Is That What I Think It Is?
09.06.2012 - 14.06.2012 28 °F
Queuing for a Ryan Air flight at Stansted is never an uplifting experience. This was one of the worst but not due to the norm' cattle herding nightmare. Rather it was down to age; how come everyone else looks like they should still be in school...although tattoos on show here weren't seen when I was still in my first flush of education! Butt skimming shorts, yards of bling jewellery, painted nails, false eyelashes, oiled skin...and that's the boys...all on their way to the Balearics and specifically Ibiza.
Yes, I've read all the Ibiza horror stories in Heat magazine; actually, I haven't but the Daily Telegraph does hint at it now and again, and the hairdressers is a valuable resource for this kind of...'experience'.
While i am thinking about it here are some of my Ryan Air tips:
- put your 'other' head on
- accept you will not understand any announcements
- accept there will be no ice or lemon to go with your vodka
- take your own food
- if you rest your head on the seat in front in desperation at least you are safe in the knowledge no-one will put their seat back because they can't
- take your own sickbag
- take heed of baggage size/weight restrictions; they will nail you if you are excess in any area...and the argument that you weigh a quarter of the passenger next to you will fall on deaf and uninterested ears
Our hotel (I will name it when we've left) in Santa Eulalia is pretty fab...once we'd had the air con, shower and leaking fridge fixed. At 7pm last night we thought we had the whole place to ourselves but, I apologise in advance for any offence caused, an Italian delegation of Tupperware reps has arrived. Are they truly discussing the latest way to store cold pizza? Whatever, they all have jolly bags and commandeered vast blocks of pool sun loungers straight after gargantuen breakfasts, so we headed for the beach largely populated by the same blue rinsed and turtle wrinkled individuals we'd seen last night cheering on the two transvestites doing an admirable rendition of Abba's Waterloo at the hotel down the promenade.
Après lunch (2pm'ish) boobs of every shape and cup size arrived in all their glory. Personally, I thought some of the grey haired chaps might need resuscitation but it seems they are old-timers and not much phases them.
5pm sees us back at the pool where the 'Tupperwares' have turned warm shades of nut and cherry and the cast of Look-At-Me have arrived providing people watching opportunities on a stratospheric level. Oh...and there's a man in a thong. WHAT HAS POSSESSED HIM?
Just looking out at the Med and down at the pool from our glorious balcony with a vodka and tonic (with ice and lemon), my Velcro rollers well in place...one has to make an effort you know...I can see two 'young things' necking like there's no tomorrow... Maybe there won't be for that particular relationship...will we find out in the morning?