Ginger Ale At Three

It's just after three am and I'm squinting in the glare of the fridge light looking for the diet coke I know we don't have.

I wake up at around three most days. Sometimes just for half an hour, sometimes till five and occasionally that'll be it for sleep that night.

For me it's a good time for ideas, for writing and for visiting with the dead.

I wonder if other people get up in the night at around this time and think about someone that loved them, that they loved, that aren't here anymore. I like the image it conjures; people alone but together, sat by lamp light with a cup of tea, remembering.

The only thing in the fridge is half a bottle of ginger ale which is only ever used as a mixer.

I drink it all and put the kettle on.

Lucy would have said 'lashings of ginger ale' because there was a bit of the St Trinians in her manner or maybe Enid Blyton. She said things like 'jolly' instead of 'fun' and 'supper' instead of 'dinner'. She had a very distinctive voice that even in life sounded like a memory of happy times past.

Having known each other since our teens she was familiar with my sleep patterns and in recent years would sometimes text me at one or two in the morning;

'Are you up? Can I call? I'm in a bit of a pickle.'

A pickle usually meant she'd drunk too much and had either done something appalling or was just feeling afraid of the world and wanting comfort.

When she'd done something appalling the telling of it would begin with;

'We were having a simply splendid evening when....' followed by a heavily edited account of her behaviour which I would have to chip away at until I got to the truth of it.

She could go from soft and warm and funny to a towering rage in the blink of an eye. When we were young we attributed it to her shocking red hair and an Irish streak. In later years it was the wine.

She was a year younger than me when she died last summer. Her sister called me and asked if I wanted to speak to her as she didn't have much time left. As it turned out she only had about an hour left. I talked to her as I'd always done, about our happy memories and her terrible singing. I told her that I loved her and there was nothing to be afraid of. Her sister said;

'She heard you, she was listening and smiling, she raised an eyebrow.'

Morphine though, who knows.
I miss her voice, her humour, her wicked laugh.

You never really have a choice what you write about. I prefer to be funny, I like making people laugh. But this is what wanted to be written today and even though some of it is sad a part of me is still trying to figure out a way to make you laugh, put a punch line at the end. We'll see.

It's not really Lucy I'm visiting with this morning, it's Mutti, my grandmother, and it's because of the ginger ale.

She always had at least half a dozen bottles of it in the fridge to mix with southern comfort. She called it a Soft Shoulder and she discovered this drink because of the terrible migraines she suffered in middle age. She'd feel one coming and take to bed. She'd hear this terrible screaming in the distance which it turned out was her. When she came to a few days later her forehead would be covered in blisters from the boiling compresses they'd put on her head to draw out the pain. How efficacious this was I have no idea and who 'they' were I can't quite remember. I hate that about my memory. I can't just call her and say; 'Who looked after you? Where were you?'

I think it was a boy. I think she was in the Maldives, or the Bahamas.

Afterwards they brought her a bottle of Southern Comfort and mixed it with ginger ale and it was delicious. Thereafter it became something she associated with feeling better, a soft shoulder to lean on.

She lived in Spain for as long as I knew her, she didn't want to grow old in the UK, but would drive to England every easter for three weeks and bring us a car full of gifts that she'd been buying and wrapping since her last visit. There would be books, poetry, fancy notebooks, cartons of cigarettes, wine and southern comfort. One year she brought me a big easter egg made out of cardboard and bright yellow. When I cracked it open like a pinata it was full of mini bottles of southern comfort and five pound notes.

She'd wrap the cartons of cigarettes in cheerful paper and if stopped at customs would magically transform in to a helpless old dear.

'They're dolls for my grand daughters officer. Yes, I wrapped them all myself. If you must open them please be kind enough to wrap them again...with my arthritis it took ever so long to....'

And they'd let her through. A seventy something year old fag and booze mule.

She'd tell me all about it whilst sitting cross legged in the living room smoking a fancy little cigar and drinking a long glass of whiskey with plenty of ice and just a smidge of ginger.

She lived to be just shy of a hundred. The only shy I think she's ever been.

She's been gone about two years now and I can honestly say I think about her every day. We don't forget them, we just wear them. Every loss adds to us in some small way and we adapt so that we can carry them with us.

When I'm paying for something I see her photo smiling up at me from my wallet and I always brush my thumb over her face before putting in my pin number.

As we get older the people who love us unconditionally become fewer, particularly if we don't have children, and I suppose that part of grief is selfish but I don't feel sorry for it.

I think of Mutti as being perennially a very young seventy five. Ninety nine is a good innings but I think she could have done without the last couple of years which took her independence, her hearing and most of her sight. She stuck around by choice, she was single minded and very stubborn and determined to outlive her dog. A tiny griffon that was devoted to her as all the previous dogs had been.

She was never afraid of death. She told me that once you get old it becomes less and less a thing to dread, that whatever came next would be an awfully big adventure. I think she was paraphrasing Peter Pan. She became a buddhist late in life and spent a fair bit of her early morning, yes, usually around three am, meditating. She outlived two of her three children and when I asked her how she coped with the grief she said 'I enjoy everything three times. A good drink, a beautiful morning, whatever it is, I enjoy it once for me, once for Paddy and once for Trudi.'
I miss her voice, her stories, her blind and fierce love of me.

Co-incidentally Mutti and Lucy were the last two people to regularly send me hand written letters. Another thing I miss terribly. But then I have my old red suitcase, bursting at the seams, filled with years of correspondence from them. From Mutti, Lucy, Dad, Uncle Dione, The Aunt and a few other friends who didn't get to grow old. I carry them with me wherever I go and I can visit anytime I like. I don't. But I can.

The birds have just started their morning ritual of abuse and the odd car can be heard outside. It will be light soon on another crisp bright morning. He'll wake wanting coffee and we'll wrap ourselves up and head out for a walk so I can look at the trees and the river and he can say he's done his weekly exercise. We'll point out dogs we like the look of and talk about the someday when we can have one too. A dog called Atticus and a cat called Catticus. Then we'll have breakfast at our friends restaurant and decide what to do with our day off together. What to cook, what to watch. I'll call my mum, maybe see her for a cuppa. Text my sister and probably my niece. Email my brother. Confirm plans with friends. What an embarrassment of riches.

And I'll carry my loved ones with me, my moveable feast, and enjoy everything at least three times. And then three am will roll around again and I'll tell them all about it.

One Billboard Outside Palm Springs, California.

We were in Palm Springs for the wedding of my good friends David (Lips) Lipman and Stephen (no nickname) Donegan.

I wrote a blog about it but it just didn't do the thing justice. Largely because the whole three day wedding was so huge I ended up just straight 'reporting' it. Sort of like; “This happened and then THIS happened – and then, I shit you not – THIS HAPPENED.”

