambuca and jaggermisters later, a new game started- The all important ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ game. This game can appear under several familiar titles; the ‘I bet you can’t do this’ game, or the ’I bet you a tenner you won’t eat that’ game.

Perhaps this is the place to expand on the cigarette butt story aforementioned. Back in Spain all those years ago when I was first introduced this rather entertaining group, I realized these boys in particular bore a competitive streak that knew no bounds- but possibly a line was crossed when one of them ate a cigarette butt for a 50 Euro bet. Impressed, we offered another 50, and he carried on, consuming the contents of the ashtray until he was violently sick in the flowerbed. It was the best 50 Euros I’ve ever spent.
Then there was the ‘I bet I can drink more than you’ version the following evening, a particular favourite, a bet with an outcome is still debated today. Myself and my competitor had 100 Euros each, the rules stipulating that whoever was sick first, lost. Now alcohol is relatively cheap out there and the measures rather generous in good old Espana so this got slightly out of hand, matching each other drink for drink as we went from bar to bar. One particular pint of long island iced tea that was more accurately a pint of petrol with a splash of coke, forever scars my memory. (And my stomach.)

This is where ‘shots of death’ first appeared in my life- Tequilla, sambucca and Tabasco sauce- which I realise I’ve previously mentioned in this blog (eight smelly boys and a small apartment) confessing to immediately chunddering it up, so actually I’m pretty screwed after four years of lying to my opponent saying I drank him under the table and laughing at him throwing up on the way home that night.. Damn. (Perhaps he won’t read this??)

So back at the house in Billericay, the suns coming up and these games start up again in the intelligent form of- ‘I bet if you punch me in the stomach, it doesn’t hurt-’ a game no doubt inspired by their Rambo-style performance on the streets of Southend. They took it turns- the part where they psyched themselves up, tensing stomach muscles being almost more entertaining than their faces as they pretended they could still breath after receiving a heavy blow; “That… d..didn’t hurt… my turn.”
I genuinely adore these boys, but I couldn’t quite work out the point- cigarette butt boy obviously ageeing as he disappeared into the living room to watch re-reuns on ‘One Tree Hill’ (!?) leaving the others to continue until one of them went flying, putting a plug socket through the wall.

They weren’t giving up; one began counting of the change in his pocket- “I bet you four pounds eighty he beats you in a race to the end of the street.” I had an urge to pat him on the head.

One thing to note when you’ve had a drink, is that your internal volume button increases without you even being aware, i.e. you’re shouting at the top of your voice when in your head, you think you’re being witty and polite. Eight people in a kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, despite all conscious efforts found it impossible to be respectably quiet to the sleeping parents upstairs. The alternative- yelling “Sssshhh! Ssshhh!” every thirty seconds surprisingly creates more noise than a bunch of football fans at an away game. The idea was that whoever was doing the most ‘ssshhhing’ would be seen as the one being good trying to calm everyone down- but, mother’s have a special instinct when it comes to their family; they know exactly which ones are the culprits, even through ceilings.

6.45am- watched a bit of breakfast news and after untangling myself from three excitable cocker-spaniels and three cats that were intent on sitting on me, looking at me with confused eyes as to why everyone was still awake at this ungodly hour, I crashed out on the sofa.

The next day involved typical Sunday hangover behaviour- a pub lunch where there’s always one that orders a pint of Stella, downs it bravely and disappears off the to the men’s to meet it again in the toilet bowl thirty seconds later, and one that wants to ‘get back on it,’ needing to be gently convinced otherwise. This was followed by a dose of X Factor back at the house, (they still hadn’t managed to get rid of all of us that had crashed on various blow-up beds and sofas by this point) a show that is far more fun when watching it in a group so you can all yell at the T.V collectively, giving expert opinions on judges and contestants. One of the boyfriends had said to me walking home from the pub,”it’s not just her I love, it’s the whole package- the family.” And curled up in their living room with them all in various states of dishevelment, cups of tea being passed around, I could see what he meant. It’s not a bad family to be a part of.

I made the rookie error of borrowing someone’s phone to call home as mine had run out of battery, only to call ‘home’ in this girls phone book. I was momentarily confused at the stranger’s voice, a stranger that definitely wasn’t my mum, so I hung up in a panic. I hung up on her mother. Everyone fell about laughing and after apologizing, I took my cue to leave (convincing my brother to come and pick me up as I was still wearing last night’s outfit.)

So I’ off to Kent folks! And with a psychic cousin, a beach and a whole new town of people who haven’t met me yet- Lord knows what’s in store. Whatever I find, my pen is at the ready…

To Work in this Land we call Essex

So I had a job, a very Essex job. And I quit it- today after the 3 month mark of being back in England. Now I’m not a quitter by any means- but I remember me and my best friend from school came up with a philosophy when we were about sixteen that “if it doesn’t make you happy, walk away from it.” (Funny enough we devised this little mantra after walking in the opposite direction to our school one Monday, bunking off for the day and sitting in the Costa coffee shop she worked in at weekends, drinking free coffee.)

Now I’m not saying this is mantra to live by, not by any means- sometimes in life there are things we have to do whether we like it or not; pay taxes, go to school (although me and my little friend didn’t think so at the time) but I miss that straightforward way of thinking – that in life there is happiness and unhappiness, and it won’t take much more than a day off school and a stolen Costa coffee carrot cake to levitate between the two- and this came to mind as I trudged off to work the other day.

I came back from Spain in September, handed in a C.V the morning after and started the next day. Now this is the most ‘Essex’ of venues, referring to the atmosphere, dress code and skin colour (I’m not talking ethnically, although the growing orange glow of the Essex population- male and female- could be categorized as an ethnic group at this rate.)

