Like I was young
Strong in heart and dreams
Once more I’m staking all that’s real
Where the waters washed us clear
7:30am. The room is always so dark in the morning, despite the Mediterranean sunshine piercing the sky outside. I guess they gave us good curtains at the Hot Linda. My Runrig ringtone has woken me up but, as great a band as they are (how many people can honestly claim they haven't danced to Loch Lomond at the end of a party somewhere?), the tune is not enough to keep me awake, and I doze back alseep. Oh dear. I guess I'll have to try again in nine minutes.
7:39am. And another nine...
7:48am. And another nine...
7:56am. Wow, I seem to be on an X77 bus on Waterloo Street. We're going out onto the Kingston Bridge as I speak. But wait a minute, why are we going round in circles? That's the fourth time I've passed the Hilton already.
7:57am. Oh...sorry about that. Bit of a hallucination. I stumble out of bed and pull the curtains open, and instantly rays of light fill the room, turning night into day (almost like that bit at the end of an eclipse when Sir Patrick Moore says, "And totality has concluded"). Ibiza stirs from his slumber, looking rather confused by the transpiring sunshine invasion, but now is not the time for bemusement. In 33 minutes the Hot Linda will stop serving breakfast (or so they claim), so now is the time to seize the moment; seize the day; seize the croissant. But whatever you do, don't seize a watery sausage. It'll end in food poisoning.
Totality: Sir Patrick Moore
8:20am. The time has raced on, leaving me with only 10 minutes to grab some breakfast downstairs. Menorca and Ibiza aren't even bothering with it - they weren't a fan of yesterday's offerings, and would prefer to meet up with their group and look for food in C'an Pastilla. Fair enough, guys. But if you're starved out of your lungs in Sa Pobla and forced to buy a €5 baked potato from an ungentrified coffee shop, don't say I didn't warn you. I'm sorry, that scenario is really quite unlikely.
Downstairs, everyone is running out of time. People are dashing about like Wesley Snipes runs from a tax inspector, and the vast majority of the food has been grabbed. But never fear, the croissants are here. I take four from the bowl, two for now, two for later, and look for a seat. Hmmmm, now I think about it, are there any seats left? The restaurant is being filled by pensioners and families, leaving us students feeling slightly marginalised on the periphery (much like the gentrified working class we'll be interviewing today).
In a split second decision, I decide to stand for my breakfast, thus avoiding the need to ask Officer Dibble about a table. It's not really a wise choice. I end up attracting more attention than if I'd just sat down, and drinking a glass of orange juice whilst holding three croissants (I've already eaten the first one), two biscuits, a slice of toast and a roll proves mighty difficult. I don't bother with the watery sausages, obviously.
8:30am. In reception, a buzz of activity surrounds the noticeboard over to my left. Upon closer inspection, it seems that a poster on the wall is advertising a special Geography field trip after dinner this evening. I'm not sure what it has to do with our fieldwork, so I'll let the poster do the talking, so to speak.
Yes. Magaluf. Finally.
I've been hearing stories about this place for years, but after all this time, I've finally got the chance to go there and experience it for myself. Sure, it'll cost €25, but I've hardly spent a cent (rhyme) since arriving here, and you only live once, don't you? Well, unless you subscribe to Glenn Hoddle's reincarnation preachings, but they're a bit controversial, and time-consumimg, to discuss here.
I look at the poster, shake my head with a knowing smirk and sign my name at the bottom. I shouldn't really be going on such a wild jaunt, especially when there's so much work still to do. But part of me can't wait to 'live it up' in one of the party capitals of the Med. That sounded worringly like Kevin and Perry.
Living it large: Kevin and Perry
9:15am. The gentrification group is ready to go, and we depart the Hot Linda in clear and sunny conditions. This is, to all intents and purposes, where the field trip really begins. Up until now we've been going on bus tours, filling time and complaining about the food, but now our investigation into the gentrification (or lack thereof) of Palma's Old Town will dominate our thoughts and actions.
For the next four days our research will focus on the historic centre of the city, to the North and East of the grand old Cathedral, and there are far worse places to spend a long weekend. Of course, we'd rather be on the beach, but as Fuerteventura pointed out yesterday, the coastline of Majorca has been immorally altered by tourist bosses. To even set foot on one of their beaches, let alone have fun on it, would be an affront to common decency. I think.
(I should point out that from this point on, all the respective groups are splitting up and going about their daily business independently. So if any stories crop up from outwith the Gentrification Group, I'll be slotting them in to this account in real-time. It doesn't mean I'm in five places at once, as cool as that would be.)
Right, what bus are we aiming for...ah, here's the timetable. We've got the choice of the 15 or 30, and both will take us straight to the centre of Palma. Oh, here comes a Number 15 as we speak - we'll jump aboard this one. Assuming the driver stops...
um...driver...
Driver?
DRIVER!!!!!!!!
The cheeky git drives off, leaving over a dozen students stranded on the gentrificantion-less streets of C'an Pastilla. Well thanks a bunch, mate. Just ignore us. At least on the X77 they're rude to you first.
9:30am. After relocating to another bus stop, our search for a suitable coach proves more successful, and we zip through the streets on our way to Palma. It's standing room only on these morning buses, but they appear to be regular, clean and efficient. When the driver lets you on. The fare is a mere €1.10 to go anywhere in Palma which, compared to Stagecoach's extorionate prices in Ayrshire, is quite remarkable.
Barcelona and Valencia are talking with Malaga and Santa Cruz about the booking procedures for the impending Magaluf 'field trip', and Malaga is winding Santa Cruz up slightly.
"You had to book it by this morning."
"What? You're kidding! NOOOO!!!"
He's toying with her, from the looks of things. When he finally 'fesses up', Santa Cruz is none too happy about it, remarking that the Magaluf trip is an integral part of this week's festivities. To appease the situation, Barcelona launches a dicussion on who would win a fair fight between the Geography lecturers on the field trip. This debate was started by Madrid yesterday, who insisted that Tenerife would win hands down, and Barcelona and Malaga seem to be agreed. Malaga in particular has noted the tension between Tenerife and Las Palmas in lectures, and suggests that a physical duel would be the best way to solve things. He thinks they would both be up for it, as well.
10:00am. We have absolutely no idea where we are, but the other groups seem to be alighting from the bus, so we might as well do similar. We start walking in the direction of some old buildings, hoping to find some examples of gentrification, but instead stumble across an advert for an upcoming wrestling event in Palma. Sounds nice, I could be tempted to go to that...oh, wait, it's on the 13th of July. By then I'll be back in Prestwick, trying to avoid neds in The Oval and jumping over puddles on Carlaverock Road. But I'm sure the wrestling fans of Mallorca will have a great time anyway. Sniff.