So I'm sat here at two am, having woken up with a body clock telling me it's around midday, thinking I should give this another punt.

I'm chewing Gaviscon because the one thing you always take home from America is indigestion, smoking my duty free fags and wearing slippers. I feel like Cinderella after the ball except no one has shown up with a glass slipper and returned me to the life I have so falsely become accustomed to.

In fact my Prince is happily snoring in the next room and will probably wake up at a completely reasonable hour wanting bacon.

When I told him we were going to California for an event that would make the Royal wedding look a bit shabby he ran around the house shouting “We're going to Palm Springs Baby!' and continued to do so regularly for the next six weeks. When we arrived he just dropped the “We're going to” part and shouted at anyone who'd make eye contact with him “PALM SPRINGS BABY!”

One of the many things I love about him is that he still genuinely feels excitement. Childlike glee. He lives in the moment whereas I always remain slightly outside of it, narrating in my head.

The flip side of this is that I can sit on an uncomfortable ten hour flight and think 'This is fine, it'll be over soon and I must remember to get some milk on the way home.' Whereas he will spend most of that time convinced that the man sat adjacent to us is sniffing every thirty seconds to deliberately ruin his life.

On the way out, about half way through our flight, he had to grab a stewardess to stop her accidentally killing a toddler. She was shoving her trolley down the aisle at speed and couldn't see the kid that had escaped from its mother running full pelt towards the metal death trap. He was rewarded with the woman screaming at the top of her lungs. He tried to explain what had happened but she just put her hands up and shouted 'Enough!' which was weird in itself, as though men regularly grabbed her and shouted 'Attencion!'

She stormed off and he was rightly furious and wanted to complain or at least explain what had happened. I insisted that he say nothing and we'd deal with it once we were off the plane. I could see our holiday starting with an arrest on arrival, so hysterical was the woman's reaction. Fortunately she returned ten minutes later and thanked him for, as she put it, 'helping her not accidentally hurt a child in the line of duty'. Okaaaaaay.

Our first priority when we arrived in Palm Springs was to find a bar where we could drink and smoke simultaneously. Finding places to smoke became a bit of a comedy theme during the week and by the end of the wedding celebrations there was a hardcore group of ten of us whispering about bushes we'd found and blind alleys. There's something hilarious and very British about being stood at an opulent cocktail party at the Ritz Carlton Mirage overlooking the desert mountains (that have the grooms initials projected on to them!) and having someone from London sidle up to you and mutter “I hear you're the people to talk to if you want to have a sneaky fag.”

Rom would give a subtle nod towards some dark corner. 'Give it a minute and follow me to the cactus on the left. Be cool man. BE COOL.'

If you ask me what Leonardo DiCaprio's house (where they had the ceremony) was like I could confidently tell you that there's a spot just in front of the tennis court and behind the pool house where you could smoke, in the cool shade, without being seen. In fairness we did create a water based ashtray with the help of Vigo (one of the other French chain smokers) for fear of burning the place down, and we cleared up all of our cigarette butts. We're not animals. Although I do like the image of DiCaprio pacing around on his property, learning lines, and spotting a Marlboro crushed out on the ground. It's not just a no smoking house you see. No, no, no, It's a no smoking NEIGHBOURHOOD. When, on arrival, we (me and Alex – a gorgeous tiny Croatian woman) tried to have a smoke out the front we were swooped on by security.

'Sorry ma'am this is no smoking environment. It's a fire risk you see.'

A fire risk? We're in the fucking desert! Wearing reflective glass out here is fire risk!

Anyway. Finding places you can smoke and drink simultaneously. Rom and I were directed to a bar in downtown Palm Springs called The Village Pub. Think of all the images 'Village Pub' conjures in your mind and then abandon them utterly. This place was a dive. A dirty, loud, rock music and low cut everything dive. And we LOVED it. It became our daily spot between extremely glamorous events and by the end of the week we were on fist bumping terms with the staff. It's also where I tried my first Michelada. A Bloody Mary with a bottle of beer poured in it and a spicy rim. Christine introduced me to it. I'll get back to Christine. Gods I love her.

Our hotel is just opposite the grooms hotel and the following morning we wander over to say hello, meet at least a dozen new people and have some drinks. The almost entirely perfect looking man at reception guides as to the lifts and tells us to have the best day. We stare at him slack jawed. He's so...perfect. He's gym fit, beautiful, immaculately dressed and looks like the happiest person on earth. I continue to stare until I find a tiny shaving nick on his neck assuring me he is human and we move on.

David and Stephen are staying in the suite on the 6^th floor and it is very fancy.

The glass walls show a panoramic view of the desert mountains. There's a white pool table, a vintage record player, all the furniture looks like art. The grooms themselves look happy and bewildered, exactly as you'd expect when all your family and friends descend on you at once.

I'm so happy to see them I keep kissing them. Rom loves them straight away, it's hard not to, and there's a lot of hugging and wows. Stephen whispers to me:

'I love Rom. You always know in five seconds if a person has a good heart, I just loved him right off.'

Which is how I feel about Stephen and David. Without becoming overly sentimental and mawkish about it, those boys have a good life, the best of everything, but what makes being around them so special is that its never about that. They share their lives with you wholeheartedly, they want you to enjoy every minute of your time and they go out of their way to make sure of it.

At least three people ask me upon introduction if I saw the billboard. I have no idea what they're talking about and David tells me they had one put up on the highway welcoming us to their wedding. Unfortunately by the time our driver made it through the commuter traffic it was dark and we missed it. But there were a lot more surprises to come over the following days. Big ones.

I ask where Christine is. I met her on my last visit and found her to be hilarious and a full six foot of fun. Largely booze related. She has possibly the coolest job as a mixologist who gets to travel the world showing people how to make a good drink.

'She's just doing a wine run,' David tells me. I assume she'll return with a couple of bottles of something to top up the bar but of course she returns with two porters and several trolleys full of beer, spirits, wine and ice. She asks them to bring up two fridges because ice is a ball ache and everything appears like magic. She turns to one of the porters:

'What's your name?'

'Igor.'

'Igor, you're killing it.'

She towers over everyone with her short bleached hair, purple lipstick and a laugh that sounds like gravel.

I go over and hug her delighted I'll be spending some time with her over the next few days.

Rom is wandering around the suite making a video to torture our friend Ollie in the UK with. He makes one a day and sends them to him.

“Hey buddy, just thought I'd share with you where we are right now...'

Ollie responds gracefully and never once tells him to just fuck off.

We meet a lot of the grooms family on both sides. Easy to tell apart because they all look alike. Stephen's family all have cheekbones you could cut your wrists on and David's all have his lips and eyes. There's some fantastic Boston accents and a few Australian. Apart from the core smokers whom we obviously spend large portions of our time with we also spend a good amount of time chatting to Kellie and Joe from Stephen's side. Joe and Rom talk about food and Kellie and I talk about creativity in schools and before long we have a solid invite to visit them in Boston.