At first it was fun- it seemed to be the new ‘place to be’ and it really is a stunning venue. It was a brand new place, and there was a hopeful feel to it- it wasn’t a franchise or gimmick but a massive investment of time and money by a small group of people that really wanted this to work. But slowly I turned into one of those people that moan about their jobs- that make a face when they talk about their colleges and superiors, that scrape their feet and sulk on the way to work- and I swore I’d never be one of those people. Because at the end of the day- they’re just plain boring.

Anyway, there’s no need to bitch or moan about this place- firstly because I genuinely like most of the people there and secondly, I don’t really want to get in any kind of trouble. So the best way to describe it is, it was like being in a weird mash-up of The Only Way is Essex and a Martina Cole novel. When I got the job, the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone said “Babe, welcome to the firm” and I realised immediately that this was no TGI Fridays, a realisation brought to life with rumours of members of our ‘firm’ fired for stealing being beaten up in the car park, not to mention the being more cameras and locks around that a Swiss bank. Of course then there were all sort of interesting conversations to be over-heard by thick-looking (in reference to their necks as well as their IQs) blokes in trench coats and sports gear that were regulars, having “meetings” at the bar, (there aren’t inverted commas big enough to stress the irony in the word ‘meeting,’) conversations that made me feel naive and oblivious to the world and what really goes on beneath the surface.

The best bit was the commission of a picture- they had da Vinci’s The Last Supper painted and edited to include oysters, lobsters and bottles of Crystal champagne and pink Lauren Perrier bubbly at the table of Disciples that was to be hung above the oyster bar- a vision that truly horrified the Catholic in me. When we moved the huge piece from the store, standing back to take a look at the finished masterpiece sitting in its extravagant frame, it was commented that Jesus looked like a walrus, the others were in disagreement- they reckoned he looked like Boy George. I couldn’t help but look dismayed and slightly worried waiting for the thunderbolt to strike us all down dead, to which everyone took as step back from me, fearing that being religious was infectious. “Oh so you’re like, all Caflic then?” I didn’t take offense, because it’s not malice but ignorance that feeds prejudice. We fear what we don’t understand.

Shakespeare said “Ignorance is a curse from god; Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” In a society where religion has become something to be suspicious of, we close our minds to possibilities and loose the tool in life that can truly get us to where we want in the world – knowledge is the tool, the wing, the key- every metaphor you can think of for opening doors and taking off . Not pieces of paper saying what we have or haven’t achieve in terms of A*-D, but the desire of wanting to learn for the pure joy of it- of opening your mind and expanding your horizons- I really believe that this is the way to self-fulfillment. We were all looking at the same painting in that store room but seeing a very different picture.

I wondered how the commissioned artist felt taking on copying and editing da Vinci’s master piece. Was it my Catholic ties that made me feel uncomfortable, or the fact that they didn’t even recognise the original painting they wanted to ‘Essex-up’? The only knowledge they had of the name da Vinci, was Darren Brown’s The da Vinci code. The general consensus was that Jesus looked pretty well-fed so it was probably a good thing that it was his last supper. I left the room.

This is by no means a deterrent to customers- the place is jammed packed every weekend, the restaurant fully booked, VIP areas in constant demand- I’m writing with a ‘upstairs downstairs’ vibe. I genuinely like the staff and owners (I may even have a slight crush on one of them- a man in a suit with great hair never ceases to catch my eye) but when someone that owns a restaurant asks you whether there is milk in an espresso, it’s time to move on.
(Just thought I’d drop that in there to save my neck from any red faced owners that try and murder me in the night…)

On the other hand by my reckoning, I thought being over 25s clientele, nice place, expensive prices would mean I’d meet a nice guy. The perks of the job of a bartender must be the people you meet right? Not quite. The problem with trying to see someone that you meet in a customer/ bartender ratio is:
A- He’s always dressed up in his nice clothes because he’s out, and you always look shit because you’re in your work uniform running around like a nutter, sweating and working.
B- Working in the bar trade, getting a weekend night off isn’t really going to happen, so when you free in the week, every other person- including the guy you’re trying to see in something other than your frumpy work uniform is going to be at work.
C- When they get drunk and slink off home with an equally drunk and slurring blonde, it’s at your place of work- so every other member of staff will take great pleasure in informing you of their antics that you missed. Nice.

So anyway apart from disappointing Essex men and the odd nutty gangster taking me out, (oh if I could only expand on that story here...) male talent was crossed off the list of perks of the job.
So what’s left- tips? Apparently not. Essex people for all their bling and Lauren Perrier guzzling, are not so hot on tipping it seems. It’s all teeth but no smile, and the owner’s statement of ‘I don’t believe in tips’ was slightly disconcerting…

I find I really pick up on a place’s and people’s energy- not as in super hero powers before you all get excited- but if I’m in an environment that is distinctly negative, it begins to leak into me, I take it in and feel with an intensity to the point my mum has cautioned me a few times to ‘stop feeling other people’s feelings.’ That uneasy feeling that hangs around my ankles began to ignite again, not quite touching me, but letting me know it’s there, not quite gone. It’s like a little creature- let’s call it my little goblin, that likes to let me know it’s still there whenever I wobble, like an annoying snotty child holding onto your leg, unwilling to be shaken off. I’d wander around the restaurant trying to breathe and stay calm polishing cutlery on perfectly laid tables and I’d feel it coming out from the depths of the dark and grabbing onto my ankles making my heavy with fear, the familiar blackness in my chest that makes everything feel far away. Far away and impossible. Only ten minutes of it, tops, only a couple of times. But I’d sit in the bathroom and give myself 10 minutes to decide whether to run out the door or tackle another 10 minutes. The ten minute rule is a gem to anybody on this earth- whenever you feel bad- ill, in a bad situation, deal with it in 10 minute manageable blocks, tangible time is easy to hold onto and control.
Of course it passed as it always does- but rather than be cross or disappointed that this snotty little goblin refuses to disappear- I looked around and saw this was exactly the environment my metaphorical creature would thrive in. And I was letting it happen. There’s nothing here that’s stimulating or motivating enough for me, and the reason why I wanted to work in a restaurant was because it’s fun and sociable, acting as a sidekick to my writing- not a drain on my energy. This place has not delivered so I thought, sod that- and I quit. I temporarily, forgot I was a writer- that’s my job so I better get on with it.