10:15am. It's just the seven of us now:myself, Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla, Zaragoza, Malaga. We're wandering through the Old Town and looking for some sort of inspiration to kick us off. The idea beforehand was that we would jet into Majorca, find an anti-gentrification resistance group, then just interview them. But of course, the world doesn't always work that way.
If it was that simple, America and al Qaeda would have solved their differences over a pint or two, there would be no such thing as chavs and Winehouse would currently be recording an album rather than touring the sewers of London with Doherty. Sometimes, unforseen complications arise. Our complication is that we can't find any resistance groups, so we're going to have to dig deep to find some sort of negative by-product of the rising house prices in Palma, and then do a presentation about it. So with that said, let's go and "get me some gentrification". As 50 Cent would say.
Bush: Should host flat party with al Qaeda
10:30am. Unwittingly, we seem to have found a lovely square packed to the rafters with gentrification. The Placa de Coll is full of buildings with clean exteriors, new paint and other general evidence of spruced-up-ness. Interestingly, the gentrification stops when we investigate the surrounding streets: some are grimier than a dinner party hosted by Lizzie Bardsley from Wife Swap. In a prison, infested with leprosy.
We ponder over the reasons for this: is it because the government only want to showcase the squares, and all money is re-routed there artificially? Is it even the government's work, or was it just carried out by the home-owners? Instead of deciding on a definitive answer, we stop at a coffee shop. I like the way we don't rush into any decisions in this group. It's a sign of our...maturity.
10:45am. That was a very nice street-side cafe, but I can't help thinking that a Subway would go down well. I did a Google search before we left Glasgow, and found two branches on the island, but was unable to locate the precise address of either. One of them was depicted in a J-Peg on the website, but I've no idea what street it's on. I think I'm going to have to be very fortunate and bump into it instead. Not that knowing the address would be much use at the moment. We're lost anyway.
Have you seen this store? Call or text us now!
We take a walk down one of the lanes adjoining the Placa de Coll, which gives Malaga a chance to start chucking around a ping-pong ball he brought with him from Scotland. It's got some bounce on it, and after one throw Zaragoza is charging down the street in a state of panic, leaping into the air in the vain hope of catching it. In front of him is the most inappropriately placed drain you could possibly imagine. Zaragoza screams in desparation, jumping in mid-air and catching the ball at the last gasp! Phew. The ping-pong ball is saved from the humiliation of having to slum it in a sewer. I hope that's the last time Zaragoza and Malaga try that stunt. I'm not sure I could cope with the drama (only semi-sarcastic).
11:00am. Wow, those are interesting bins. Or are they bins? On closer inspection, Barcelona deduces that they form the upper section of a complex refuse system that spreads throughout the city's sewers. "We heard something about this", says Valencia, "the locals chuck all their rubbish down the chute and it runs through the sewers to be collected." That sounds absolutely ingenious. So ingenious that Barcelona wants someone to pose for a picture with them.
I agree to partake of this impromptu photography session, but by the time I head over to the bins/refuse release units, he's halfway down the street with Valencia and the rest. Their attention has been grabbed by a shop on the left hand side, so I scurry on down to see what all the fuss is about. It turns out that Zaragoza and Malaga have stumbled across a metaphorical fountain of knowledge.
Inside is an eccentric Englishman by the name of Rod. Like Rod Stewart, but with more integrity and a less hoarse voice. Rod is an absolute goldmine of information on the local area, explaining to us that the Old Town of Palma was overrun by gypsies 20 years ago, but has since been spectactularly un-gyspified thanks to an increased police presence.
(in comical 1970s cockney voice) "D'ya see how many police there are around here? There are 'UNDREDS!"
Yeah, we're starting to notice a heavy police presence ourselves. If only Sauchiehall Street was this well staffed at nighttime. And daytime, come to think of it.
Inside, Rod Stewart's shop sells books of all shapes and sizes, including autobiographies of dodgy British celebrities like Will Carling and Paul Gasgoigne. A man shuffles about the basement, dusting shelves and replacing books. He looks like an off-duty waiter at first glance, due to his waistcoast/tie uniform, but it turns out he's actually employed as Rod Stewart's assistant. Funny that an assistant in a small independently-run bookshop should require a waiter's uniform, but I suppose it adds some degree of authority to the place.
Back upstairs, Barcelona, Valencia and Madrid are conducting an in-depth interview with Rod Stewart. Rod is convinced that the area is better maintained than when he moved to the island in the 1980s, a time of wild and unsolicited antics. He even goes into detail about a drinking session he had with the late, great George Best in Magaluf. I struggle to picture that but...oh, wait...actually, I can picture that quite easily.
Best: Drank in moderation with Rod
Before bidding us farewell, Rod Stewart takes time to explain the touching land ownership agreement between the Germans and Majorquins:
"They sold 1/3 of the island to the Germans, then refused them planning permission!"
Bizarre. They seem to have some strange attitudes to property purchasing in Majorca, and it appears that the place has been proverbially bitten by the capitalist bug of commodification. Rod concludes with a poignant observation of the thirst for money on the island.
"The only reason the sun still shines...is because they couldn't sell it....."
With that, he waves us goodbye, pointing us in the direction of a local artist by the name of Carlos. Carlos looks confused by the flood of students heading his way, until Rod Stewart pleads for understanding.
"Is your studio open? Let them see it!"
Carlos is suddenly most understanding, and welcomes us in to reveal a fascinating myriad of paintings, drawings and weird Vincent van Gogh parodies. Again, Madrid takes the lead in asking questions, which as just as well, as I wouldn't have a darned clue what to ask him. I'm no good talking to strangers unless I rehearse beforehand.
To summarise, the main points of the interview with Carlos are as follows:
- The transition to the Euro was a "disaster", and was merely an excuse for Spanish businesses to hike up prices.
- House prices are now so expensive in Palma that many young people are being forced to move back in with their parents, sometimes for years on end. Nasty.
- If Majorquins try and accumulate money in their youth, it usually amounts to nothing in the long run, prompting the local phrase, "Bread for Today, Hunger for Tomorrow".
- A large number of locals are moving up the road to Inca, although most foreigners arriving on the island tend to go to Magaluf or Arenal.
- The weird van Gogh hybrid on the wall is actually a mixture of Carlos' face and that of Mr. van Gogh himself. Valencia remarks that it looks somewhat like her Dad, prompting Carlos to joke, "poor little thing!"
He then gives us his full name, for future reference.
"Carlos Moral."
Moral?
"M-O-R-E-L-L."
Oh, Morell! Ah right, I was slightly confused for a minute there. Although if more people had the surname "Moral" then maybe we, as a people, would have more Morals about us. Literally.
Roy Cropper: Moral
11:30am. Wow, that was informative. Malaga looks back up the street and grins wryly - "I only went in to ask him about the Six Nations kick-off times!" I never thought I'd say this, but thank the Lord for rugby. Now we have solid foundations on which to build our investigation. But first, Madrid needs a nickname for Carlos, so we can quickly refer to him in the future.