We've also been invited to Goa to visit Vigo. She's French and lives out there working as a location scout. She's at the wedding with her friend Alex the glamorous and tiny Croatian woman. They are in the next hotel room to us and we become firm balcony friends.

I was telling Vigo, who's a young widow, that Rom is a nightmare in restaurants. He judges everything, questions everything, will tell the staff exactly what he thinks at the slightest provocation. She laughs and says Matt was the same.

'We'll be sat somewhere and he'll be rearranging the cutlery on the table, complaining about something. I'd just say “Oh shut up!”' She takes a drag on her cigarette. 'Of course, I miss it now.'

My heart contracts and I swear to myself I'll never complain about his nature again. Until we're in the next restaurant and he wants to know how they justify eight dollars for a beer.

On Friday Christine and I spend a few hours by the pool coming up with names for the cocktails she's made especially for the wedding.

I suggest she calls the non alcoholic one 'The Intervention.'

'Yah, that's one hundred percent hilarious and a hard no. Stephen would literally kill me.'

We come up with 'Stand By Your Tini' for her take on an Espresso Martini and 'The Doneman' (The grooms names blended) for the champagne cocktail.

Stephen texts back immediately:

'No. No to all of that.'

We sigh and come up with something a little more classy and are rewarded with a “Maybe.”

My plan before the welcome reception at the Ritz that evening is a siesta and a pre drink. She's having her nails done and getting the grooms initials tattooed on her hand.

'It feels right,' she drawls.

Everyone around the pool is wearing factor 70 because the sun is about two inches away. She's wearing a bikini, no protection at all and drinking hot coffee.

There's no bar at our hotel which we agree is probably a good thing or we'd be nipple deep in Pina Coladas by now. We grab a cold beer from the shop instead and laze about discussing the toasts we have yet to write for the post ceremony dinner tomorrow night and then she heads off. To get a fucking TATTOO.

When we arrive at The Ritz I'm as much distracted by the grandness of it all as I am by the facelifts. Not amongst the guests but just at the entrance. Some people staying there who are waiting for drivers. One elderly lady looks like a bulldog clip at the back of her head is holding her face on.

The drinks reception has been set up by an infinity pool overlooking the mountains. There are candles everywhere and beautiful little trays of food on various tables.

We mingle and chat and admire everything before settling in one of the open candle lit tents to eat soba noodles from take out cartons, and tiny sliders and pistachio crème brulee. Christine rocks up with four precariously balanced plates.

'It all looks so goooood,' she says.

Rom tells her the charcuterie is great.

'Wow I didn't see that.' She wanders off and returns with two more plates.

David and Stephen spend the evening trying to speak to everyone and I don't see them eat a bite. They've organised this incredible wedding and they are the most hard working people at it. They look happy though and we're all excited by the prospect of the wedding the following day.

By ten pm we're dead on our feet and head back to the hotel. But not until I've gone to the loo and discovered a tray of complimentary creams, combs, lip balm, all emblazoned with The Ritz logo. I take one of everything. I'm classy that way.

The wedding doesn't start until six pm but we are up at seven too excited to sleep.

We eat a huge breakfast at The Broken Yolk, down a couple of zantac and spend the day swimming and preparing.

Christine and I head to Mac to buy glittery eye shadow for me and yet another lipstick for her. I thought my twelve Mac lipsticks were impressive. This girl owns over sixty five. The sweet sales girl makes several suggestions and Christine gets excited about a gold lipstick.

'Yah,' the girl says. 'That one is sooo cute.'

'Uhuh,' Christine murmurs. 'I do not love that as much as I thought I would. Huh.'

The girls smile never slides off and in the end Christine finds something red and classy and something blue, holographic and very her.

The afternoon is spent doing hair, make up and climbing in to very fancy outfits. I see Rom in a suit for the first time and nearly propose to him. I'm pretty sure I see him wink at himself in the mirror at one point.

We drag Christine from her room with its expansive floordrobe (she is walking chaos). She looks like a felony. I get her to remove one of the gold chokers so we can see her neck and she's perfection. We head over to The Rowan for drinks before getting an Uber to the Leonardo DiCaprio estate.

The wedding theme is Black and White and everyone has gone to town. We all look and feel amazing and as we're handed champagne on arrival there is a palpable air of excitement and anticipation.

Rom makes his video of the day for Ollie:

'So, here we are at Leonardo's place...'

Ollie texts back 'Let's buy it.'

Everything is beautiful. I could go in to detail but just imagine the most fancy and beautiful wedding you've ever been to and then multiply that by a hundred.

I asked Christine earlier in the day if she was a cryer at weddings. She gave me a firm no on that. The moment she sees Stephen and David walk hand in hand across the lawn she starts bawling.

The ceremony takes place as the sun sets and it's lovely and very moving. I see Stephen rubbing his thumbs along his fingers and remember him mentioning it the night before:

'Apparently it puts you in the moment. I don't want to miss anything.'

Lovely words are spoken, music plays, candles are lit for absent loved ones, but for me its one tiny moment when Stephen lifts his hand and touches the side of David's face. I squeeze Rom's hand and tell Christine to stop fucking weeping.

We have another drink and everyone tries to hug the grooms. Rom points out that there's nowhere set up for the meal. We wonder if its hidden somewhere around a corner until we're suddenly ushered out and handed an envelope with our names on it. Inside is a table number and a penny.

We're guided on to buses and taken for a short five minute drive to the Palm Springs Museum.

This is a huge surprise for everyone and as we make our way up the candle lit steps to the entrance we're invited to throw our pennies in the fountain and make a wish.

Inside the place is mind blowing. There's huge garlands of white flowers under spotlights, giant silver candle holders on the tables and beautiful crystal glasses glinting in the light. A ten piece band is playing by the dance floor and champagne cocktails appear from every direction. A film starts up on one of the walls with David and Stephen in voice over. Footage of them in the dessert looking handsome and elegant. They talk about their love for each other and at the end we see them walking down some stairs. We turn to find them walking down some stairs next to the band and everyone applauds. They say a few words and finish with 'Let's Eat!'

After a fabulous meal the speeches start and Christine and I pound champagne in anticipation of going up to the mike.

By the time it's my turn, I'm last (thanks boys!) I'm not nervous at all and I have the best time telling stories about them and watching the crowd laugh. We all get huge rounds of applause and when it's done we decide we can now get drunk in earnest. Christine and I do tequila shots at the bar with some of the other girls followed by Stand By Your Tinis and lots of wine. People keep coming up to me and saying nice things about my speech and before long I'm jumping up and down on the spot on the dance floor. I vaguely remember tiny Alex shimmying over to me and saying:

'You belong to me now. I am going to stalk you. I lovvvvvvvve youuuuuuu.'