***

So I’m momentarily unemployed, in search of something more as I like to say; the search for the post-uni answer, for life’s answers in my own backward and chirpy way. I’m the kid that skips along barefoot and I’m skipping down the road towards whatever comes at me. I’ve signed up to volunteer instead, ranging from the Salvation Army to the local youth offenders support team. Slight unbalance in income there I know- I can hear my student overdraft letting out a grown and a sigh (and even a tut.)

This gesture of flinging myself to the wind might not be quite as admirable as Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’ which is really is my bible at the moment, (for a start, Gilbert got paid to write as she travelled around on her quest of self-discovery- I’ll be working weekends in a Frankie and Benny’s by next week most likely, my writing, volunteering and generally post-uni search for life’s meaning limited to week days only) but itchy feet are itchy feet and if something doesn’t make you happy and you can do something to change it, then do. Why not? There’s only one person that can stop you moaning and that’s yourself. So my lips are sealed (My pen, as usual, is not.)

Two Girls. Two Cities. Two Million Dating Disasters....

Love melodystravellingpen? Try

http://www.thebadandtheugly.webs.com/

"The Bad and the Ugly"

Two Girls. Two Cities. Two Million Dating Disasters...




We're two (mostly) normal girls. We're fun, young and, if we say it ourselves, complete stunners. So why are we so hopeless when it comes to matters of the heart?



Essex Girl is totally ATD (that's Addicted To Drama for those of you not down with the acronyms); completely in love with bad boys, completely addicted to trouble, completely and utterly destined to make you go "oh my god, you're insane!" whenever she tells you about her latest conquest. Her stories are guaranteed to make your toes curl and your tongue hang out. Or, at the very least, make you grab her arm and shake it wildly, hoping that you'll knock some sense into her. But at least she's getting some serious action.



London Girl, on the other hand, is big on the unrequited love thing. Sure, she goes on dates, but she always ends up dating the sort of people that you edge away from nervously when you see them on the bus. The kind of men who want to marry you after one terrible date. The kind of men who think that buying you a Nandos is a surefire way into your knickers. The kind of men, to put it frankly, that would never get the lead in a RomCom. And, to make matters worse, she's hopelessly in love with her oh-so-handsome, oh-so-funny, oh-so-perfect and oh-so-taken BFF. Love stinks, right?



We've joined forces to reveal all the stuff that we'd sworn never to tell anyone. The kind of stories you won't find anywhere else. Think you've heard it all? Think again.

http://thebadandtheugly.webs.com/

To Essex and Beyond... Don't be Jell.

Essex. The word used to conjure up images of white stilettos, dancing around handbags and jumped-up Ford Escorts along Southend Boulevard. Our generation however, have morphed the ‘Essex-lander’ into a different creature entirely… Think orange, think enhanced- we’re talking boobs, lips, nails eyelashes, skin, even bikini lines. And it’s not just the girls, it’s the boys too- think gelled side partings and cardigans, sunbeds and pink shirts with the buttons done up to the top. The ‘Essex look’ can be spotted a mile off and appears to be a growing phenomenon thanks to the notoriety of a particular ITV2 show…

Where I work seems to be a little hubub of this world of Essex- the owners were approached to film the “The Only Way is Essex” here but refused the offer, thinking it would loose them credibility and harm the image of sophistication they were trying to achieve. (?)Since the place’s clientele seems to be the contents of the show’s extras list, I’m not sure what they’re being so sniffy about. I was indignant at my denial of fame.

From what I’ve seen of the fashion parade in this venue every weekend, (not quite as good as Essex fashion week mind,) I might go as far as to say that the guys are more extreme than the girls. They feel untouchable in a way, not in a Brad Pitt/ George Clooney sense, but in a ‘look-but-don’t-touch-me-or-it-will-all-rub-off’ sense, with their fake tan and gelled hair and those really low cut v-neck t-shirts with a waxed and literally oiled chest casually protruding. It made me realise how guys must feel around a girl with four inches of cake on her face, with hair back combed and hair-sprayed to the points it’s a fire hazard in the smoking area. You can’t get near remnants of the person underneath the circus act.

What happened to the sexiest of men- those that pull on a t shirt and jeans and just look irresistible with zero effort- bit of stumble; the rough edgy look? That- is hot. Those of you that know me well enough will know the coffee-making Italian I’m referring to here… (I just hope he can’t read enough English or is unaware of my existence enough to read that.)

So there was a lot of excitement at a series that promised an insight to this strange land, and I have to say- it’s certainly delivered in terms of laughs. A real portrayal of life in Essex? That is up for debate. In the first episode one of the orange men who talks in such a fashion that it looks like from his jaw action he’s on cocaine, informs the viewer that a lot of people think Essex is like L.A. We’re told this as he makes a big show and dance of buying a Rolex watch and a designer jacket that are mysteriously never seen or mentioned again on the series... Now, I’ve never been to L.A- but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that this cardigan-wearing-sunbed man is incorrect. Either that or we are from very different parts of Essex.