"How about Carlos the Jackal?", he asks.
Well, he didn't have a lookalike, so I suppose that'll do.
11:45am. Our street wanderings have take us to the edge of the old Cathedral, so we've finally regained our bearings. Adjacent to the Cathedral is a museum, so after a little pondering, the seven of us decide to head on in. It'll cost us €3 a shot, but I suppose we can claim it all back in expenses when we get home. Madrid asks for an information pack from reception, and is promptly handed one. We begin to walk aimlessly round the museum, gazing in starry-eyed wonder at relgious artefact after religious artefact. After religious artefact...
...After religious artefact...
After 10 minutes, Barcelona turns to Valencia - "Is this a religious museum?"
Ah. Bit of a problem there. As much as I'm a fan of religion, it obviously has its limitations. Just as it should play no part in brainwashing the minds of bomb-wielding burks (alliteration), it also has no relevance whatsoever to gentrification. Well, none that we can think of. Unless the Utopian housing policies of the early 20th Century were designed to flush out the "smelly non-believers" or something. Sorry, I made that theory up. Don't quote me on it.
With a combined total of €21 spent on our accidental pilgrimage, we might as well enjoy the musuem, so we take our time to wander round the endless maze of corridors. I tell you, the echoes in here are truly something to behold.
*2 seconds later*...to behold.
We reminisce on the interviews with Rod Stewart and Carlos the Jackal. We're not sure if all their quotes were 100% relevant to our research, but we reckon we can probably use a few somewhere down the line. And Valencia reckons that Rod Stewart is "crazy". You've probably got a point there, Valencia: people have been saying that since the early '70s.
The Wimbledon Runners-Up Trophy, now taking pride of place in the religious museum
We round a corner in the musuem to reveal a spectacular panorama of Palma's waterfront. It's quite a view from up here, isn't it? But wait a minute, who's that down on the walkway beneath us? He's sat in one of the grooves in the wall with one of his team-mates, writing away as if there's no tomorrow. Can you see him? Why, it's none other than my roommate Menorca!
I would knock on the window, but he'd never hear me down there. And I would text him, but it'll cost 40p. And due to the crazy mobile tariffs abroad, it'll probably cost him 57.83p to receive it. I'm only slightly exaggerating.
12:15pm. We've exited the museum, after a visit that was about as productive as Jade Goody's second stint in the Big Brother house (in hindsight, the only way was downhill for her). But we all thought the museum would be a good idea at the time, so there'll be no redistribution of blame. We stop outside an estate agent, and decide to split up for lunch. Zaragoza and Malaga will Go West (like the song) to the Marina, to gain some information on the arrival of rich foreigners to the island.
Barcelona and Valencia are heading East, back into the Old Town, to see if they can find more gentrification, or failing that, more eccentric English shop-owners. That leaves Sevilla, Madrid and myself to go North, and see if we can uncover any patches of ungentrified land, and uncover the reasons for this uncleanliness. But first, I stop to stare at the local street-art. It's not exploitative - I gave him 20 cents, after all.
Fact of the Day: 'Marina' sounds like 'Nerina'. I just noticed that one.
Nerina: sounds like Marina, not literally
12:30pm. Up in the Plaza Mayor, an array of Geography students can be found chomping away on their respective lunches. Menorca's group are here, continuing their study on Regional Identity. I ask him how the research is going, and he's not too chuffed about it.
"We don't really know what to ask people, apart from, 'Are you proud to be Spanish/Majorquin?'"
It's a fair point. They seem to be lumbered with a rather narrow research topic, and their Project Supervisor - good old Denis Norden - hasn't been much help to them thus far. This trend will continue later in the term, when he gives half his students C Grades for their perfectly good Cities Projects. Hrmph. I'll be very miffed when those grades come in, let me tell you.
Oops, that was almost like a Flash-Forward. I shouldn't really do them.
1:00pm. After leaving the Regional Identity group at the Plaza Mayor, we seem to have got slightly lost again. Madrid, Sevilla and I are walking around like a trio of tools (alliteration), aimlessly looking for gentrification on the streets of Palma. On the way we find a nice little streetside cafe, and order up a selection of the finest dishes/baguettes on offer. I get the feeling this will be a week of baguettes for me, not that I'm really complaining, but I'd be so much more comfortable with a map by my side. This is turning into an action replay of Swansea, where I walked around all week looking as coordinated as John Arne Riise in a Champions League semi-final. I'm sorry, that was malicious.
Anyway, time to check up on Valladolid's group. How's the research been going this morning guys?
Hmmmm...never knew agriculture could be so much fun.
The general consensus among the three of us is that Rod Stewart is invaluable to our investigation. He launched a dozen theories and mini-theories in his short interview, and gave plenty of food for thought for the next four days. Speaking of food, we're increasingly impressed by that phrase uttered by Carlos the Jackal earlier:
'Bread for Today, Hunger for Tomorrow'
We think that could be a key catchphrase to roll out during the presentation. Personally, I think it's so catchy, it could be almost be a slogan for a WWE T-shirt. While Stone Cold Steve Austin is renowned for wearing shirts like 'Austin 3:16' and 'What?', imagine if he brought out this cool number. All the kids on the street would want one!
Austin 3:16 Says I Just Gentrified Your Ass
1:45pm. Walking up the Carrer del Oms, we take a left turn at a shopping precint and head up a flight of steps. What we find surprises us: the clean pavements and buildings of Oms are left behind for an unkempt, graffittied alleyway. Clearly, the local government's policy of maintaining aesthetic beauty doesn't extend past the walls of the Old Town. We've only stepped a few yards outside, and we've found the sort of image that's 1000 miles from your mind when you think of Mallorcan tourist brochures.
Yeuch
On the flip side, these traffic cones are pretty funny.
2:00pm. Our sub-group has almost come full circle, and is now at the top of Oms. Wherever Oms is. Good lord, I need a map. We round the corner to head back down Oms to whichever street we came from, and as my eyes meet the awe-inspiring sight directly in front of me, I almost faint in excitement. Nervously, I stare at the ground again. Did I just see...what I thought I saw? No, it can't be. Surely not! I've come all this way...but it's there in front of me. My hopes. My dreams.
MY SUBWAY!!!!!!!
SUBWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!
(Subway...)
Sevilla chuckles, a laugh of acknowledgment. He knows just how obsessed I am with this place. Madrid, on the other hand, looks slightly perturbed. I dash for the front door, lurch inside and search for the all-important words that will make or break my week. And there they are, white on green, italics:
'Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki'
Who said aetheism was viable? I've flown to the other end of the continent, and yet it's almost like I took the best parts of the GUU with me. And let's be honest, Subway is arguably its only good part. Sadly, I have to restrain myself, as I've already eaten lunch today, and there is no room for a Teriyaki feast. But there will be, one day in the future. You mark my words - before I leave this island, I'll have held a Subway Marathon. Nothing and no-one will stop me in my quest. Subway will prevail over all. And be a nation again.