It was just that kind of night.

We eat some late night lobster mac n cheese and enjoy ALL the wedding desserts and stagger out around one with gift bags (A book of the museum and a donut, the significance of which made me well up) and fell in to our beds.

The following morning was a lot less pretty.

I find Vigo on the balcony smoking and looking grey.

'We don't remember getting back last night. I remember nothing. Did I make a fool of myself?'

'No idea,' we all agree.

Alex hugs and kisses me. 'You belong to me now,' she whispers.

It's Sunday and the wedding isn't over yet. Today is an all day pool party back at The DiCaprio place with unending cocktails and tacos. The perfect hangover cure.

I put on a shit tonne of glitter and red lipstick and once again drag Christine from her dungeon. Rom is feeling very perky having stuck to beer the night before.

We arrive to another scene of gorgeous indulgence. After a Bloody Mary and some large mimosas my hangover vanishes and the day passes in a haze of laughter, food, stories and swimming. With several trips to the smoke hideout. Nothing catches fire, all butts are removed and we do not destroy Stephen and David's lives by burning the estate to the ground.

I spend a good hour in the jacuzzi talking to Tracy from London, who makes animated films and is full of great stories. Rom wrestles with an inflatable swan and works his way through a bucket of corona.

And then its over and we head back to our hotels replete and determined to leave the grooms alone for five minutes so they can have some time together. They look happy and exhausted. Well, David does. Stephen says he's still golden and will probably collapse the minute its all over and everyone has gone home.

I say bye to Christine after breakfast the next day and wish I had more time with her but I know I'll see that one again. She's like a bad penny. Lots of goodbyes are said to new friends and promises are made to meet up wherever, whenever we can. I think David and Stephen would love to know that. They brought a lot of people together.

The last three days of our holiday are spent eating pizza, watching films in bed and strolling to our local dive for drinks and cigarettes.

We meet David and Stephen for one last drink at their hotel and thank them for everything. They have been incredible. I love them so much. So does Rom.

On the drive back to LAX we pass the billboard. Two grooms and a heart welcoming friends and family to their wedding in Palm Springs. A class act.

Du Pain, Du Vin, Du Allergic Reaction To The Sun.

We are on our annual holiday in France. I can call it our annual holiday now because this is the third consecutive year. It is our yearly pilgrimage to visit the mother of the Angry French Chef.

She lives in a picturesque village in Provence called Fontaine Du Vaucluse. There's rivers, trees, little bundles of lavender tied up with string, young virgins on old bicycles in cotton summer dresses with baguettes in baskets and a soon to be crushed Joie de vivre. It's that bit of France you've seen in every film concerning coming of age, long summer holidays and innocence lost to strange plinky plinky music.

It's also fucking hot.

The first week was just the three of us drinking cold beer and cheap rose, taking dips in the pool, reading throw away thrillers and having little bbq's. For the most part a very relaxing endeavour. Until I foolishly suggest we play some cards one night after dinner. They both shrug casually. Deceptively casually. It's Gin Rummy, what could possibly go wrong? Twenty minutes later I notice my hands are shaking as I deal another hand and pray that I lose. Neither of them have smiled since the first cards were dealt. I'm not sure either of them have blinked. La Mamon, who is normally a warm, affectionate and loving woman now looks like a professional card sharp and the Angry French Chef is squinting at her, looking for any tells, any crack in her stony facade. We play in utter silence. Years pass. I go to bed and stare at the ceiling.

The following morning we eat fresh croissant from the local bakery and chat about the food we're going to cook that day. It's casually suggested that perhaps, maybe, if anyone can be bothered, we might pick up the card game again after dinner. I keep my head down and bargain with any passing deity that might be listening. Let them forget. LET THEM FORGET.

By day three I have developed an allergy to the sun. I have a lovely tan and a bubbling blistering rash up both my arms that is hotter than hell and itchier than a bath of ants.

La Mamon lets me experiment with over the counter medication for about a week until she insists I let her take me to the doctor.

The doctors in France don't wear uniforms. They wear jeans. And converse. And trendy t-shirts. They have cool wire rimmed glasses and their office walls are covered in framed photographs of them on exotic holidays. He takes a brief look at my arms, nods and prescribes very strong antihistamines. He tells me to wear a hat, long sleeved clothing and avoid the sun for about two weeks. It's 36 fucking degrees in the shade. He says it's okay to swim as long as I remain at least a foot under the water. So presumably I need to grow gills.

I decide to take the pills and mostly ignore the advice but every time I lounge in the sun with a book La Mamon appears out of thin air and throws a damp towel over me.

In addition to this we are both the new hot spot in town for mosquitoes who arrive in large groups with tiny napkins wrapped around their evil necks. Or whatever passes for a neck in the form of pure hatred. We're sort of used to that though and pass the cortisone back and forth with minimal griping.

Two of our friends, Mr and Mrs S, join us for the second week of the holiday and within ten minutes we're enjoying cocktails by the pool. We're excited to have them here and I secretly hope the mosquitoes will enjoy a new source of food and leave me and Angry alone for one sweet minute.

Mr S is in his absolute element. Two of his favourite things in life are fine wines and cheese and of course both are abundant here. Mrs S has a dip in the pool and gurgles with laughter as she tries to teach Mr S an exercise involving a noodle. She then lies in the garden as the sun dries her un-blistered skin. I sit in the shadows smoking a cigarette and slap away another mosquito that has settled on my neck.

Sunday brings the World Cup Final and there is an air of nervous anticipation from the moment we wake up. La Mamon has arranged a party for the viewing. The first to arrive is her neighbour, Nicole, who is around seventy and sporting a France T-Shirt, a comedy hat, red white and blue sunglasses and the French flag. She is beyond excited and shouting “Allez les Bleus!” before she's even through the door. Within half an hour there's thirteen of us. Everyone is facing the TV except me. I'm facing a bottle of prosecco and liberally adding limoncello. When they all stood for the national anthem I knew they had to win. The alternative was unthinkable and terrifying.

Two hours later a giant speaker has appeared from somewhere and people are dancing in the garden, arms linked, heads thrown back with joy. Raymond (a man built like a brick shit house) is naked in the pool swinging his pants around his head. Homemade liquor appears, cherries soaked in something toxic also and before long it's riotous. The last thing I see as I drag myself up the stairs is La Mamon wrapped in a yellow sarong, hands in the air shimmying across the garden, her glass of rose spilling in to the grass.

The next day is a quiet one. Everyone moves slowly with muttered groans. Mr S has maybe the worst of it. The last to bed and the recipient of many whiskey top ups he stares in to space and I can hear him blink.