‘Nanny Pat’ is surely the star of the show- Orange Jaw Man seems to wander into his bachelor pad to find his beloved Nanna ironing his shirts and cooking sausage plaits intermittently. If she’s not already there she’s at the door with a casserole telling an equally orange granddaughter how proud of her she is as the girl recalls writing in her diary and begging to God every night “Please God, please let me be a popstar.”

The reply from the Omnipotent Almighty was most likely something along the lines of-
“My child, tis not a question of letting you be a popstar- you have free-will, re- pray that one to me: How about ‘Please God, let me able to sing in tune and dance at the same time.’ Let us begin with that one my dear tangoed child.”

I thought I’d ask around- what do Essex-landers think of their county compared to the outsider’s view? When I was at university it was a big deal to be from Essex; Essex-landers seem to stick together and it was always extremely exciting to find a fellow student from this magical region. I didn’t hear the same affect for “Omg! You’re from Surrey!”

The general consensus from inside our border is that Essex people ‘make the effort;’ as in boys and girls spend a lot of time getting ready, both sexes piling on layers of makeup and peeling off layers of clothes. I myself noticed last time I went to London for the evening that actually, the men all looked a bit scruffy in comparison to the pristine and well-kept look of the Essex male. Outside of Essex however, whether this ‘making the effort’ looks good or ridiculous is the varying factor, but mostly it’s the IQ level that seems to be the issue with the reputation.

Everyone was laughing at me on fireworks night when I made the comment; “Just think, this time all those years ago Guy Fawkes was crawling under parliament trying to blow the place up.” ‘Sugar Lips’ from the show didn’t even get that far. Her dad held his head in shame as she asked him whether Guy Fawkes was American- this is the girl who thought the capital of India was Pakistan. It’s Jade Goody and the mysterious origin of ‘East Anglia’ all over again- innocent ignorance that the public lap up; Sugar lips is indeed one of the most popular cast members.

Would it really be that bad to have a brain like that? Ignorance is bliss they say- a life where you flitter from hair appointment to manicure to your Friday night out- a small brain equals small problems surely? I don’t see any of them stressing about the meaning of life, torturing themselves about where they’re going and what they want to do.


***

Being from Essex is a novelty that doesn’t wear off anytime soon when you leave the borders of this baffling county- in fact, notoriety seems to grow. I was in Surrey a couple of weeks ago at a house party of twenty people or so, and at least sixteen of them where talking about the show. All at once.
“Oh my God you’re from Essex!” The amazement magnified when I told them yes, I have actually been to the Sugar Hut and the King William- even having dinner in there one night with a friend when low and behold Orange Jaw man and his tangerine colour lady-friend were filmed sipping bubbly at the table next to us. (I pretended not to be excited, but I don’t play calm and casually cool very well…) The scene filmed saw two equally orange girls join the table for some stimulating conversation before they trotted off to leave the love birds to their pink Moet.

Can I just take a minute to explain when I say these girls are orange, that word doesn’t do it justice. It’s like a radioactive glow, somewhere between mud and tangerine, captivating in a way that makes spectators jaws-drop, although whether it’s the fake boobs spilling over a tight top or the alarming skin colour that’s making tongues hang out is the real question.

My reaction is “Jesus Christ please tell me I’ve never been that colour.” (Cue a quick flick through facebook photos to check… Conclusion- not too bad on the Essex-scale of tango.)

I drove past ‘Dueces’ last week and the burnt-out mess was a very sorry sight indeed. Firebombed after its opening night, I wonder if Orange Jaw Man is wondering how this represents his popularity, either that or the popularity of the bar’s co investor- Jack Tweed. (Jade Goodey’s grieving widow.)

That night in Surrey, me and my friend who is also from Essex, managed to convince one of the boys from the party that yes, it’s true- all Essex girl have a vajazzle. Essex translation- a vajazzle is a decoration of little crystals in that are stuck on in the bikini area. In fact my friend went one step further and said her vajazzle was in the shape of a Labrador. (I really don’t know where that came from.) He was gobsmacked, gleefully gobsmacked that he had managed to meet two real Essex girls with actual vajazzles. It made his night. (This particular fellow ended up in A and E at the end of the evening due to his consumption of alcohol, so I hope the tale of the vajazzled Labrador wasn’t erased from his memory…

The award for the best word of the series must be ‘Jell’- Essex for jealous- a trait displayed constantly between untrusting partners on the show- one particularly ‘Jell’ character kindly explaining that “being jealous shows you care.” Bunch of flowers would have sufficed Mr. Jell Miester.

Jell-meister’s new woman after dumping Sugar Lips had a face that was a strange mixture of Queen Cleopatra and a horse- an effect caused no doubt by the buckets of Botox she’s had injected. I felt sorry for Sugar Lips being spurned- but she consoled herself with a psychic’s prediction (or physic as her Barbie-looking friend misread) that she will soon meet a West Ham football player. From a ‘Jell’ night club owner (well actually the son of a nightclub owner) to the prospect of a promiscuous male who runs around in a pair of shorts starting sentences with “at the end of the day” for a living. Lucky girl.

I do have my Essex moments- the most repeated among my friends probably me saying on an airplane to Amsterdam for my 21stbirthday, as we broke the clouds at a few hundred thousand feet;
“See, everyday’s a sunny day, it’s just the clouds that get in the way…”

That sentence, although uttered in complete sincerity at the time, for me sums up Essex mentality (not my mentality) - dumb but sweet natured. There’s no malice in the characters on screen. Even the original tangerine girlfriend of Orange Jaw man who is probably the most unlikable- with eyebrows constantly raised so high when she speaks, (or rather bitches) I worry they’ll get lost in her hairline- even this young lady uttering obscenities at her ex and his new girlfriend in between telling anyone and everyone they were together for nine years- you can just see it’s all a defence. She’s being horrible because she’s hurt. I would be too if I wasted nine years of my life with someone who spent that much time in front of a mirror.