2:15pm. After being practially dragged from the premises by Madrid and Sevilla, we head back up the Carrier del Oms and turn right, attempting to head North and see what we find. This lack of a map is really hurting us: we're not sure what direction we're heading in, and apart from anything else, it's going to be ruddy difficult to find our way back to Subway if the circumstances demand it. I need a map.
2:30pm. Sevilla and Madrid are crossing the road, so I follow on. It appears to be a dual carriageway, so I stand in the central reservation and admire the Mediterranean sunshine, which is making our fieldwork a lot more pleasant thus far. It's not often like this in Woodlands Road, put it that way. A car rounds the corner and makes a beeline for me, but I just stand still in a state of calm. After all, I'm on the pavement, so he can't come near me.
I am on the pavement, amn't I?
Oh, my mistake - I'm in the middle of the road, and impeding his progress. Why in the frig is it designed to look like a pavement if it's actually a car lane? The driver doesn't look happy, but I'm not about to apologise for almost getting killed by a dodgy road system. I tell you, I'm almost longing for Woodlands Road now. It's all very straightforward there (apart from that weird bit at the top of Charing Cross).
2:45pm. Our second important find of the day. The three of us have just landed up in a square to the North of the Old Town, oblivious to our whereabouts, when Sevilla spots an indoor market to our left. Shall we take a look? Why not, says Madrid, and we walk in to find the Spanish equivalent of Buchanan Galleries. Only this time with fish. Floor after floor of retail unit is interconnected by a maze of escalators and lifts, in a surreal hybrid of the pre-Victorian market place and the postmodern Shopping Centre. Not that Spain ever lived in the Victorian age, but you get the point. I need a map.
David Gest gives his views on Gentrification (that one's been done before)
This is all very interesting, I think to myself, but what's the link to gentrification? The answer is duly provided when Madrid gazes up at one of the signs dominating the ceiling, emblazoned with the words, "Adjundement (sp) de Palma".
"Government of Palma", cries Madrid, "This has been set up by the local authorities to appease the people affected by gentrification!"
Genius. Madrid has worked it out in as much time as England take to throw away a cricket match: the government acknowledges the adverse effects of rising house prices in Palma, and is attempting to combat this by building - and subsidising - the local food market. Thank goodness for that unexpected discovery, and for Madrid's intuition. Day's work done, wham, bam, thank you mam. Not literally.
3:00pm. We meet up with Barcelona, Valencia, Zaragoza and Malaga at the Plaza Mayor, and go over the first day's findings. While we don't yet have a full explanation for gentrification in Palma, or its effects, we're beginning to piece together the foundations of what drives housing trends in the city. I call a colleague in Glasgow to enquire about the local weather conditions etc., but his answering machine is on. That's strange, he should be in Subway now. Maybe he's in the bit near the fireplace with no signal. I decide to leave a quick message indicating my joy at the discovery of a Spanish Subway store.
10 minutes later he rings back, and we have a brief (and expensive) chat about the contrasting lifestyles of Glasgow and Palma. The weather is good in Scotland, apparently, but not half as good as here in Mallorca. It's refreshing to hear a voice from home, as the intensity of a field trip can often make you forget there's another world outside.
10 Hour Cheesy is on tonight at the QMU, and I just wish I could be there. No, honestly. Half the people at Cheesy probably wish they were in Magaluf tonight, but c'est la vie. My colleague isn't going to Cheesy, as he's working tonight (hrmph, where are his priorities?) but he informs me that he'll let me know if anything happens. Good. Something always happens there, even if it's just the Ghostbusters song playing or someone spilling half a pitcher of Tennents.
3:30pm. Our final task of the day is to search for the Library. Thankfully, it's not the Glasgow Uni Library we're looking for (I don't think any of us could take another day in there), but the local library in the Old Town. Barcelona is leading us towards a grand old building on the corner, insistent that it contains the information on house prices that we crave. Well, crave's probably the wrong word. 'Require' would be better.
Glasgow Uni Library: Had enough
On the way, we pass Bilbao and his group, who are also winding up the fieldwork for the day. Bilbao is proudly wearing a Celtic T-shirt, but as all football fans will know, it's Rangers who are doing the European travelling this year. And as a Scot, I'm very proud of them/bored by their defensive tactics/thrilled by their chase for the Quadruple/wishing they would cross the half-way line just once.
Round at the "Library", the front door appears to be locked, but Barcelona finds a security guard and asks for directions. "Round the corner", says the guard. The seven of us shuffle round the aforementioned corner. Where the heck is the door? We seem to be heading further and further from the centre of the old building, when finally we find a policeman, of all people. Rod Stewart was right, there are an obscene number of constabularies walking the streets here. The policeman listens to Barcelona's question, then points him in the right direction...back the way we came!
Valencia is confused by this point, and she's not the only one. Barcelona leads us back round the way we came, to the same front door we were stood at 5 minutes ago. He grabs another security guard, a different one from the first time, and asks them the same question. "Excuse me, do you know where the library is?"
"Oh - library is closed for siesta."
You're having a laugh, aren't you? Where's the road home? We're distraught. I need a map.
4:00pm. With the library shut, our only real option is to head back to C'an Pastilla and "consolidate on our findings". Well, that's what Denis Norden and the others tell us to do, but in all likelihood we'll just lie around on the balconies and watch foreign TV channels. But first, we need to decide how to get back. Barcelona and Sevilla are for walking, a suggestion I find absolutely heinous. It's over 6 miles from the Cathedral to the Hot Linda, and the sun is beating down on us with more intensity than an Old Firm injury-time brawl.
Zaragoza and Malaga are agreed, but since we can't find the bus stop anyway, the executive decision is made to start walking east and see how far we get. Thankfully, due to the promenade on our right hand side, we now know which direction we're facing. I still need a map.
Brawls: Artur Boruc
4:15pm. We're walking East with as much speed as we can possibly muster. It's been quite a long day already, and we know that the work will continue tonight when we go over our findings. And after that, Magaluf beckons/looms. The one thing I'm craving more than anything is a good night's sleep, but the trip to Magaluf has ruled out that possibility with the stroke of a pen. I can barely imagine how I'm going to feel tomorrow morning.
4:30pm. Sevilla's eye is caught by a billboard over by the roundabout to our left. The face in the advert looks remarkably familiar, almost like it could be...why, it must be Karl Kennedy from Neighbours!
Well, no it isn't, but it's a mighty fine lookalike. Before I know it, we've walked past it, so there's no opportunity to take the obligatory photograph to show you the resemblance. But after we found Susan Kennedy in the Departure Lounge at Glasgow Airport, I told you we'd find Karl! Now I think about it, it was almost inevitable. I just hope the two lookalikes don't have a similarly messy love life in reality.
