drowning man
The Brightside family holiday in Spain was a very relaxing affair. For a period of 10 days, I didn't watch a television, read a newspaper, stare at a computer screen or even turn my mobile phone on.
In fact, I sat by the pool, listened to music, swam, ate fantastic seafood, thought a lot and ploughed my way through the Millennium trilogy by Stieg Larsson.
One hot, sunny afternoon, my relaxation was disturbed by the most awful, horrible, blood curdling screams. I consulted my iTouch; 'D-7' by that popular 90's beat combo - Nirvana. Ah that explains it. I returned to 'The Girl Who Played With Fire' and the exciting adventures of Lisbeth Salander.
Almost immediately, my train of thought was interrupted by yet more loud, agonising, terrifying animalistic screams. I looked across at Norma who was embracing the Spanish culture with a short mid-afternoon siesta so it definitely wasn't her.
I consulted the iTouch again as the blood curdling screaming continued unabated. Ah - 'Welcome to the Atrocity Exhibition' by the popular 80's beat combo - Joy Division from the 'Live at the Paradiso' bootleg (available from all good Torrent sites).
I reduced the volume by a notch and was about to summon up the energy to adjust the parasol to get some shade.
Suddenly, away to my right, I saw a flash of green as my radiant wife, Norma, suddenly and spontaneously leapt from her sun-lounger. That's strange I thought - Cocktail Happy Hour doesn't start for another 40 minutes. I watched Norma as she ran at breakneck speed towards the swimming pool.
I thought I'd be sociable so I turned my music off and went to join her for some watery frolics followed by discussion of the very important issue of the choice of venue for tonight's meal.
I stood next to her at the edge of the swimming pool and suddenly my brain went into overdrive. My iTouch was off and yet the loud, agonising screams continued.
Wait - there was a middle aged man splashing about in the water. Wait - is he in difficulty ? Wait - he can't be - this pool is 1.80m at its deepest. I can stand up in the pool everywhere apart from 2 square metres where I have to stand on tip-toes. Wait - he's shorter than me. Wait - what the heck is going on here ?
As my brain struggled to parse the situation in front of me, Norma spontaneously and spectacularly leapt into the swimming pool.
It's a horrible, hackneyed cliche but it was like watching life in slow motion. The middle aged man was still thrashing about rather frantically and he was making the most horrible noises. Loud, prolonged, deep blood curdling noises. At first, I wondered if he was a Joy Diviision or Nirvana fan and just singing 'D-7' followed by 'Welcome to the Atrocity Exchibition' in his very own unique version of underwater, punk karaoke.
Norma and another gentleman in the pool gradually moved towards drowning man like two sharks closing in on their prey. But without the triangular fins.
Finally, my brain woke up. This guy didn't appear to be larking about. There were no children with him. He genuinely looked like he was flailing his arms around and panicing like, well, a drowning man. His eyes were open and he was conscious and vertical but I wondered if he was having a fit or an asthma or panic attack.
As I considered entering the water, Norma got closer to the drowning man. I heard a voice behind me: 'Can we go and get an ice-cream yet Dad ? It's nearly 4 o'clock.'
My daughter Norma Jeane was at my side carefully reviewing progress on her sun tan and, incredibly was thinking about her stomach rather than the drama unfolding in front of us. Even more incredibly, Norma Jeane is a qualified life guard.
'Hang on Norma Jeane - your Mum's a little busy at the moment saving a drowning man.'
'Oh - shall I just get her a Magnum Classic then ? Have you got any Euros ?'
Norma reached the flailing man and went to lift him. The man seized his opportunity and pushed down hard on Norma's shoulder to lift himself out of the water and get some air into his lungs The laws of physics meant that he immediately pushed Norma fully under the water. Norman Jeane offered 'Oh yeah - that's a classic life saving mistake. We did it on the course. You should always support the drowning man low down before he has a chance to grab you and risk drowning you.'
Thankfully, the man's screams finally subsided and Norma and the other man lifted the man, rather ungracefully, up onto the poolside - laid out like a beached seal. The hotel pool man immaculately clad in white shirt and white long trousers (like an extra from 'An Officer and a Gentleman') ambled over. 'Everything ees OK, si ?'
Then, to everyone's surprise, the drowning man rolled over, got up, walked past our sunloungers and sat back down with his wife. Without a word of explanation. Without a word of thanks.
Norma dragged herself out of the pool, put her bikini top back on, gathered her composure and immediately started an internal family post-mortem (although thankfully as the man hadn't died), a post mortem wasn't actually necessary.
I was first to be interrogated. 'Well - where the hell were you ? I was asleep for God's sake and you didn't even move. Didn't you hear that guy screaming and splashing around ?' 'Well, err, sort of but I thought the noise was just my music. By a bizarre coincidence, random shuffle decided to play 'D-7' by Nirvana immediately followed by 'Welcome to the Atrocity Exhibition' by Joy -' 'Oh shut up about your bloody music. Man dies in swimming pool horror and you blame Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis.'