My niece La Dude joins us the following morning from Toulouse where she now lives. Knowing she likes the rougher booze I ply her with Papa Doble's that contain large measures of a terrible white rum we've bought called 'Old Nick'. And rightly so. Only Satan and my niece could enjoy that immediate and unceasing burn.

The evening is spent peeling gallons of prawns cooked by The French on the plancha in the garden. All of the women are in bed by midnight (La Dude face down on the sofa with a mirror by her mouth) and the boys stay up till 4am talking about whatever it is men talk about in the early hours and drinking anything cold.

Since then I've cooked a giant Paella in the garden with the help of La Dude and Mrs S and afterwards we played a ridiculous mime game called Heads Up. During one memorable round Mrs S had to guess the word we were all frantically miming. The word was 'Tourist' and so we all kept pointing at ourselves. She called out 'FRIENDS!' and everyone paused and collectively sighed at the loveliness of it.

Today we kayaked down a gorgeous river and marvelled at indigo coloured dragonflies all around us. Afterwards we walked through a stream to get to a bar that served icy cold Vedett.

We are all now so relaxed we can barely acknowledge each other. Some are lazing in the pool, some napping, some reading and I'm doing this though I can hardly be bothered to finish this  damn sente...

The Round Robin

Dear (INSERT NAME HERE)

Well another year has rolled around and we haven't managed to catch up face to face. But be assured I miss you terribly (INSERT NAME HERE)!

I talk about you often dear (INSERT NAME HERE) and have such fond memories of our time in (INSERT PLACE/RESTAURANT/CULT/ DEPROGRAMMING UNIT/ CULT SUPPORT GROUP HERE).

If we'd had kids I'm sure little (INSERT NAME HERE) would be doing marvellously at his Montessori school and looking forward to all the gifts Satan will be bringing him for christmas.

And had I finished 'that' novel I've been tiredly working on for two decades then I imagine this letter would be a lot shorter and considerably less humble.

But life being what it is – a long inexorable march toward death, the terror thereof ameliorated by alcohol, shiny bargains and life hacking TED talks that convince us we matter – 2017 was sadly not the year that I became a success. Or in many ways, a grown up.

The tree is up! Imagine our delight when we woke in the morning to find it potted and bedecked with baubles. We almost believed in Father Christmas for a moment until we followed the trail of our visa receipts and realised that we had in fact put the damn thing up ourselves. Who knew that off licenses sold decorations? Not I. And once we'd wiped the blood off the ornaments they certainly did glitter with all the promise of a turd wrapped in tinsel.

I suppose a small re-cap of the year is in order so I'll do my best to lift something from the addled fog of sleep deprivation that was the past 11 months.

January brought an all inclusive trip to Mexico and the mere sight of a lime can evoke the heartburn and indigestion that prevailed.

We returned just in time to catch the beginning of a new sitcom in which a narcissist with the IQ of a spoon became president of the United States. We laughed and laughed until the tears ran down our faces. They haven't stopped.

By March everyone in the UK with an accent was proposing to their English partners and quicker than you could say 'Brexit' the invites were pouring through the door. Of course a lot of people had quite a difficult time finding venues that could host their big day what with all the staff being either on the guest list or getting hitched.

I have absolutely no recollection of April or May but judging from the tattoo on my back I can only assume that this is a blessing.

June fluttered in with all the promise of a summer that would never come but we removed three layers anyway huddled around the aga.

That's a lie. I should have an aga by now but I don't. I refer you to the unfinished novel.

We skipped through July aided by industrial strength ibuprofen and a can do attitude and skidded to a halt in August for a long conversation about all the BBQ's and picnics we were going to have. And never did.

In September I went to the gym, enjoyed their power shower and a pep talk before leaving and never returning.

With October came the rustle of fallen leaves, fallen loved ones and fallen standards.

With a new found determination I opened the fridge, pushed aside the weight watchers 1 point loaf and reached for the cheese. I wrapped it in chocolate and enjoyed it with eight pouches of Virginia Bright and a vitamin C tablet dissolved in gin.

In November I wrote half a book, deleted it and played scrabble online with a woman in New Delhi who had a broader vocabulary than I. Me. I.

Which brings us to today.

As I sit here, a metaphorical pizza in a gluten free dairy intolerant world, and think of you dear dear (INSERT NAME HERE). I wonder what lessons I can take from this last year and what if any wisdom I can impart.

The answer at first glance appears to be 'fuck all.' But I'm going to just keep typing and see what emerges.

If your 2017 has been good to you then pay it forward it 2018 and make someone else's next year one to celebrate.

If your 2017 has been shit don't come moaning to me about it, I've got enough on my plate.

If you're full of fear and trepidation about what's to come, don't panic, we all are.

If you're confident that everything is going to be okay, you're probably ill informed or haven't read the small print.

If I can wish anything for you in the coming year then it's what I wish for myself: Good health, good love and good times. Moments of real happiness that cannot be expressed on social media because they rest in your heart and not in your humble brags. A sense of truly moving forward, always striving to attain the things you want without forgetting to be present because as the cliché goes, it's the road that counts and not the perceived Eden at the end, the chasing of which will always be more than the attainment.

We too often take a picture of a tree or a sunset and post it because we want the world to think we find it beautiful and be validated as the sort of person who appreciates the gorgeous vicissitudes of nature. Don't take a picture. Just look at the fucking tree. It'll be boring at first but with practise and time we might all become the people we'd much rather be.

Always tip your server, and do so in cash. Try to be kind even when you want to rip someone's lungs out for being a complete mouth breather.

Unless you have a genuine life threatening food intolerance, shut the fuck up and eat what is put in front of you.

Take dance lessons.

Learn an instrument too late in life.

Use the words 'Omnishambles', 'Clusterfuck' and 'Brouhaha' (It's time they made a come back)

Write a letter.

Write a book.

Kill your darlings when you do.

Have a wonderful time of it all because we're not here for all that long and we are terribly lucky to be here at all.

Try not to be a cunt.

And take comfort dear, dear (INSERT NAME HERE) that you are nothing. You are barely an idea in a huge canvas of much more important things than you and the universe doesn't give a toss about you. There's a freedom in really knowing that. It makes you feel special.

I love you. Stay golden. Let's not leave it so long this time.

Love,

(INSERT NAME HERE) Xx

Churros and Adios.

I'm innocently floating around the pool reading a book when I hear an American woman to my right screech;

'Oh my gosh! You're in the water with, like, paper!'

'Oh my GOD!' I screech back. 'You've brought your own drinking tankard to a free bar!'

I then stare mutely at her until she turns away and continue my paddle.

For every ten absolutely delightful people you meet there's always a universe balancing arsehole. The French and I made an agreement early on that whenever we witnessed somebody being shockingly awful we wouldn't get wound up but instead would stop what we were doing and give them a slow applause.