Karl Kennedy: Advertising Spanish products?
4:45pm. Boy oh boy, this walk is energy-sapping. I'm down to my last croissant now, although I still have a supply of biscuits from breakfast (alliteration) in my rucksack. Zaragoza is slowing somewhat in the heat, so I wait for him and promptly start a conversation about women. Well, it's about time, and his views on the subject are always interesting, to say the least. Zaragoza advises me to take control of my own destiny, similar to the way William Wallace defied Longshanks and won the Battle of Stirling Bridge, only this time without the use of swords and blue face-paint.
I've got it pretty well mapped out in my head how I want to approach the situation, but Zaragoza is wary of me making logistical errors along the way. There's obviously a time and a place for asking a girl out, or telling them I like them, and some methods are preferable to others. Zaragoza is keen to stress that the right method is selected, otherwise the whole thing will backfire as dramatically as Gordon Brown's decision to drop the 10p tax rate. And that's no way to build a stable relationship.
Backfire: Brown
At this point, Madrid joins proceedings. He offers his own succint advice for solving my dilemna. For legal reasons, I can't print that advice here.
5:00pm. We've reached a junction in the road and, after one solid hour of walking from Palma, we've finally found a bus stop. In spite of this, Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla and Madrid are still intent on walking all the way home. Incredible. I guess they must be made of sterner stuff, as I'm wilting in the heat back here. At the bus stop, Zaragoza and Malaga are perusing the bus times, and they claim there'll be a No.30 due in the next five minutes. This is increasingly tempting, but it means the group will have to split up, Take That-style, before reuniting at the other end and being even more successful in our endeavours, Take That-style. As long as we don't nick Nerina Pallot's songs this time.
Here comes the bus. Aah, it's all happening so quickly! Barcelona et al are giving me the ultimatium of walking with them or taking the bus to C'an Pastilla with Zaragoza and Malaga.
Hmmmm. Zaragoza and Malaga are talking. About...an issue. I feel jealous.
I think I'll walk.
5:15pm. The pace is quick, I'm running out of supplies and the sun is beating down with more heat than seems logistically possible. I'm not sure I made the right decision. But Barcelona and Sevilla are attempting to keep the spirits up by laughing at any funny oddities they pass on the footpath. Barcelona, in particular, takes the time to laugh heartily at one guy's pitiful attempts to skateboard, labelling him a "ponce". Not to his face, obviously - that would be primitive.
Meanwhile, at the Hot Linda, Fuerteventura is stood at the front entrance surveying the scene. He imposed a strict rule yesterday - no Hire Cars are to be brought back to the hotel - and he's glad to see that rule being followed by the students. Order is being kept, and that's just the way it should be. It would be catastrophic if the students allowed themselves to be distracted by such commodities as cars.
Then, a dot on the horizon attracts his attention. It's a classy looking motor, that's for sure. But who's driving it? One of the locals perhaps? A staff member at the Hot Linda, perhaps Officer Dibble or one of his colleagues? Fuerteventura stares intently as the car turns into the Hot Linda car park, revving its engine before grinding to a halt. Surely not, thinks Fuerteventura. He removes his sunglasses in shock to find a well-known face climbing out of the car. It's one of his students, Cadiz!
"Alright Fuerteventura?"
Cadiz and his team-mates Jerez, Leganés and Gijón walk past Fuerteventura proud as punch, leaving him to gaze open-mouthed at the car facing him. Did they just breach authority, right in front of him? Well they'll have his wrath to deal with. Hell will be unleashed...just after he's stopped staring at that car. Wow, that's a nice number, he's thinking...wonder if it does 0-60 in 3.5...Tenerife would be so jealous...
5:30pm. Must...have...food...Must...have...a seat...
This is getting uncomfortable now. We're still ages from the Hot Linda, and we've got to round the perimter of the airport first. Planes screech overhead, diving onto the runway at Palma Airport and quite frankly, making an almighty din as they land. We're in amongst thick undergrowth, with no conceivable way out of this unsightly mess of weed and grass.
Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.
Valencia turns round to ask me if I'm ok, and just like when I fell off the Limestone Pavement at Swansea 12 months earlier, I pretend I'm fine. But speaking of Swansea, what are those clumps of rock on the shoreline ahead? Are they what we think they are? If these don't raise spirits, then absolutely nothing will. Valencia's eyes light up, and Barcelona sports a knowing grin...
...It's the long awaited-return of the Dangerleaps!!!
*A dangerleap (Copyright Llandudno & Co, April 2007) must be wider than two feet from take-off to landing, over a sheer drop of more than four feet. Before undertaking a dangerleap, you should contact your GP and solicitor, or seek adequate travel insurance from the Post Office. Dangerleaps are available for download on all illegal file-sharing hosts, and can be ordered via a stamped addressed envelope to some address in the Home Counties. No substitutions, exchanges or refunds. Terms and conditions apply. Go to http://www.dangerleaps.org/ for more information.
It's like the Limestone Pavement all over again. I almost feel like singing the Glen Campbell classic "Like A Limestone Pavement" again, in tribute to these extraordinary feats of nature. Valencia and Sevilla dive under a fence and race down into one of the larger gaps in the rock (almost like a Mega- or Terra-Dangerleap), desparate to pose for a photo. Strangely, it also looks like they're posing for the front cover of one of those celebrity Fitness DVDs, although I'm not quite sure why.
Somewhere in here, we also try and create a parody of the YMCA hand signals with our own shadows. It doesn't work, much to our chagrin (and personal disappointment).
It's Fun To Stay At The Hot Linda?
We're almost home and dry now, but we just need to know one more thing. What force of nature carved these Dangerleaps? Was it Glaciation? Fluvi-Glaciation? Heck, Geopolitcal Glaciation? it could be anything, as our group is more focussed on Human Geography than the Physical side of things. Then, as if by magic, an old man rounds the corner, hears our cries for help and promptly provides the answer we've been looking for.
"Those were the rocks they carved the Cathedral from."
WOW!!! You absolute genius, Sir. Right place, right time, right guy. I tell you, if he went on the Spanish version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, he'd have Fastest Finger First sown up in milliseconds.
7:10pm. Getting ready for the nightly meeting, pretty much all is well with the world. Many of the groups are a bit knackered, but spirits are pretty high and it's been a good day of field work. Zaragoza and Malaga return, smirking as they do, feeling no such knackeredness themselves. Perhaps the bus was a good idea after all. I think I panicced (sp?) when given the earlier ultimatium - it was like 'Fight or Flight', except in this case, it was 'Bus or Walk'.
Lanzarote, the leader of this year's field class, has been giving his usual speech about continuing our good work, getting up early tomorrow, remembering all our essential equipment etc. All very basic stuff, thus far. But then, he hands over to Tenerife. And hell, not literally, freezes over. Bear in mind that Tenerife is arguably the most popular member of staff at this point, but he's about to turn into the bad guy, before our own disbelieving eyes.
