I live in horror for that time in the seasonal landscape when Winter begins to surrender to Spring because I know that at some point I will hear those dreadful words that strike fear to my very heart;
“What you need my pet is a holiday so you can re-charge those batteries of yours.”
Loosely translated this means;
“You do all of the packing and loading camel face while I hold the passports and supervise.”
The only batteries I’ll require re-charging will be those in my newly fitted pacemaker after I finish slogging my guts out.
Anyway this year we went to Corfu - why Corfu ? Well by the time he had finished with that nice (if not naive) young lady in the travel agents and she had been removed to a place of safety by those nice, young men in white coats that was the only resort left and I saw the good sense in leaving before the SWAT team arrived. So Corfu it was to be........yet even at this stage I did not feel the usual sinking emotions of dread and apprehension that usually reared their ugly heads when contemplating holidays.. My euphoria was short lived when he began to brag about being a veteran of the airways and that I was not to worry about a thing - move over Allan Whicker!!
The big day arrived and he completed (very successfully I may add) the age old ritual of getting pissed before take off. Fine, I knew it would keep him relatively quiet and I drew some solace from that thought. I did begin to have second thoughts however, when we had to make a pit-sorry-piss stop on the M62 so that he could relive his bursting bladder of the 24 pints of ‘Stella’ and this was all before we reached the airport. Maintaining his dignity and self esteem proved to be quite difficult as he had insisted on climbing the north face of the motorway embankment to go wee-wee. A piece of piss for Chris Bonnington I agree but we are talking about an intoxicated arsehole here. Anyway after some difficulty and a few false starts he finally got to the summit when he promptly fell 20 feet down the other side. All the while I was praying that we would miss our flight or better still that I would get to Corfu alone (move over Shirley Valentine) while he convalesced in hospital but this was not to be and he returned to the car battered and bruised but relieved of the 24 pints of beer (12 pints - of which most seemed to have ended up on his shoes). Safely back in the car we continued on our way to the airport and I consoled myself that I could pass any flight delays we would no doubt encounter extracting bits of gravel from his chin with a pair of blunt tweezers. His floppy bits would necessitate a wee bit more privacy but they would look infinitely more tender after I had finished and I honed my instruments of torture - sorry tweezers in anticipation enjoying the look of pain and apprehension in his eyes.
On the plane, he proudly informed everyone that this was his 113th flight and to be fair they managed to ignore him in quite a polite manner. Resolutely he carried on spreading reassurance throughout the flight until he passed out during the in flight movie. Peace at last, burying my head in the holiday paperback I attempted to block out the looks of commiseration in the eyes of the other female passengers (who were sitting next to their own snoring, smelly counterparts) but I had to admit that for a few short moments the feeling of solidarity emanating around the plane lifted my spirits. As we circled Corfu airport readying for landing his cocksure attitude quickly dissipated and I was forced to fracture a few fingers in order to release them from the arm rest. Even my wise crack and attempt at holiday humour about spotting the elastic band at the end of the runaway had little or no effect and he did become quite conspicuous, crying so loudly and all.
His composure was regained to some degree when we hit the hotel and he decided to complete a reconnoitre of the resort while I collapsed knackered into my pit totally and completely knackered - carrying 17 pieces of luggage up 3 flights of stairs drains you but he did help and carried his own Pack A Mac. The word reconnoitre I have to explain is his translation of, ‘I’m off to teach these natives how to drink Ouzo’ , his first but not his last mistake.
Five hours later I was rudely awakened from my blissful siesta by this intoxicated tourist, shoving a video camera up my nose. He seemed a nuance surprised and taken aback at my rebuttal and the threat of having the camera’s zoom lens inserted into his body - via his rectum. Nevertheless, undaunted he proceeded to capture on film, the walls, the floor, the balcony, the curtains and last but not least himself through a mirror. The documentary was accompanied by a commentary of unconstrained gibberish that would have made Richard Dimbleby pirouette in his grave.