The people who dictate what they want and never say please or thank you. The people who never tip. That's the worst offence really. The logic being that its an all-inclusive and so tips are included in that. Surely! Am I right?! NO you're not fucking right.

Gilberto, one of the waiters who hasn't had a day off since we've been here and is always 100% on the ball, tells us (we ask, he doesn't offer the information freely) that he earns 76 pesos an hour. That's just over three quid. So when you see someone clicking their fingers or kicking up a fuss about something so puerile it makes your eyeballs sweat its hard not to physically attack them. For the most part its the English and the Americans who are guilty of this. The only people that are never ever rude and tip just because someone smiled at them are of course the Canadians.

I have never met a Canadian I didn't like. They learn all the waiters names too.

And my obsession with visiting Canada is just growing and growing. The fact that we flew over Canada to get here makes me feel a bit bilious. I came so close and yet still no cigar. I've spoken to quite a few of them in passing here and pretty much all of them have invited me to stay at theirs. Or recommended a great place where the trees are tall and the lakes wide. We went out to Bucerias for dinner again the other night and met a group of Canadians who were sat at the next table. Over the balcony there were lots of locals dancing away to some live music being played in the square.

Lisa is there with her husband and two other couples. She recommends a restaurant for us and suggests we come back on Saturday afternoon for a live music party on the beach.

'It's kinda the local happy hour between 3 and 6pm, lots of dancing, its fun.'

'Do you live here?' I ask.

'No, we just holiday here in the winter for 4 or 5 months.'

FOUR OR FIVE MONTHS!?

She kisses her husband, gets up and starts shimmying toward the street.

'Hey you wanna come dance?'

'Oh that's so kind but I'm afraid I'm British.'

She sashays off to the rhythm and I wonder once again what it must be like to be rich.

We've met a fair few people here who are on semi permanent holidays.

One elderly Canadian couple at dinner last night told us they were here just for a week on the back of a month in Fiji and before that New Zealand for two months.

'We couldn't face going back to the weather in Canada just yet.'

Uhuh.

The French and I are very good at picking up languages and within a week of being anywhere can pretty much communicate with anyone. Where the French excels though is his ability to seemingly soak up the essence of a country. He not only speaks to everyone in Spanish, he does so with his whole body and makes everyone around him feel like he's a local and their long lost friend. He SOUNDS Mexican. I watch men swarm around him, changing his ashtray, making sure his drink is never empty and somehow discussing Arsenal with him. They see him coming and his drink is poured before he gets there. He hugs them all, asks them how that thing went the other day that they were talking about and how are the three kids etc. His achilles heel however is accents. He has a complete tin ear for them and its hilarious. He comes back from the bar and tells me he's just overheard some French Canadians and the way they speak is bizarre. I mooch over to eavesdrop and discover they are in fact from Birmingham.

Another prize winning occasion:

'So where in Scotland are you from?' He asks.

'Dublin.'

He's been eyeing the jet ski's since we got here.

'I went on one in Acapulco a few years ago. It was awesome.'

'Go on one then.'

'No, no, no. I'd rather spend the money on restaurants.'

'Okay.'

A day later I find him watching the jet ski's yearningly.

'It's really cool if you stay on top of the waves...'

'Go on one then.'

'No no no. It'll be super expensive.'

Yet another day later I watch as he smokes a cigar whilst his eyes never leave the jet ski's skimming across the ocean.

'For the love of Christ just go book one!'

He strolls indifferently over to the hombres in charge of the jet ski's and starts chatting. He returns 5 minutes later having made blood brothers of them all.

'I got them down to thirty quid for half an hour. For both of us.'

The following day I get on my jet ski and think 'Yay! I'm saying YES to life!' And almost immediately regret it. Its the turning I found problematic. Anyway, The French satisfied his need for speed and I survived so it's another thing ticked off a bucket list I never wrote.

Body boarding was a lot more fun for me. I felt like I was 8 again, catching the back of a wave and shooting towards the shore.

There have been lots of highlights but the local fiesta two nights ago was one of the best moments, not least for the fresh churros that were so delicious I gave the woman a rose to thank her (I also paid for the churros...obviously). The reason I had roses in the first place was because a couple sat at the next table to us in a bar bought them for us. Just because. They were, of course, Canadian. And yes, they have invited us to British Columbia for a vacation and some fishing on the lake.

I've promised myself a trip to Canada if I ever get published. The French says 'when' not 'if'.

I find a booze stand offering a cocktail called 'Adios Mother Fucker' and ask the woman what's in it.

'Is Tequila, gin, ron, vodka and just tiny bit pineapple.'

I settle for a margarita.

We eat at a stand and pay less than you would for a pint in the UK. We watch huge fireworks which are set off in the middle of the square by a bloke with a fag dangling out of his mouth. There's no barrier, no health and safety. If you're stupid enough to stand too close you're probably asking for it. 

The holiday is over and we have to vacate the room in about thirty minutes. We haven't even packed yet. But we're ready to go home. We've had a ball, enjoyed it all. We now know we're not all-inclusive kind of people and won't do it again. But it was just what we needed this time round. The French is getting wound up by other holiday makers having the audacity to breathe near him. We're both done. We'll endure the 11 hour flight back, find a train and collapse in to the flat for a few hours kip before dinner at my mum's. I love travelling. I'd love someone to pay me to go places and write this stupid blog. The only thing better than travelling is probably coming home. See you soon Xx

Pepto-Abysmal And Gyrating Raoul

Every day around noon Raoul, one of the swarthier members of the 'entertainment' staff can be found strutting around the sun loungers charming the ladies in to an aerobics session with him in the pool.

'Come on Signoritas! You's gotta work off the alcohol si!'

Gold rimmed shades, ponytail and snake hipped he sexually insinuates himself through a wall of liver spotted cleavages and plastic sun visors.

Sure enough ten minutes later the pool is a blanket of giggling American housewives staring adoringly at Raoul who stands on the side thrusting his groin in a slow circular motion and telling the ladies to follow suit.

The French looks up from his reading and mutters; 'Fucking Raoul.'

In the evening we're having some cocktails before dinner and discussing the much anticipated performance of the “Mexican Michael Jackson.” I never really understood the appeal of the actual Michael Jackson but I do find the world of imitators weirdly intriguing. The French however is uncharacteristically keen and is practising his moon walk in the middle of the plaza with a drink in one hand and his hat tilted Jackson style. I wave my glass at one of the staff and beg for another drink.

The build up is impressive. There's a big light show and a massive projection of Jackson's (Liz Taylor phase) eyes. Six dancers appear and start throwing shapes and even the table of drunken Scots (same table every day from 10am till 11pm) briefly look up from their drinks and make a collective noise which could be a heckle or some kind of approval. Finally Mexican Michael arrives in Thriller mode. He gyrates wildly, makes that squeaky noise and grabs his groin. The French grins, then frowns and finally squints.