"I've got something very important to say, and unfortunately it's not good news. Some of the behaviour late last night was, to say the least, absolutely appalling..."
Eh? Surely not. I slept like a hibernating chinchilla last night, I didn't hear a darned thing.
"...We've had reports from reception that the French students on the 2nd Floor were disturbed last night by some of our students - OUR STUDENTS - rampaging along the hallway, and knocking on their doors. At 4am in the morning! How immature can you get? I'd grown out of that sort of stuff by Primary 4! How do you think that makes us feel, as members of staff, to be told that our students are behaving in such an irresponsible way, and upsetting members of the public?
"We told you before this trip that you would be representing the University of Glasgow, and yet some of you have seen fit to abuse that position. So make no mistake about it, if you bring the University into disrepute like this again, then you will be hauled up in front of the University's Senate. And you'll have to answer to the Principal. How do you think he'll feel if he hears about this incident?"
I dunno, probably not as ashamed as he felt when he accepted a 12% pay rise.
"And another thing. I've heard about a trip that's supposed to be happening tonight...to Magaluf. How irresponsible do you think that is? You're supposed to be getting up at 8am in the morning, having breakfast and going out into the field. How is that going to be remotely possible if you're staggering in from Magaluf at 5am? It's not, is it? You're going to be endangering not only yourselves, but those around you. So let me say this now - there is no trip to Magaluf tonight. As of this moment, it's not happening anymore."
"I hate having to say all this, I really do. And I know that the vast majority of you have behaved well in this field trip, and will continue to do so. But it needs to be underlined, NOW, that certain things are going on at the moment that are just unacceptable, and if you want to remain a part of this field trip, and complete the Honours Course...then you're going to have to abide by these rules. And that's that"
Tenerife walks off with a pained look of regret on his face. He's right - he really didn't want to take the bullet. But I guess someone had to. The room is in stunned silence. I guess we go for dinner. With the staff members who want us off the island, apparently.
7:30pm. In the restaurant, everyone is still trying to recover from being given the proverbial rocket by Tenerife. I remark to Bilbao that it was, in all honesty, one of the greatest speeches I had ever heard in person. Tenerife is clearly a good bloke, but is also full of charisma, so its a real shame he had to utilise it in such acromonious circumstances.
Murcia, Menorca and Bilbao are completely unaware of any illegal door-knocking transpiring last night, so to think that this disturbance took place - and was carried out by members of the Geography group - is mind-boggling. Didn't we go through all this last year at Swansea with the Floor 4 Party? And had we not all learnt our lesson? There are lines you clearly don't cross, and last night's actions are beginning to make the Floor 4 Party look like a coffee morning. And I don't even drink coffee.
Roy Carroll: Crossed the line
8:00pm. In the midst of this door-knocking chaos, the trip to Magaluf is off. I'm starting to come to terms with that bombshell now, and to be honest, part of me is secretly relieved. Tenerife made some valid points there, mid-rant, and if the trip had gone ahead we would have had less than 3 hours of sleep tonight. The field work tomorrow would have been tortuous to say the least. And this way, I've saved 25€ that can instead be spent on an infinite supply of San Miguels for the room. But still...would have been intriguing.
The thing that confuses me most is that Lanzarote, the leader of the trip, didn't do the speech, leaving it instead to Tenerife. It really should have been his responsibility to impart this information, but maybe he didn't feel like he had it in him. As Menorca points out, he's a nice guy. The problem was, he left it to Tenerife, who is also nice, but has a more powerful voice. And an ex-SAS moustache.
Shattered and exhausted, I leave the table to rejoin Group O, the gentrification crew. Benidorm spots me, and after a brief conversation, attention turns to my waist (a rare occasion indeed).
"McLovin, what is that thing you're wearing?"
"Oh, this - this is my bumbag. It's for security reasons, in case my wallet gets nicked."
Benidorm bursts into laughter.
"How is that safer? If anything, that'll attract robbers. Here, let me see that thing."
He grabs the aforementioned bumbag and immediately pulls at the elastic belt. The pouch at the front shows little resistance, and within a couple of seconds he manages to pull it about four feet from my body. Benidorm and Vigo collapse in hysterics. I walk away, fairly humiliated. Clearly, this bumbag isn't as safe and secure as I had anticipated. that's what I get for going to Poundland on Ayr High Street for my security gadgets.
8:30pm. Through in the Bar-Lounge hybrid, Nuno Gomes is cleaning pint glasses with a shellshocked look on his face. Like the rest of us, he's been rattled by that Tenerife promo, which is threatening to overshadow the day (and if we're not careful, the entire trip). The lecturers have spoken, and the chances of us going to Magaluf now are about as likely as Rangers entering the opposition's penalty box in a European game. That was malicious.
Rangers: Focus on defence
Valencia scours the room, searching for Barcelona. We're supposed to be having another meeting to discuss our Gentrification project which, despite the Magaluf setback and French door-knocking controversy, is still well on track. I ask Sevilla how the Magaluf trip could possibly have been cancelled when it was organised by outside forces in the first place.
"Well, I guess they just put their foot down and said, 'we're running this field class, so you're not going'."
The scene is currently one of mild dejection. Bilbao slopes in, looking for the key to Sevilla and Barcelona's room (he sleeps in that room, he's not a burglar or anything). He needs to change out of his Celtic top, and acquire vital equipment for the night's meeting with his Peri-Urban group. And do his UFC-style stretching. Sevilla, however, is unaware of the key's whereabouts.
It could be anywhere! (This isn't actually Sevilla's room)
"I think Barcelona had it last, maybe he's in there now."
Bilbao heads up to Room 320, fully expectant. Five minutes later he returns, fairly dejected.
"There's no answer."
Valencia scowls - "He'll be asleep. Do you want me to phone him?"
"No, it's fine", says Sevilla, "just knock loudly on the door."
"Or even better", says Bilbao, "Go along to 321 and jump across the balcony. He's bound to hear us knocking on his own window."
With that, Bilbao retreats once more to the Third Floor, now a well-worn path. Ten minutes later, who walks through the doors of the Bar-Lounge hybrid but Barcelona? And he doesn't look very chuffed, either. Or wide awake.
"I was having a good nap there."
Much like a van driver for Reliance Security, Barcelona is unhappy at being woken from his sleep. On the plus side, it gives us the chance to relocate to Room 416, Zaraogza and Malaga's room, and put all our ideas together. While listening to some classic Paramore, thanks to Zaraogza's iPod.
Paramore: Raised Spirits
9:00pm. Tonight's summit with Denis Norden has thankfully been brought forward to avoid a repeat of the scenes last night, where we all practically fell asleep mid-meeting. Norden walks in with a smile on his face, clearly oblivious to the pain we feel at the axing of Magaluf. What, was he not coming along as well? You do surprise me, Denis.