Thinking about the plotlines of the show, (whether they’re scripted or unscripted being a bit of a debate here) they all revovle around the ever-changing dynamics of this group's relationships. Elizabeth Gilbert’s novel ‘Eat Pray Love’ came to mind- the part when she admitted having got all the way to Bali on her journey of self discovery and enlightenment, and all she wanted to ask the wise old medicine man about was about her relationship. One of my oldest friends and I went to dinner yesterday- I arrived back realising that from 6.30 until 10pm we didn’t stop talking for more than five minutes, and 80% of that time- yep you’ve guessed it, we were talking about boys.

So when you strip away all the vajazzle and the spray tan washes down the plughole, they’re just like you and me. It doesn’t matter whether your orange, radioactive, ‘Jell’ or have eyebrows that defy the rest of your face, underneath all that it’s all about relationships. We love to torture eachother, fall in and out of love, sit staring at the phone that doesn’t ring, break up, make up, first dates and best mates. And best of all- dissect every sentence and text afterwards with a glass of pinot to hand. There’s humanity underneath all the fake bake- and I think that’s why we watch it. (Not just to take the piss then..?) So take it with a pinch of salt, a splash of lip gloss and hay, don’t be too Jell if you’re not from Essex…


***


So as the season comes to an end, I’m strangely sad that my vajazzled home county is leaving my screen, although I’m quite excited at the prospect of seeing Orange Jaw Man and the Jell Meister battle it out in a boxing ring. Not to mention the audience- Who will win the pouting punch up between Sugar Lips and the Jell Miester’s new Botoxed horse/ lady? Who will triumph in the tango-tantrum between Orange Jaw Man’s equally orange lovers?

Who to cheer for? I’m putting my money on the underdog of the series- Arg. From a silent soppy sidekick with lines so scripted we could write them ourselves, to a Ratpack singing sweetheart that won his girl back- getting the opportunity to laugh at his tormenter who ended up with a burnt down club, being sacked by his own sister and acquiring an even more radioactive girlfriend than the last. Karma’s a bitch. I can see Arg jumping in at the last minute and knocking out the pair of them with his microphone (or his stiff posture as his sings)

Whatever the outcome, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s a fair few people waiting for series 2...

The One I Couldn't Write...

The one I couldn't write...
So my best friend did.


The journey home by Kelly Jo Charge.


(Kelly)
My heart rate has just about returned to resting as I sit in the sweltering heat outside the famous ‘Miller’s Villa’, after having another one of my ‘Cockroach’ escapades. (This generally involves me spotting another of the black, malevolent creatures scuttling across the bathroom floor, and then screaming at the top of my voice whilst frantically running up and down the road outside in just my towel like a lunatic – in full view of all neighbours and passers by – what a plonker).

As I sit on the patio chair, desperately trying to soak up the last rays of sunshine before my return home to London, Miss Miller and her delightful dad, Adrian, are squabbling inside whilst they decide who tidies which room, who should leave the money for the cleaner, and more importantly who mistakenly left the stove on full whack over night (ahem Adrain..)

Our Liam, who (god-knows-why) agrees to the numerous airport runs all summer, finally pulls up outside and helps us load the car with the numerous suitcases that would make anyone else believe we had been in Spain for years. Mel slowly slides the villa door shut, and turns round looking anxious. To be honest with you, as much as I’d just decided last minute to venture to Espagna for three days to top up the tan, to feast on seafood paella by the beach, and to have a couple of crazy nights out, I’d also gone with the intent to escort my best friend home; making sure she got there safe and sound. Apart from her close family, I feel I’m one of the only ones that really understands this girl, as much as she understands me in return, and I know that she has been dreading this journey since the day she arrived in July. She is my Patsy, and I am her Eddie, after all...

There’s quite a funny story as to how Mel and I met... which I shall divulge to you... If I can remember rightly, it was the very first day of uni in freshers week. I had only met Mel a few times passing by in our halls on campus. To be honest, I was a bit intimidated at first... she was loud and proud, wore funky clothes... and the first person I’d ever met from the oh-so-notorious Essex. But we ventured out to the union that night, both drinking copious amounts of Glen’s Vodka and Snakebite to lessen the awkwardness in our new group of friends...but someone (ie. Me) ended up taking advantage of her newfound freedom, drank a little bit too much, and ended up being carried out of the establishment into the campus bus and back to halls by two beefy bouncers. Now, the bouncers weren’t brave enough to carry me up to my third floor room, so kindly dumped me into Mel’s bed on the ground floor, making Mel and our dear friend Jack (who I barely knew at the time) kip on the floor in a sleeping bag. After making a slight mess on Mel’s floor and up her wall shall we say, I dozed off. I woke up early next morning, sat bolt upright and yelled “WHERE THE F*CK AM I?”
To which the girl on the floor replied, “Hi This is Jack, and my names Melody”...

Three years on, taking one last moment to turn back and stare at Millers Villa, I felt a sudden wave of sadness, knowing that this could well be the last time I stay at this little gem of an apartment, where I’ve gained so many great memories from the last three summers here... the numerous barbeques Mel and I have hosted (where we basically invited the boys over to cook food FOR us)... partying with shot boy and the rest of the seven smelly ones (before the blocked toilet incident)... and of course the long summer evenings spent sipping G&T on the patio with my one and only best friend...

So anyway, we are well on the way to the airport, with both the air-con and the music blasting, and I can’t help but dread the thought that this time tomorrow I would be sitting at work in my office, in the crappy English weather, back to the ‘real world’. I squeezed Mel’s hand as I sat behind her (or more like she was squeezing mine, so tightly I couldn’t actually feel it anymore), not able to see her face, but knowing she certainly wouldn’t be smiling right now. Adrian was sat next to me in the back, bopping his head to the beat of the music, and clutching his packet of fags tightly, anxious to squeeze in as many puffs as he could before the flight...