I suppose if I had tried hard enough I could have ignored him but his tenacity finally wore down my firm resolve - well that and the continual prodding. May be it was the constant discharge of humour combined with his references at being hailed as the new Steven Spielberg that finally cracked my will to live. Deciding not to hurl myself from the balcony came a close second to sampling the Greek lavatories, which I have to say are an adventure story in themselves but even that did not prove sanctuary from this intrepid reporter. Finally, it was the threat of having his foreskin pulled up and over his head that caused his retreat or he would have captured for posterity, on film, me doing the business. Despite all of his protests of it being of artistic value, both you and I know that the cinematic evidence of me on the bog and its subsequent display to the world and its mother was sufficient enough reason to threaten genital mutilation and although a trifle excessive it proved to be imperative in that situation.
The holiday passed by without too much incident that’s if you don’t count the night he thought he was Zorba the Greek (more like Shit up a Creek) and proceeded to dance in the hotel foyer. It proved a hit with the knotted handkerchief faction from Bolton but I had to do some expeditious chit chat with the local authorities to prevent what could have been a damaging and enduring diplomatic incident.
The personality change he seems to undergo whenever we go on holiday is not limited only to foreign climes, his enthusiasm is equally impassioned on any vacation and it isn’t his passion I’m knocking but its applicability. It wouldn’t be so bad if he would measure his enthusiasm with a dose of commitment and take an active role in the horse work involved in any holiday but none more so evident than that of caravanning, for example. He perceives his participation as; 99% inactive, using his vast brain capacity and 1% physical - holding the car keys. This ratio was never so evident as the time we took our newly acquired mobile home out for its maiden run. We thought it prudent (well I did) to go within a car drive from home on this first adventure because of our naiveté and it proved a wise move.
The first of many mistakes was his absolute refusal to read the handy and informative manuals we were given by the helpful salesperson when we purchased the caravan. He felt that it would be a lesson learned in morale boosting for us all to discover the delights of camping for ourselves...........wrong! This error was never more apparent when we discovered that we had been towing the damn thing with its handbrake on. He denied this of course but I will never believe that the car had consumed 15 gallons of fuel after travelling only 4 miles and the over powering stench of burning was a dead give away or at least I thought it was. Two fire extinguishers and 1 nasty bout with smoke inhalation later we pulled into our allotted space and prepared to set up for the night. I asked what I thought was a pertinent question at this juncture and that was;
“Why does our caravan only have 2 legs when everybody else’s has 4 and does this have some bearing on my being flung into the air when you walk up and down the caravan”?
I was reliably if not tersely informed that ours was a 2 legged model and I’m sure he muttered, ‘stupid cow’ but I couldn’t swear on it. Anyhow closer inspection revealed as I was attaching 2 gas bottles, yes you have it - 2 more legs. This disclosure did not go down too well but it did make eating and drinking rather more affable and it saved coffee stains on the ceiling and upholstery.
Moving the caravan was a momentous experience in itself, needless to say that his participation was purely verbal. I found this situation acceptable to some degree but what I did object to was the abuse I had to suffer from his Lordship when I was unable to move the vehicle on my own. I take exception to being called a ‘pussy’ while being dragged down a hill by a speeding and extremely heavy caravan. I hardly had time to extinguish the flames from the soles of my feet before he was screaming at me to get my act together and set up the awning. Now I realize that there will be those of you reading this who will be revolted by my severe deficiency of backbone and you do have a point. I do not have a ready excuse to give you but some redemption of this situation was obtained when other veteran campers (some of them men) recognised him as an absolute imbecile which did provide me with some justification.
I exonerate my actions as those of a woman who had no where to turn (mostly due to the fact that I was holding a heavy caravan) and the safety of the vehicle was first and foremost in my mind.
Where else is there to seek sanctuary when the voices in my head become far too provoking for me to ignore? That caravan is my retreat where I can relax and forget all of my problems while I assemble yet another voodoo doll of you know who..........
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