The meeting itself goes fairly well, Norden accepting our ideas and supporting our research methodology for the day. He's a little more non-committal when it comes to tomorrow's field work, but then, we've come to expect this response by now.
"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."
Ever reliable, Norden stumbles off into the night. You're a star, Norden. Kind of.
10:00pm. I've returned to Room 323 for a couple of San Miguels with Menorca and Ibiza, who have had fairly mixed results on the field (not literally, it's a Geography phrase of sorts). It's on nights like this that I get slightly confused by the complicated lifestyle I'm leading. When I left 416, Sevilla was asking Malaga if "we're heading out tonight". I almost replied, "No, I think we're staying in", but had to stop myself. By "we", Sevilla obviously meant the Gentrifiers of Group O, a group he stays very close to continuously, but for me, "we" could mean anyone.
It could mean Barcelona and Valencia, Zaragoza and Malaga, Menorca and Ibiza, Valladolid, Marbella, Benidorm, La Coruna and others. It struck me that I'm not actually tied down to one social group in Geography, instead choosing to drift around and spend a bit of time with each one. That has its obvious advantages - you get to know more people, there's more diversity, it's always interesting catching up with people etc. But there are also drawbacks to this rotational system.
For example, when I leave Group O and head down the corridor, I'm essentially leaving them behind as a social entity. Similarly, I could go along to 325 and chat with Valladolid, Marbella, Vigo et al, but the minute I make my departure, I'm marooned again. It's all a little disorientating, and combined with the Mathematicians I spend time with in Glasgow, it often leaves me torn between two (or three) different groups of people. Just witness the confused figure I often cut in the Food Factory, trying to work out how to leave one group and talk to another, for further proof. It's all a tad befuddling (sp), and it means I have to constantly shift gears and work out what to say to people, rather than having one stable group of friends like the norm. Or is it the norm? What exactly is the norm nowadays? And are we all becoming victims of the social Postmodernist lifestyle? Find out next week, on BBC Two!
Rotation: Rafa Benitez
10:30pm. Speaking of disorientated people, there's a knock at the door. Menorca is out smoking on the balcony, and Ibiza is attempting to reclaim the BBC3 signal as we speak, so I scurry to the door to see who's there. It's Fuenlabrada, and he looks a tad surprised to see me.
"Oh, hi, is Getxo in at the moment?"
Who in the Majorquin heck is Getxo?
"Em, I don't think so. Maybe he's further along."
"Oh, right...I'm not drunk by the way, just to let you know...so who's in here then?"
"It's me, Menorca and Ibiza...maybe Getxo's next door. Or he could be in 321 - I'm not really sure who's staying there this week."
Fuenlabrada looks pensive. "Right, I'll have a look along there then. I'm not drunk by the way - I am NOT drunk."
"Right, no problem - see you later."
"I'm really not drunk."
I close the door as Fuenlabrada reminds me, yet again, that he's not drunk. Ibiza asks, "Who was that?" I reply that it was Fuenlabrada, he was at the wrong door but that he wasn't drunk. He definitely wasn't drunk. Which is a relief, to be sure. He later adds me on Facebook, presumably in an attempt to prove that he definitely isn't drunk.
11:00pm. Ibiza has got slightly fed up of BBC3 for now (it's showing an Eastenders repeat when, frankly, once is too much), so the three of us are sat having a chat about the cancellation of the Magaluf trip. We're all disappointed at having the jaunt snatched from our grasp, especially by the reprehensible actions of others. But who could do such a thing? Who would be so thoughtless as to disturb other guests in the hotel by knocking on their doors at 4am? There's only one way to find out, isn't there? A good old bitching session!
I crack open the now-indispensible Majorca Handbook, and scour the 107 faces for the potential culprit(s). It's a pity it's come to this, but it's better doing it this way than asking people to their face. They might take the questioning as suspicion of blame, and then things would really flare up. It wouldn't just be doors getting knocked then.
...I mean heads would get knocked together.
It's obviously not any of the three of us, as we were as asleep as the audience at Lily Allen and Friends. None of my Gentrification group would ever be capable of committing such a heinous act, so they're immediately ruled out. Zaragoza is renowned for his drunken stunts, especially at the Floor 4 Party, but no malice was intended on that occasion. And he maintains to the day that he wasn't the one who released the toxic spray. Menorca's Regional Identity group, similarly, would never have the cold-bloodedness to disrupt the trip in such a way. Ibiza's group, the Agriculturers, are also ruled out pretty quickly. They like their alcohol in that group (Benidorm, in particular, likes nothing more than walking into Viper and "necking a load of JD's"), but they don't like it to the extent that they'd willfully commit breach of the peace in such a calculated manner.
As we're going down the list, crossing names off, rumours also surface of an unsettling incident on Wednesday night, when Cartagena was the subject of some discriminatory abuse as he tried to sleep. Once again, it involved a group running the corridors and knocking on doors, but this time the abuse was homophobic rather than random and dispersed. I'm utterly shocked by this development. Who in their right mind would go around abusing people like that?
We quickly come to the conclusion that the homophobic door-knockers are the same people as the French door-knockers, using our detective skills recently acquired in our field work training. Was it Jerez and Cadiz? Not a chance. Bilbao? Never. He and Murcia condemned the perpretrators at dinnertime. Badajoz? Ovideo? Couldn't see it in a million years. Santa Coloma, he of the charismatic presentations last year? Hell would have to freeze over! Heck, even Denis Norden wouldn't be capable of this!!!
Wait a minute. The other two have stumbled across something. Was it...Sabadell?
Ah yes, it's all starting to make sense now. Sabadell and Logroño are never seen apart, and are part of a large faction I never speak to. They travel in a pack and rarely acknowledge outsiders - in fact, I don't even know what project they're researching this week. But could they be capable of such a crime against common deceny? I'm not sure, but I'm not going to get close enough to find out. From now on, I'll be avoiding them like Prince Philip avoids race relations classes.
Prince Philip: Not cosmopolitan
11:30pm. In a way, that wasn't really pleasant. I'm not used to bitching sessions, and neither are Menorca or Ibiza, but we all felt it was necessary to narrow down the list of suspects in Knockgate. During the discussion, we established that the majority of Geographers on the trip are darned good people, and now we've decided that it was the Alleged Homophobes at fault, we can get on with the field trip rather than viewing everyone with suspicion. Speaking of suspicion, what the heck is that knocking sound? Is it someone next door moving a bed (and if so, why?) Is it one of the French party beneath us, trying to exact a speedy revenge for Knockgate? Is it a ghost?
To divert attention from these creepy capers (alliteration), Ibiza switches BBC3 back on. I'm greeted with the sight of Lily Allen attempting to hold a note. I have only one option, and run for the balcony. On the way out, Menorca gives me a puzzled look.