'It's fucking Raoul.'

'Surely not.'

'I'm telling you – That. Is. Fucking. Raoul!'

I take a closer look at the groin rotation. It could definitely be Raoul.

He does all the big numbers, 11 costume changes and finishes with a dramatic 'It's your fault I'm dead' kind of blackout. The crowd goes wild.

A couple of hours later there's a conga line working its way around the fountain and yes, Raoul is leading it. The man's an animal.

When we arrived The French was pretty ill with a bad cold. He has since recovered and passed the baton to me. Our room is littered with half bottles of Vicks 44 expectorant, Tylenol, Ibruprofen and now Pepto-Bismal which I picked up yesterday at a Farmacia in Puerto Vallarta. The constant diet of chilli, lime and Amaretto Sours/Margaritas means heartburn is unavoidable. The woman in the shop gives me a quick appraisal and discreetly hands me a list of under the counter drugs available. Tramadol, Vicodin, HGH...the list is impressive. I start to enquire about the cost of the diet pills but The French grabs me and pushes me firmly out of the door.

I catch my reflection as I walk past the mirror. Cocktail in one hand, Pepto-Abysmal in the other. I pop an ibroprufon and a tylonel and wash them down with swig of pepto.

Admittedly I look like shit and I have a pretty bad cold but I'm on holiday and no one can take that away from me.

It's 30 degrees and the French can't take a step without breaking a sweat. My hair has reacted to the humidity and is eight times its original size. The French occasionally pretends its become sentient and says he can see a pulse. The novelty of constant alcohol has worn off but we're still very much working on the premise that if you're not sure what you fancy there really is no bad time for a Bloody Mary. We have located the one man in the hotel who knows how to make a decent coffee. He works in the 24 hour sports bar and every morning we shuffle in there with the other 6 people who have discovered him, request a hit, and give the obligatory half laugh when he suggests a shot of tequila in it.

Being constantly looked after and having to do absolutely nothing for yourself except wash is very seductive but also creates an inertia that makes you feel like having a nap every twenty minutes. To counteract this we've been making little trips outside of our cottonwool wrapped world, the first of which was to Bucerias.

The taxi dropped us off at the edge of a flea market. It looks like a shanty town and from the moment you step out of the car you're assaulted by dozens of people holding up bits of jewellery, rugs, skull mugs. One stand has gimp style superhero masks. The French points at the Dead Pool one and says he needs it.

'Take it mi amigo,' the man says. 'Make all your fantasies come true.'

Another big guy nods at us, 'Come see my cheap shit.' I don't think his heart is in it.

It's a bit overwhelming. You want to be polite and say “no thanks” to everyone but in the end we just push our way through the crowd and stop responding. We find a restaurant that's been recommended to us. Miguel Angel is a cool little Mexican place with parrots hopping around everywhere and palm leaves for a roof. Miguel himself is charm personified. He looks like Charles Bronson and The French calls him that for the rest of our visit.

'You like football?' Miguel asks.

'Of course.'

'Who's your team?'

'Arsenal.'

'I got a sports bar upstairs, they playing right now.'

There's a small cloud of dust where the French once stood. Born lucky. I follow up the stairs and there it is, a hug sports bar with the game playing and various men staring fixedly at the screen whilst some disenchanted women shovel tortilla.

A smiling man brings a bucket full of ice within which are nestled five bottles of corona and a dish of lime.

'400 pesos amigo.'

The French is about to distractedly hand over the money and then does the math.

'400?! That's more than 20 pounds. For five beers??'

The man smiles nervously.

'Five buckets, amigo.'

'What the fuck do I want with 25 beers?!'

'Okay, 100 pesos for one bucket.'

He's tried it on, not succeeded and there's a slightly tense feeling in the air. Luckily the outraged French is an affable sort and merely gives him a friendly slap on the back which nearly floors the tiny chap.

'That's more like it!'

He watches the game and I watch the room. Everything is so colourful here.

His team wins and we head downstairs to eat. It's shady and lovely and the waiter brings me a bucket of passionfruit Margaritas. We eat fish tacos and giant fried prawns with the obligatory nachos and dip. There's an old boy playing a keyboard and singing in the corner. He starts 'What a wonderful world' and its just perfection. A small boy comes in and tries to sell us handmade bracelets with little dream catchers on them. He wants 100 pesos (about five quid). They're hideous but he's a pro and whilst the French tries to haggle him down to 50 pesos the kid refuses to make eye contact and insists on at least 70. We buy the damn thing and I'm forced to wear it. He's the first of about 60 people trying to sell us stuff. I wonder if there's a kind soul somewhere with a room full of sombrero's, rugs, dolphin wind chimes, marble face ornaments, skull head mugs, grains of rice with their name on it, cuban cigars...actually we did buy a box of cuban cigars but turned down the weed that was offered with it.

The second trip is to Puerto Vallarta where we find a colonial style shack on the beach called The Red Lobster. The food is fantastic and we just sit there for hours eating, drinking, laughing and politely refusing to buy a million things.

The third trip we've been looking forward to all week. We are headed to the 'Rhythms of the night' event at a little cove some miles away. We travel there by boat which takes about an hour and a half and involves a glorious sunset and a lot of rum punch. The team on the boat led by Julio are hilarious. They throw alcohol at you, play music and do little skits to keep you amused. There are about 40 of us and everyone is in high spirits. A man called Tom and his friend recreate the Titanic pose at the front of the boat, people are dancing and laughing. A hush descends as the sun sets and before long we are approaching the Las Caletas cove which is entirely lit by candles and flaming torches. It's a jungle and as we get nearer we spot a mermaid waving from the rocks. A girl dressed as an eagle perched in one of the trees. The water around the boat is clear and thousands of fish are shimmying in the light. We dock and start making our way up a candle lit path. Part of a tree unfolds and smiles at us, something that looks like a cross between a goat and a god plays a lute and a half naked man painted to look like a deer struts around on the rocks and watches us suspiciously. It's completely immersive theatre and not what I'd expected at all. We'd been told the show was influenced by Cirque du Soleil which I liked and not dissimilar to The Lion King which I fucking hate. When we reached the clearing the layout was much like an Ampitheatre with steep wooden stairs at one end leading up to a large skull surrounded by fire.

'It looks like a sacrificial alter,' I whisper.

'I hope it is,' The French says, looking pointedly at a woman just behind us who hasn't stopped narrating every moment since she got off the boat.

The show starts with a very entertaining Master Of Ceremonies who walks through the audience making guttural tribal noises before saying terribly politely “That means, excuse me please, I need to get through”. The performance lasts the perfect amount of time (40 minutes) and there's a giant butterfly in a tree playing a violin, a colourful bird woman on a wire zooming around overhead, giant stilt walking tree men, monkeys doing insane balancing acts using only one arm, fire juggling and dancing. The French keeps staring at the Deer man suspiciously.