After Liam drops the three of us, and our three years worth of luggage off outside the airport, we make our way inside. “Dad! What are you doing! Get outside!” Adrian seemed to have momentarily forgotten that smoking inside airports is mostly a ‘no-go’ to be honest, as he stands there gormlessly by the check-in desk, lit fag in hand, and blowing smoke over the ground staff. He was a bit embarrassed, as you can imagine, and scuttled out through the sliding doors for one more before he got arrested.

Now, I know Mel had been dreading this flight for many months, but I’m not a great flyer myself. I used to love flying until my first flight to Spain with Mel in 2008, our first adventure together to this little Spanish town. Mel was the nervous flyer but somehow it seemed to rub off on me- now I shuddered and jumped at every bump especially the first few minutes after takeoff- not that it ever stopped me. We always reflect each other- when one of us is having a phase about flying, the other seems to be ok with it. It’s a strange see-saw that seems to ensure we’re always perfect flying companions.

‘Murcia to London Stansted will be delayed for approximately one hour’. Shit. Another hour in this airport. Adrian on one side of me was pacing up and down, dying for a fag, Mel was on the other, rolling a can of Coke over her head to keep her cool... I just wanted to be home. I hated seeing my best friend like this – it just wasn’t her. She was quiet, reserved, shaking slightly, and I could tell she just wanted to cry. As I cuddled up to her in the boarding queue, I remembered the overly-confident, bubbly, care-free Mel... the Mel that would get up and leave the country with a mere hundred quid in her pocket, the Mel that would give anything a go once... I hugged her even tighter, and reminded her, as I always do, that this feeling wouldn’t last forever.

The French air traffic control strikes disaster was to strike our little journey home. With Ryanair’s genius system of none existent seat numbers (in a bid to get you to spend money on ‘priority boarding’) we ended up not sitting next to each other. I assured Mel she was going to be fine, that I was only a few rows in front, but her face said it all. It wasn’t a good start. We were informed that there was going to be an hour’s delay. It passed. Me and Mel were texting each other. Then we were told ANOTHER hour. They wouldn’t let anyone off the plane and refused to sell ANY food or drink insisting they couldn’t because of trading taxing laws- if they sold products whilst on the runway- they owed tax to the country. Not even tap water.
I saw Mel walk past me to the front.

“Could a Mister Adrian Miller please come immediately to the front of the plane!”. Uh oh. I watched as a bumbling Adrian waded passed the crying children and the luggage scattered throughout the walkway. He was sweating profusely (and obviously hadn’t had a fag in a good three hours now), so doubted very much he’d have a hope in hell of calming Mel down, and was pretty sure he’d need some calming down himself.

One minute later-
“Could Kelly Charge please come to the front of the plane... I repeat...” I laughed (not that this was a remotely funny situation) at the thought of Adrian’s attempt to comfort Mel not really working... and ran to the front. I stared down at this slumped, quivering, crying girl on the floor, not really recognising this as my bubbly best bud, but as someone that had lost control... She was completely pale (well, quite green if I say so myself), and her skin was burning. Now, I’m a pretty supportive person most of the time, I mean, it’s my job to be, (I’m a mental health support worker – and have to pretend to be cool calm and collected even in the most chaotic of situations), but even I was feeling overly nervous now. I waited, sat on the floor hugging Mel as tight as I could – praying that this damned plane would take off sometime soon...

All the passengers had bombarded their way to the front of the plane. They were screaming and shouting at the poor air-hostess, who had kept us on the plane for three hours now. It was a complete nightmare. An old, balding man shouted, “I’m gonna make sure this is on the front of every fucking newspaper tomorrow!” “I’ve got this on video! You’re getting sacked!”
“MY BABY NEEDS WATER!” The screaming was getting louder and louder. The air hostess was crying. Melody was crying. I hadn’t got a clue what to fucking do. Half of me wanted to punch the old, balding man in the face. The other half wanted someone to punch me in the face, at least then I’d be knocked out and could wake up several hours later in my own country. Do we leave the plane? They said if we did we wouldn’t be able to get back on. Do we stay and possibly wait ANOTHER three hours!?

We waited. The airhostess was bent down on the floor with Mel, holding her hand and said to her “I promise I’m going to get you home. I’m going to get you home.” She was crying too.

After 3 hours grounded on the runway, with no food or water sold to anyone, with the doors locked shut and no one allowed to leave as we waited for the all important flight slot, we finally took off. Finally headed to Stansted. I’ve never been so grateful to see grey old London. Back to work tomorrow, back to the daily grind, back to the “no-more-partying-now-missy”, back to the “real world”, back to the Post-Uni Blues...


____________________


(Melody)

The only thing I can add, is what I wrote at the time- on that plane doped up on valium finally on the way home. I copied it from the back of the ready meal bought in a daze from the airhostess who was talking slowly and kindly to me as if I was a mental patient. (To be fair I definitely resembled one at this point.)


“This wonderful Scrum-diddly-umptious meal is not just delicious, it’s a taste sensation! One small warning though: Expect the same high levels of satisfaction and comfort found only in a big warm cosy hug!”


Are you freaking kidding me? Please order the pasta on your next Ryanair flight just so you can read this sorry excuse for a product description which must definitely violate some sort of advertising code in being so clever as to not actually mention the product itself- since its maker obviously realised that actually, they were trying to sell small boxes of regurgitated crap to frustrated people on planes so the consumer better be distracted with a paragraph of warm and sincere bullshit.