"I didn't know you hated Lily Allen."
I look at him rather incredulously, then at Ibiza. Ibiza sums up my thoughts brilliantly.
"Neinsich!"
This, it transpires, is Ibiza's German translation of the classic phrase, "No s*!t", and even though it's not a real word, it still sounds like it makes sense. So I continue running out to the balcony.
Neinsich Sherlock!
12:00am. Midnight. That means it's 11pm in Glasgow, so the 10 Hour Cheesy Pop extravaganza will be underway. Murcia stands on next door's balcony, gazing out into the night sky. It's good to have a bit of a breather from time to time, as this trip is starting to stress even the most mellow of us. Eventually Murcia goes back indoors, leaving me alone on a row of empty Third Floor balconies. In the QMU, it won't be empty. It won't be quiet, and it sure as heck won't be still. People will be dancing, drinks will be getting purchased and people will be acquainting themselves with each other. Just hopefully not in full view of innocent bystanders. I decide to call another colleague for details, despite the extortionate foreign call charges (not zenophobic). Surprisingly, it rings out. Is he on the dancefloor at Qudos? Don't tell me they're playing Girls Aloud already.
[If a job needs doing, do it yourself.]
1:00am. Further along the corridor in Room 324, Córboda is slowly but surely recovering after his horrific bout of sausage-induced food poisoning yesterday. He and La Coruna have been working away on their Physical project in a picturesque cove on the coastline (alliteration), and he fancies a quiet night in as his perpetual puking slowly begins to subside. He goes to the bathroom to have a shower, and all seems reasonably well. Then, a shocking incident transpires mid-shower. A mysterious hand reaches round the shower curtain and, completely unbeknownst to Córboda, turns the hot water up to full blast.
Valladolid strikes again! Córboda is in a state of mild panic, and pulls the shower curtain to enable him to catch the culprit, and exact swift revenge. But before he can, he's met with a dose of toxic spray, as Marbella and Alicante spray some horrific air freshener in his direction. it's like the Floor 4 Party all over again. This is nothing but a mugging, and Córboda is flailing about aimlessly, blinded by the rising steam and stench of Airwick freshener. Marbella and Alicante run from Room 324, proud of their work, leaving Valladolid to close the door on a helpless Córboda. And that's where the bitter taste of revenge sinks in.
Córboda reacts with like cat-like agility, springing across the room and slamming the door shut. Valladolid's hand is caught in the door, and as he lets out a pained yelp, Córboda just laughs. It's over in an instant, the joke having backfired with spectacular ferocity. As Valladolid retreats to the relative safety of 325, a broad grin crosses Córboda's face. He's probably thinking to himself, that's the last time you mess with an ill man, Senor Valladolid.
1:30am. Time for bed, methinks. It's been a long day, and tomorrow will be even longer - in fact, Benidorm and Marbella are already talking about organising a Geography coup of the local nightclub, Arena.
"McLovin, get everyone told. Arena, tomorrow night!" instructs Marbella.
It'll hopefully make up for the damp squib of the Magaluf call-off. But in the meantime, I really need some sleep. I clamber into bed, hoping that Menorca and Ibiza will follow suit. The problem is, they seem to be engrossed in a programme on BBC3. It's one of those list shows presented by Richard Bacon that seems to be on all the time, entitled 'Top 50 Songs We Love To Hate'. These kind of shows used to be alright for the odd chuckle, but I think they're well past their sell-by date now. Totally lacking in any originality or thought, they just compile a load of clips of successful gimmicks and formats and say, "Wow, remember when this happened? What were we like, eh?" So in other words, ideal material if you're trying to nod off in a cheap hotel.
[I'll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away
Never fade away]
2:30am. Only...I'm not nodding off. The show's been on for at least an hour, and I'm no closer to falling asleep. I hate it when you have nights like that, and there never seems any explanation for it. Unless it's the show that's keeping me awake. Maybe the volume's too loud or something. If it is, then I have the rare and unpleasant distinction of saying that Richard Bacon is keeping me up at night. At least there are no drugs this time.
Bacon: Up All Night
3:00am. Are Menorca and Ibiza still watching this? We're due up in five hours, yet the TV is still blaring out garbage about the merits, or lack thereof, of pop acts such as The Cheeky Girls and Las Ketchup. Menorca is occasionally mumbling sentences which have a vague connection to the show, but that's not to say he's still awake. He might having a dream about The Cheeky Girls. Lord knows, Lembit Opik does the same thing regularly.
[Take me away.]
[To Glasgow.]
Pfffft...typical. They're having a go at the Manic Street Preachers for their classic song, "If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next". When are people going to give this song a break? It's 2008 now, you've had 10 years to get used to the title, and it doesn't detract from the tune's overall quality.
"I feel like the title's trying to preach to me", says some anonymous tube who does the rounds on these nostalgia shows. In fact, I think they're famous for nothing else. This is desparate stuff. I need to try and get to sleep. I place the pillow right over my head, in an attempt to block out the unsightly din from the television set. It's only having a partial effect...
...What's happening in Scotland?
[...What do I wish was happening?]
...What's next on the list? Oh...oh no, you gotta be kidding me...
......Amarillo.
I might have flipping well known. Amarillo, one of the cheeriest and most enjoyable No.1's of recent times, is apparently detestable, because a bunch of people on a TV show say it is. Their reasons for reneging against the Tony Christie/Peter Kay version are even more ludicruous.
"It got to the stage where it was played everywhere."
And your point is? It got played everywhere because people liked it, you absolute buffoon. They liked it more than they'll ever like any of your artistic work, which probably stretches to a nondescript appearance on Extras or something. I mean as one of the real extras on the show, not the celebrities pretending to be extras. They can be quite funny.
[......how would I word it though?]
While I accept that the song was indeed played everywhere, and got to the point of overkill, that's no reason to take it out on poor Tony Christie, or even Peter Kay, who only revived the song for charity purposes. The mere suggestion that the British nation "hates" Amarillo is so wide of the mark that even Rik Waller couldn't reel it back in. And he's a big fella'.
[Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and relevations]
Rik Waller: Big
Pffffft. I'm drifting in and out of half-consciousness, and I kinda wish today would just end. I said everything would spring into life today, and it most certainly did. In the sense that everything went wrong. The Magaluf trip was dreampt up, hyped then destroyed. I've had a few conversations which would best be described as uncomfortable. I don't feel like I'm a complete person, which is quite annoying, as I felt more or less complete during the latter stages of the Swansea adventure. Maybe I was being naive. No, I don't want to admit that. Not now, anyway. I'd rather go to sleep, to be honest. At least the gentrification's going well, so to speak.
[Ah - got it! It's all clear in my head! What I'll say is...no, wait a minute...]
[That might sound weird.]
[I need a map.]
"Next on our exclusive countdown, it's Bob the Builder."
[Lost it again.........]
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