“It's fucking Raoul. I'm certain of it.”

I have absolutely no idea what the plot is or why the deer gets killed and comes back as a dancing man but The French assures me its all about the connectedness of everything in nature and everything serving a purpose. I'm fine with that.

Afterwards we are taken to our table for two by the edge of the sea and served booze and food by candlelight whilst a man plays a harp for us. It's all ridiculously romantic and I can't help but think about the level of organisation it takes to make this many people feel so personally cared for. The beach to our left has been hung with dozens of cream hammocks and its an absolute scream watching couples trying to climb in to them gracefully for a kodak moment under the stars. One big chap looks utterly defeated before he's even begun but his girlfriend is bloody determined and so he folds himself on to an edge and braces himself with one foot in the sea for what looks to be ten minutes of absolute terror.

A bell rings and its time to head back. The journey is broken up by the crew dressing up as Kiss and performing for us. No, really. A Liverpudlian chap comes up to me and nods towards The French.

'Is that big lad with the hat your fella?'

'Why?'

'He had me and my girlfriend in bits all the way out on the boat. He was having a dance and rolling a fag at the same time whilst everyone else was holding on to the rails for dear life.'

'Yup. That's my one.'

Mexico And The Scooby Snacks

A tiny Mexican woman hands me a pair of paper knickers the size of a tea bag and tells me to pop them on and 'jump' on to the massage table.

There seems to be a recurring theme of holidays and humiliating massage experiences for me.

'Um, I don't think these will fit me. I'm carrying a little extra weight...'

She grins.

'Ah, yes, Navidad – Christmas, si?'

'Yes, exactly. Approximately 42 years worth.'

'Is okay. Put them on. Stretchy.'

They are not stretchy enough. I contort myself in to part of them and hobble towards the table. I try to pull the sheet modestly over myself and roll on to my stomach. She whips it off.

'No, no. Sitting up please on edge.'

I surrender to the horror and haul myself up all the time thinking of that episode of Jerry Springer when they telecast a hugely obese man (basically a blanket of skin with eyes) in to the studio from his trailer - “Help me Jerry, I don't wanna die.” They cut him out of that trailer. My problems are comparatively small. I just need to stop drinking 14 cocktails a day and get back to my running regime and all will be well. As I'm thinking this the tiny Mexican woman rubs my entire body with exfoliating stuff and points at a shower.

'With the pants?'

'Yes.'

'Okay.'

All of this takes place with one lit candle and an acoustic arrangement of 'I will always love you' serenading us.

After this everything gets a lot better. She's small but she is fierce and the one hour deep tissue massage is painful and relaxing at the same time. Throughout the whole thing I have a towel over my eyes. She whispers 'terminado' and I hear her leave. A few moments later another woman comes in and starts trying to scrape the despair from my face. I assume its another woman, I still can't see a thing, so unless the first one has popped out for a costume change and is now posing next to me in a wetsuit taking selfies with me beached next to her with a fin stuck on my head...I try not to dwell.

The facial is really good. I know this because I am woken several times by my own snoring.

I pay cash, put my sun glasses on and leave with my head bowed.

We've been in Mexico for three days and once I'd managed to unfold the furious French from his economy sized chair after an 11 hour flight we both started having a lot of fun. He's a giant in the UK so over here, where the average hight is about 5 foot 2 he looks like a building.

It's hard to get your head around an all inclusive resort. I keep wanting to say 'I can have this too? For free??' I was worried it would be like some awful package thing with mandatory games and English breakfasts. But as The French pointed out, 'It's a five star resort, shut up.' As someone with absolutely no self control, accompanied by someone with very little self control, the notion of free alcohol 24/7 was a curious one. I found I have been able to avoid a hangover by drinking fairly steadily from breakfast onwards. There are four optics in the bedroom, Champagne and Bloody Mary's with breakfast, cocktails are delivered to your sun lounger, there's a bar in the pool and every time you think 'Steady on there, probably time for a coffee' a nice smiling person appears at your elbow and refills your glass. Horrific.

Some jolly young Canadian girls introduced us to 'Scooby Snacks' last night. A 50ml shot of vodka, melon liquor and something else I can't put my finger on. They are radiation green and it isn't until your sixth that you start to feel a burning in your chest. And as the young Canadians pointed out 'They don't even taste like alcohol! It's awesome.' I spotted them a couple of hours later cavorting maniacally around two waiters who stood there grinning and trying not to recoil as they gyrated and screeched in some tribal mating ritual. I saw them again at breakfast this morning. The French told them they were evil and they grinned.

'Y'all have a good day! Try the Banana Bamba today, it doesn't even taste like alc-'

'Fuck right off!'

There are very few kids here which is nice as we are the sort of awful people who don't enjoy the sound of children's laughter. But there's this one little person. Very small. Almost staggering around on wobbly legs age. What is that age? Anyway, she's beautiful. Mesmerising. She has eyes like black marbles and thick shiny black hair that curls around her cheeks and wherever the music is playing she is struggling towards it on tiny drunken legs like a little dark angel. I don't know if its the last gasp of an unused womb or just that she is the most precious little thing but every time I see her I just stop and stare. Her dad is now on nervous nodding terms with me.

The French has found the hat. The hat that completes him as a person. It's one of those 'man from Del Monte' hats. Makes him look some colonial fellow in an Agatha Christie. The staff call him Papi and he's really just missing the cigar to complete the look. Luckily there is a vast armoury of cuban cigars on offer so its really only a matter of time. I beat him at pool yesterday. He's still raging about it.

It's luxurious here, lots of marble and palms and a golden beach that we've only visited at night when it was empty and we could float on our backs and look at all the stars in the sky. The whole place is in the Art Deco style and amongst the frondy plants there are Tamara de Lempicka copies and walls full of Klimt. It's all very nice and very seductive and apart from the staff and the tacos you'd never know what country you were in. We quite like knowing what country we're in so this afternoon we're breaking out of the compound and visiting Bucerias, a town nearby with a flea market and a highly recommended seafood restaurant on the beach and on Tuesday we're taking a speedboat to a little island for the 'Rhythm of the night' party. The tiny beach lit by 3000 candles and there's fire juggling and music and a meal. I'm really excited about that. Despite the fact that I will unquestionably get eaten alive by mosquitoes. I managed to go two days without getting bitten and the moment I bought the “OFF!” repellant and sprayed it on they found me.

Our rep is from The Wirrall and her name is Julia Roberts. I shit you not. I've started calling her Erin Brokovich which she finds hilarious in a professional can't punch me in the face sort of way.

Everything is lovely and wonderful. Except the coffee. The coffee is fucking awful.