I read it, copied it, ate it. (The pasta, not the box. I hadn’t lost my mind completely.) For some reason I had the feeling it was written by an American on anti-depressants. It’s the only thing in my journal about that entire horrific 5 hours of my life. Because it summed up Ryan air-

A big fat pre-heated load of bollocks.



*****

That day was literally the incarnation of the worst thing I thought could ever happen to me. And it happened. And I didn’t die. It didn’t ruin me or my mental health long-term which is my worst fear- that it will get so bad I’ll loose myself and never find me again.

In fact my mum said that when I woke up that next morning back home in England, I was smiling. I was smiling before I even opened my eyes. She said that every day she was with me in Spain, I’d wake up looking afraid- she walked into my room once at 8am and my eyes were already open and I was just lying there in dark, in silence. I don’t remember being awake- I don’t remember they’re being a difference when I was all lost like that. But she said that I’m not that person any more since I’ve been back. Which is quite a relief. Indeed.


*****


So now we’re in the notorious land of Essex! And this tale of a (slightly insane) beach bum, post-graduate isn’t near its end. I think I’ve began to resolve this post-uni question, by filling my life with sunshine, laughter and tears- learning that the answer doesn’t have to be found behind the desk of an office in a grad-scheme for it to be the right answer.

In fact I’m having a little more faith every day that there isn’t a right answer- a correct path or route to go down. I always say to my friends I swear blind that things happen for a reason, which means there is no such thing as mistakes- because things happen, exactly the way they’re supposed to happen. So if there are no mistakes, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Ta Da.

The Essex girl has returned… and there are more adventures to be had as I search for the answer to the post-uni question in this mysterious land of the vajazzled and the tangoed.
I get the feeling there are a few more blogs to be written too…

The Hilarity that was my Father in España...

If you know my father, you know he has a habit of findinf hinself in the centre of the party- he has sparkling Irish blues eyes and an amazing head of jet black hair considering he’s 62 (“52 don’t you mean!” He’d yell at me) and will keep you entertained with various funny stories until sunrise (unless you’re related to him which means you’ve heard them all a fair few times, the repetition sending you to sleep.) His generosity in buying a round and making sure everyone in the establishment has a drink in their hand doesn’t seem to do his popularity any harm either (can’t say the same for his bank balance the following morning though..)

He’s visited Mil Palmeras a fair few times but usually when I’m not here. The last time we were both here at the same time was when I was living here with my ex-boyfriend four years ago. Dad took a particular interest in my ex’s little Jack Russell which amazed everyone since he will swear blind that he hates dogs. He got rather merry one night shall we say, took the little dog in his arms and climbed into the flower bed of one of the restaurants and danced with the dog in the window- the faces of those inside eating their dinner being somewhere between amusement and shock. My advice to anyone reading this young or old is- don’t waste energy being embarrassed by your parents- especially Irish parents- have a beer and watch the show, which is exactly what I did. I sat in the bar next door, watching my father dance in a flower bed with a very confused looking Jack Russell being jerked about.

The afternoon he arrives we take a stroll to the beach and several people say hello to him in the street- when I go to introduce him, I’m told, “We know Adrian, how are you mate?” To which my father just stands there looking slightly baffled, nodding politely.
“Who’s that then?” He asks me innocently when they leave. This is a regular occurrence during the week he’s here and I dread to think the alcahol consumption on his boys weekends over here since it seems to have blanked out any memory of meeting the locals. Whenever he has previously come to this little town, I’ve told him he can do what he likes, but specifically he is not allowed to tell anyone that we're related.

We eat in the steak restaurant in town, ordering two fillet steaks but when they arrive I nearly have a heart attack. I literally, have never seen a cut of steak so big on one plate. Whether the generous portion is due to him befriending ‘Paddy’ the Irish guy that runs the place is another question. The Irish are known for their ‘open arms’ mentality; put two Irish strangers together and within twenty minutes they’re best mates- suits me fine as I stare down at the mountain of meat on my plate. Funny enough, Paddy has lived in Essex at some point in his life- the Essex and the Irish get everywhere it seems…

The bar of this restaurant has a tradition where people write their names on the bar in marker ink, and Dad points out his name scrawled alongside various companions, one of which being ‘little Nick.’ Now little Nick wasn’t that little- he was my father's apprentice for many years, a really nice guy and came out here to Spain with my dad when they were painting the apartment a couple of years ago. He promptly fell in love with one of the waitresses from this particular restaurant, who to be fair, is particularly lovely- and little Nick sat at the bar goggle-eyed every night after they had finished painting. Dad told me how on the last night little Nick proceeded to get so drunk at the prospect of leaving in the morning, he fell off his bar stool and had to be carried home (he had to be carried to the airport and onto the plane pretty much too as a result of a head-splitting jaw-dropping hangover that ensued) never to see the beautiful waitress again.
Now if we’re talking about little Nick, there is one more story that has to be mentioned here. Nick used to walk with a bit of a limp- and Dad used to tease him, saying “Whoever gave you that leg, give it back.” He struggled with the ladders and the scaffolding slightly, but never complained and never said a word about my father’s teasing. Little Nick had been working for for about a year when he and his mother turned up at our door step. They were given a cup of tea and sat in the kitchen whereby little Nick’s mother solemnly said:
“We’re really sorry Adrian, we should have told you before, but the thing is, Nicks only got one leg.”

If I had one wish in this life, it would literally be to see my father’s face at that moment when Mrs-little Nick said that sentence.

It turns out that little Nick has had a prosthetic leg since he was born, but didn’t think it worth a mention when he took on a painting and decorating apprenticeship- up and down ladders, hopping around scaffolding. Perhaps an interesting profession to choose, perhaps not. Never the less, Dad didn’t stop the “give back that leg” jokes, in fact they took on new meaning and hilarity now that they were both in on the gag.

