However, Wedge Boy was obviously still too drunk to put up much of a fight and with a loud, defeated harrumph, he let go of the towel and collapsed back into the chair comatose. With the tension in the tug-o-war suddenly released, Gordy was sent reeling and very nearly trod on Geordie Girl’s naked friend as he staggered backwards.
Nevertheless, clutching his shorts and towel triumphantly he tip-toed tentatively through the tipsy trail and headed for the door, snatching up his newly purchased black Ray-Bans en-route (which one of the Manchester lads was wearing upside down as if having fallen asleep mid Dennis Taylor impression).
Five minutes later Gordy was out by the pool. The sun was up but it was still early - he’d even beaten the German’s to the sun beds which, quite remarkably, were still towel free.
Gordy selected the warmest spot on the deck and laid Barb’s Madeira beach towel on his chosen bed before running off to the poolside toilets to slip into his swim shorts.
When he came back, and with his head still pounding, he stretched out luxuriously on the sun bed, slid his Ray-Bans on and promptly fell into a deep, worn out sleep under the lovely, comforting warmth of the Majorcan morning sun. Now that was how holidays should be.
***
After a lovely, long, revitalising nap, Gordy awoke sometime after lunch and was immediately aware that people were staring at him, but didn’t know for the life of him why.
Then he tried to move and an intense burst of pain shot through him.
His whole body felt as though it had been stung by a giant wasp and was incredibly sore.
He looked down at himself and instead of seeing the white, unblemished flesh of a few hours earlier, he was horrified to see that his delicate pale skin had turned a livid, very angry looking bright red. His chest and stomach as well as the front of his arms, the backs of his hands along with his knees, shins and feet, were all burnt crimson and smarting painfully.
Very gently and agonisingly slowly, Gordy peeled himself off the sun bed and carefully stood up. His skin was excruciatingly tight, as if it had shrunk in the wash and was now two sizes too small. He could hardly move with the stiffness of his limbs but somehow, with concerned people whispering about him as he passed, he managed to hobble back to the room - using the lift rather than the stairs, as that would require him to bend his legs causing unimaginable agony.
As Gordy turned the door knob he prayed that the room was now empty and thankfully it was. All last night’s revellers had apparently vacated and gone back to wherever they had come from - no doubt hoofed out by the poor, long-suffering Spanish maid who had the unenviable task of cleaning up after The Desert Rats and their debauched ‘guests’. But she had done an excellent job as there was not a bottle, beer can or cigarette butt to be seen anywhere - the room even smelt fresh and not like the fusty, farty, faggy fog of earlier which had been fearsomely offensive and if bottled could have been used as a toxic gas.
Even Bangers and Bubble, who Gordy was sharing with, had miraculously vanished, which was most unusual considering the sun was still up - indeed, Gordy was beginning to wonder if they were vampires such was their active avoidance of daylight.
Nonetheless, he had the room all to himself and as he staggered stiffly in he was grateful for that small mercy at least.
For the second time that day, Gordy studied himself in the large mirror hanging on the wall and was, again, horrified by what he saw.
He was bright scarlet from head to foot - which appeared bad enough with his sunglasses on, but when he took them off he positively glowed which was really quite shocking and reminded him of the Ready Brek ads on the telly which prompted viewers to ‘get up and glow’.
The only unscorched area still remaining was a very startling, very Ray-Ban shaped patch around the eyes which looked like a white skin version of The Lone Ranger’s mask, which at seven would have been great but at twenty-two looked utterly ridiculous.
Gordy would have laughed had it not happened to him or if it didn’t hurt so bloody much to form any kind of facial expression.
However, blazing away like the real-life version of The Human Torch, Gordy ran an ice cold bath and eased himself into it, fearing that the volcanic heat of his body might cause the water to boil, but fortunately it didn’t.
Nonetheless, as he lowered himself carefully into the tub, the relief was instant.
Once in, Gordy lay there, with his angry skin submerged and soaking in the soothing water, for what must have been hours. He fell into yet another deep sleep and only awoke sometime later when Bangers and Bubble returned.