Norma turns to Norman Jeane: 'And what about you ? You're a qualified life guard for Pete's sake. Where were you ? What exactly were you doing to rescue the drowning man ?'
Norma Jeane replied: 'I came over but I thought you were playing 'It' with that man in the pool and he was just laughing or screaming because he didn't think you had made contact so you were still 'It'.
Finally, the last member of the Brightside clan, Norman Junior III, completely oblivious to everything, ambled over to join the inquest: 'Can we get an ice-cream now ? It's after 4 o'clock.'
lost in translation
I don't know if al the clever Spanish people who study English leave the country or whether translators aren't very well paid in Spain but here's some amusing signs from my recent holiday in Marbella.
'Deposit all remainders here' - Malaga airport.
I duly placed '2' in the receptacle. This was left over when I was testing Norman Jeane and asked her to quickly divide 12 by 5.
'Millionaires - Private Gentleman's Club. Members only. Please always use rear entrance' - Puerto Banus.
Superb English. Nothing wrong with it at all. I suspect Finbarr Saunders of Viz was commissioned for this wonderful sign.
'Please wait 3 minutes before pulsating' - water bottle dispenser in public car park in Ronda.
I am ashamed to say I could only last 2 minutes and 43 seconds before spontaneously and rapidly pulsating. The car park attendant looked at me a little strangely.
where's the crane ?
'Where's the crane then ?'
We had just embarked on our summer vacation to sunny Marbella (near Spain) and were sitting on the shuttle bus taking us and our suitcases from long stay parking to the North terminal at Gatwick airport.
'Sorry what did you say ?'
'The crane that gets the cars - where is it ?'
As I pondered what on earth my intelligent teenage son was on about, I sensed other passengers on the bus pricking up their ears in interest. The bus was now deathly quiet, in a very British way, as the small audience attentively and patiently waited for the next exciting exchange in this bizarre conversation.
'Sorry, son but what on earth are you talking about ?'
'Well - we came to one of these massive car parks at this airport a few years ago when we went to Florida...'
'Yes - I remember. It's because it's cheaper than getting a taxi and more convenient than catching the train.'
'Yes. Well back then I looked at the massive car park area packed with loads of parked cars. Row after row of parked cars, all tightly crammed in, and I asked you 'How do they get the cars out when people return from their holiday ?'
I listened intently together with the other thirteen people on the 'Summer Special' shuttle bus and sensed the driver was also now captivated.
'And you (nods in my direction) told me that a massive crane swung round to the correct row, dropped down to the exact postion, lifted up the car, rotated back round and slowly lowered the car precisely into position on the exit lane.'
I made a spluttering noise as I tried to stifle my laughter. 'Sorry. I said what ? No, no - I never said that.'
Norma Jeane now piped up 'Oh yeah - I remember now. You did say that.'
People looked away. I could see them thinking 'Oh - look at that tall, handsome teenage boy. He looks perfectly normal but he actually attends Special School and now his selfless parents are taking him away for a lovely holiday.'
'So - where's the crane then ?'
'Norman Junior - listen. I might have said that as a joke when you were 6 years old but the cars are parked in lanes according to the date and times when people are scheduled to arrive back at the airport. For example, all the cars for tomorrow will be parked in lane 27 with cars belonging to people getting back in the early morning parked at the front. Then the men just drive the cars round ready for people as they arrive.'
'Oh - so there's no crane then ?'
'No - sorry son but there's no crane.' I could no longer contain myself and burst out laughing.
My son looked disconsolate and fell silent.
'Son - you haven't told any of your mates at school this little story, have you ?'
'Nah. All that worries me now is how many other little stories you've told me over the years.'
the one where I raped a man
Accidentally.
For the last two weeks, I have been savouring the joys of commuting into the City on South West Trains and the London underground network.
Like most large, densely populated cities, Transport for London has introduced a Smart Card system, known as Oyster, which allows ticketless travel on trains, tubes and buses.
Most modern cities in the developed world have similar smart card technology resulting in a faster, more efficient transport system with cheaper fares for passengers and reduced staffing costs at railway stations.
Not London.
Last Tuesday, I disembarked at Bank underground station following a hot, sweaty, uncomfortable 5 minute journey from Waterloo surrounded by smart, professional merchant bankers wearing trainers and suits. As usual, everyone strode out purposefully to get off the train first, to reach the ticket barrier first, to climb the stairs first, to reach the blissful cool fresh air first and finally, after a interminable 6 minute loss of communication, get a decent mobile phone signal so they can immediately call the office to show how incredibly important they are: 'Will be there in 5. Passenger jumped onto live rail outside Hinchley Wood'.
I ambled slowly along (marvelling yet again at Bryan Devendorf's drumming prowess) behind a gentleman who was rapidly approaching ticket barrier No. 3. I withdrew my Zones 1-5 One Day Travel Card and politely waited for the chap to 'swipe through' (as we Cockney trainspotters call it) and proceed towards the escalators.