Anyway, back in España, we head off to the English bar after managing to tackle the huge steaks, and I decide to not mention the story of the burly bartenders that work here that paid me a 5am visit and scared the b-Jesus out of me. (See ‘Swedes and the Scantily Clad’…) He does however decide to wind up the burlier of the burley bartenders by asking for a coffee with his brandy. Now this may seem like quite a reasonable request, but if you have ever been a bartender, when you’ve taken that coffee machine apart, cleaned all the pieces and switched it off, it’s not going to make coffee for the Pope, let-alone my father. I’m not sure how the burlier of the burly bartenders is taking my father’s teasing as he goes on and on, using every coffee related joke, or worse, every lazy bartender and land-lord joke he knows- and I’m beginning to wonder whether he's going to receive a punch on the nose when I see him stumble off out the bar and down the road. Now before I have a chance to work out whether I’m supposed to follow him, he returns, with a plastic takeaway cup of coffee from another restaurant clutched triumphantly in his hand and sits at the bar with his brandy with a smile on his face. I watch the burlier of the burly bartenders to see if he is going to interpret his smile as smugness and therefore deliver him a flat nose. Dad proclaims loudly as he takes a sip; “aahhhh there’s nothing like a coffee with your brandy…mmmmm yum.” I resist the urge to punch him on the nose myself to save the burly bartender the trouble.

He meets a rather intoxicated fellow from Belfast who joins our ever -growing group, informing us that this evening, he has drank 27 pints. We are all suitable impressed at this statement. The Belfast accent is rather irritating with its distinctive twang- my dad has lived in England since he was a teenager so has lost the sharpness of it. This fellow, sadly has not.

I’m cleaning the bar at 7.30am but my father, being an even bigger party host than me, decides to invite everybody back to our apartment for an after party- there being a crate of beer in the fridge, although it’s probably important to mention here that it didn’t actually belong to either of us- my friend ‘trimmed’ had planted it there since he pretty much lives at mine and had decided by bringing a crate and leaving it in the fridge, my apartment was therefore more hospitable and ready for him any time of the day or night.

I’m not feeling the after-party and I tell Dad and his band of merry men that he’s collected like the pied piper on his way home from the pub, that regrettably I’m going to retire for the evening… Trimmed and my beautiful South African friend make a similarly sharp exit from the patio as my father and his Belfast buddy are beyond the point of being able to hold a coherent conversation.

My friends go off to the beach and told me the next day that they saw my father and his Belfast buddy stumbling along the beach- stopping to draw stuff in the sand. (!?) I probe him the next day and he’s quite indignant: “I wanted to go on the fecking walk on my tod.” Translation- he didn’t want company.

Dads told me before that he likes to go on evening beach walks (drunken beach stumbling perhaps a better description.) but I find it endearing for more than just comic reasons- my parents are divorced and me and my brothers always laugh incredulously at the fact we cannot imagine what they could have ever had in common in the first place- they’re so opposite. But hearing him talk about his love for an evening beach walk, how it makes him feel, I realize I’ve heard this speech before. My mum when she’s out here gets up every morning before any of us stir and goes for a long beach walk. And there it is- a perfect metaphor; they do walk on the same sand, but not at the same time, polar opposite, but there’s something there that connected them, however long ago it was.
Sometimes liking the same sand between your toes isn’t enough when you’re not walking on the same beach any more.

Then arrives my last night working on the beach bar. I have loved this job all summer and am actually sad that it’s the end of the season. Sitting on the sand before my shift I get a bit confused as to why I’m coming home- I’ve been offered work in two others bars and places to stay with friends because I hate staying on my own so if I want to stay, really I can. People say to me- why go home? You’ve finished uni, what have you got to go back for? I think it’s because for me, this place is a suspended reality- it doesn’t feel like real life. I don’t know whether that actually makes sense to anyone, but this town is a place that I speak a different language, I live barefoot or in flip flops, my make up bag disappears, I don’t have a pair of straighteners out here, people give me keys to bars and responsibility, I haven’t been clothes shopping all summer, eaten MacDonalds or even really seen any other franchise restaurant. I don’t think I particularly miss any of those things, but it’s a different life, and I like that I can go between the two.

So it’s my last night- and everybody comes down to the bar- I do my cocktail making thing and have the music really loud, I even have a request- from my father- “Melly, play that one, you know, ‘we do not speak English’ or something.”
"You mean 'We No Speak Americano' dad?”
"Yesss! That’s the one kido! Stick that record on for us."
It’s a usb stick, not a record but I digress. A fair few “la Melodia” cocktails are handed out and ‘We No Speak Americano’ played probably too many times but hey, everyone is dancing, and I’m looking around thinking one day, I’m going to have my own beach bar. And I mean it.

I close up around 3.30am and head to the English bar where some sort of lock-in is ensuing. Actually it’s not a lock-in but more of the-customers-won’t-go-home-so-I’m-still-here look on the burly bar tender’s face. Dad asks for a coffee and brandy. I wait for the black eye.

Luckily for him suddenly everyone think that’s a good idea and being outnumbered, the coffee machine is switched on- victory! We sit in the bar until 5.30am whereby my father invites everyone round to our apartment. Again. What amazes me is how everyone intends to drive there. Now this is a tiny Spanish village at nearly 6am, but driving when you can’t count the fingers in front of your eyes is a very very bad idea. (Also the fact that our apartment is a 45 seconds walk away slightly confuses me as to why everyone needed to drive there.) Any way, the usually Miller's Villa shenanigans ensue and I fall asleep after another, and one of the last, sunrises I will see in this beautiful town for a while…