When their laughter finally abated and they had finished taking photos of Gordy’s unfortunate, yet hilarious predicament they helped him clamber painfully out of the bath and watched as he dabbed himself dry with a towel. Already his skin was peeling and large strips of it came away at the merest touch to give him a snake-like appearance. It was hideous and both Bangers and Bubble grimaced with delighted horror as they watched Gordy’s self-inflicted plight.
However, not even third degree burns could keep them off the beer and soon they were dressing in their Desert Rats shorts and T-shirt combos for the final night on the town.
Gordy tried to protest that he felt too sore and that his skin was too tight to go anywhere but Bangers and Bubble, who were not particularly the type to argue with, would hear none of it.
So, lathered up in a whole tub of cold cream, again supplied courtesy of Avon, which Barb had the forethought to pack along with the Piriton, just in case of this very eventuality, Gordy, too, put on his disgusting Desert Rats ensemble and very reluctantly hit the bright lights of Magaluf for the last time.
Which was about the only good thing Gordy could draw from the whole sorry exercise.
Little did he know that Majorca had yet another maliciously mischievous manoeuvre up it’s mad Mediterranean sleeve.
***
That night, Gordy looked the furthest from cool than he ever had in his whole life.
Dressed in the hideously gaudy ‘Desert Rat’ uniform and emitting a Ready Brek glow, he traipsed from bar to bar and from disco pub to disco pub noticing no discernible difference - both varieties played loud, banging music, were packed with half dressed drunkards and barely had a flushing toilet to share between them - which Gordy had unhappily discovered due to an unfortunate and most persistent attack of the squitters. Indeed, by midnight, he felt eminently qualified to write a travelogue on the Best Bogs of the Balearics - although it would be a rather thin volume because there were apparently very few, as he found out to the cost of his favourite pair of underpants - which he’d been forced to use in the absence of any loo paper.
In addition to the trots, Gordy’s whole body ached and his head was throbbing more severely now than it had all day which made him think that he might have a spot of sunstroke.
That combined with the barely cooked burger he’d eaten in a futile attempt to settle his upset stomach and the vast quantity of alcohol he had consumed thanks to Bangers, Bubble and the gang who kept lining drinks up in front of him - all made for an extremely dangerous cocktail which was certain to end in disaster.
Around 2am, Gordy was feeling extremely unwell and had a very sickly feeling churning in his stomach (not to mention an arse like a brutally buggered baboon thanks to his regular trips to the lavvie), but instead of taking a cab back to the hotel as he knew he should, he was persuaded to go for ‘one more bevy’ as it was the last night of the holiday. So, much against his better judgement and the growling unease in his clearly unhappy tum tum, he reluctantly agreed.
Which was when he and The Desert Rats walked into Bronco Billy’s Buckin’ Bull Bar.
***
The bar was absolutely heaving, jam-packed full of pissed-up party people intent on having a good time. A cursory glance around showed the room to be rammed to the rafters with a Club 18 - 30 clientele displaying a p
revalence of tattoos, tits and tans all jigging drunkenly to the banging disco beat whist trying to ‘get-off’ with each other.
As it was, Bronco Billy’s Buckin’ Bull Bar was the most popular establishment in the whole of the Balearics and was the place to visit in Magaluf if you were ‘up for it.’
But, tonight, with his skin stinging, his head aching, his stomach churning and his backside leaking, Gordy was most definitely not. Making him feel even worse was the pumping backing track and the flashy music videos being projected onto a big screen above the dance floor - which seemed mostly to feature ‘Colonel Abrahams’ wittering on about being ‘Trapped’ and wearing a pair of over-sized gold epaulets on the excessively padded shoulders of his ‘military’ jacket giving Gordy cause to wonder if he was even a ‘colonel’ at all, such was the outlandishness of his ridiculous outfit. But presently that was the least of his worries.
Gordy’s headache was getting worse by the second under the flashing disco lights which, all too frequently, went into strobe mode. He was getting a migraine and was seriously worried that, at any moment, he might hurl.