Only he didn't proceed because the failure rate on the Oyster card system is high. Astonishingly high. The gentleman in front of me tried to advance by waving his jacket pocket towards the card reader but, inevitably, his Oyster card wasn't recognised and nothing happened.
I was listening to The National and wasn't paying full attention so I didn't immediately notice his quandary until he gave a little yelp. In fact, he may have given two yelps. One as he rammed into a very hard and very stationary, unyielding ticket barrier. And another yelp as I rammed into him from behind with great force.
Once we'd disentangled ourselves, he started to complain that I'd physically assaulted him. I told him he shouldn't buy an Oyster card if he couldn't use the bloody thing. One of the three staff manning the ticket barriers - most countries eliminated all ticket barrier staff whereas London had to triple staff manning the station exits - separated us and a 'revenue protection officer' then rubbed salt in the wound by charging him full fare plus a £10 penalty. I looked disdainfully at his suit and then I looked down even more disdainfully at his trainers.
I duly appeared in court yesterday charged with 'Gross indecency in a public place' but, inspired by 'Judge Judy', I conducted my own legal defence, launching a magnificent counter claim of 'Inappropriate use of trainers coupled with a pinstripe suit'.
Thankfully, the judge saw sense and acquitted me after a forensic scientist gave expert testimony that the rectal injuries sustained by the gentleman may have been caused by the insertion of a tightly rolled up copy of 'The Metro' and not sexual assault.
end of a love affair
One attraction of my glamorous life as an IT consultant travelling all over Europe is the opportunity to conduct illicit affairs with beautiful lap dancers from Prague (who are definitely not transvestites). For the last three years, I have been secretly engaged in such a liaison with a beautiful young lady called Iris.
Unfortunately, due to Iris' work commitments, our meetings are limited to brief, breathless, stolen trysts in the arrivals and departure halls at the various terminals at London Heathrow.
Originally, like most shy, reserved young ladies being stalked by an aging, overweight business man, Iris played slightly hard to get and actually stood me up on our first date but I wasn't to be deterred and I persevered to win the heart of my beloved.
Eventually, the course of true love prevailed and our relationship blossomed. Iris and I enjoyed furtive, passionate encounters in the toilets at Heathrow with novelty condoms to spice up the relationship.
Whenever I returned to the UK after being abroad, I would positively look forward to meeting Iris and staring into her eyes. In fact, if I didn't stare into her eyes, she would often scold me in her dull, mechanic monotone voice: 'Please stand back a little' or 'Please move to the right'.
However, when I finally got the positioning correct, I was rewarded by an orgasmic moan: 'Ooh - aah. That's right. Ooh - aah Cantona. That's perfect. Just keep it there.' Then, she would part her smoked glass double doors and invite me to enter the gateway to heaven. And baggage reclaim.
Last Friday, I returned from Dusseldorf (near Germany) and returned via Terminal 1. My excitement mounted as I made my way to meet Iris as I hadn't seen her since a short trip to a freezing Helsinki (near Finland) in January.
My heart raced as I finally set eyes on Iris again but I could immediately sense something was wrong. She seemed cold and aloof. She didn't acknowledge my presence in the booth. She didn't look into my eyes. She didn't ask me to move closer. Nor did she ask to me move away.
A stony silence ensued. The tension grew. I moved forward - no reaction. I desperately tried to look Iris in the eyes but nothing. Suddenly, Iris asked me to look into the middle camera unit and I found myself squatting down, desperately trying to catch her eye and get her attention.
The interminable silent treatment from my lover continued. God - this was so embarrassing. I could sense the whole army of arriving passengers staring at Iris and I falling out of love.
Then finally, she came out and said it. She didn't bother with any pleasantries. No long, rambling, tearful conversation starting 'Dear John'. No hesitant 'This isn't about you - it's about me.' Iris just ended our three year relationship - three years filled with laughter, joy and slurping noises - with the immortal words: 'Your data can not be reconciled. Please seek assistance.'
With my face reddening, I turned to go. To my horror, a lengthy queue of important looking business types (some with BA Executive Gold cards) had slowly gathered behind Iris. Iris already had a stream of 30 handsome suitors queuing up to take my place. As I walked away, crestfallen, I overheard a gentleman mutter 'Idiot - you shouldn't even be allowed to use Iris.' while another said 'I'm going to miss my meeting now, you fool.'
Broken, I walked away and took my place in the queue for conventional passport control. After 25 minutes, the Iris queue had fully dissipated and my paper passport was checked fleetingly by a pretty young lady with auburn hair and a striking figure.
She smiled knowingly: 'Have you just been rejected by Iris ?' 'No - what on earth makes you think that ?' 'Well - I watched you get rejected by Iris earlier, your face is blotchy and I can tell you've been crying.'
'Anyway, forget Iris - let's talk about us. What time do you knock off tonight ?'
[ This whole sorry episode will be screen on 'UK Border Force' on Sky 1 on Thursday April 8 at 20:00 ]