With his skin blazing brighter than a Belisha beacon and his limbs throbbing from sunburn, Gordy knew his presence there was a mistake and that he should have gone home hours ago.
Yet he appeared to be the only person in the whole of Majorca to feel that way - everyone else seemingly in a euphoric party mood and happy to be in the hedonistic heart of the action.
However, it wasn’t the beer or the boom boom beat or even the big blingy epaulets on Colonel Abrahams’ jacket that attracted people to Bronco Billy’s, but the bucking beast of a mechanical bull that gave the bar it’s name.
The bull in question sat beyond the dance floor in the middle of an island of spongy blue crash mats. All comers - usually the most drunken ones - were invited to ride it for as long as possible; normally between 10 and 20 seconds depending on how well the bull’s operator (the eponymous Bronco Billy) thought they were performing. This tended to be much longer for women as their jiggly bits were more entertaining to watch - especially if they were persuaded to go topless - which was usually encouraged by a chorus of Bronco Billy’s famous refrain of ‘Get yer tits out for the lads!’ accompanied by the assembled crowd of rowdy onlookers.
After being handed yet another San Miguel, Gordy watched this enthralling display, mesmerised by the sight of giggly girls gleefully pulling their tops off and riding the bull ‘bareback’.
Gordy was amazed at how brazen these girls were, all clearly glad of the excuse to show off their newly bronzed bosoms to battalions of beer befuddled boys begging for a butcher’s at their bounteous bristols.
The girls’ played to the approving roar of the audience as Bronco Billy, in masterly control of the joystick, made the bull buck and judder and spin and roll so that the their boobs would jiggle and bounce to maximum effect - much to the pleasure of the crowd.
Of course, lads rode the bull too - either as a show of drunken machismo or because their mates pushed them forward and they were too pissed to put up a fight.
Which is exactly what happened to Gordy - only he was not only pissed but poorly too (and unfortunately a little bit poohey).
As Gordy stood on the periphery of the bull ring, Bubble suddenly snatched the bottle out of his hand and shoved him onto the island of crash mats as Bangers shouted, “Hey! Bronco Billy, this bloke’s dying for a go!”
Gordy tried to protest but Bronco Billy ignored his pleas for clemency and started playing the ‘Rollin’, rollin, rollin,’ intro to Rawhide which accompanied each new rider’s entry into the arena, indicating that the challenge had been accepted. Before Gordy knew what was going on, Bronco Billy’s Buckaroos (the name given to his assistants) had grabbed him painfully by his stinging red arms and hoisted him up onto the bull.
Sitting there sweating, glowing like a nerdy neon light and slightly out of it, Gordy’s stomach suddenly lurched and he knew immediately that this experience was not going to end well.
But as the bull juddered slowly into life, there was not a damn thing he could do about it.
Gordy grabbed onto the horn of the saddle and clung on for dear life as Bronco Billy put the bull through it’s well practiced paces.
Faster and faster the bull went; spinning, bucking, juddering and rearing - all the time coloured lights flashing wildly in Gordy’s eyes from the migraine banging in his head. He felt disorientated, disconnected, delirious and as the bull bucked violently Gordy felt the vomit gurgle up from his stomach.
Filled with a growing sense of panic, he glanced at the baying crowd knowing what was imminently, unavoidably, about to happen.
He clamped his lips together in a desperate attempt to prevent the inevitable, but ultimately he was fighting a losing battle. Yet in that instant time seemed to stand still, and as he looked into the audience through the dazzle of dancing stars floating in his feverish vision, hoping on all things holy that he wouldn’t throw-up, he thought, just for a second, that he recognised a face from the past standing in the huddle of the assembled throng.
But it couldn’t be - it would be just too surreal, surely the sunstroke was causing him to hallucinate, making his mind play tricks.
Then the moment was gone; the bull reared again and suddenly Gordy was ejected from the saddle. As he flew through the air he involuntarily screamed, unleashing a volcanic volley of vomit which spewed violently out of his mouth. The trail of projectile puke pebble-dashed the poor patrons populating the periphery, spraying them in a hot shower of steaming sick.
To compound his humiliation further, as he hit the crash mats, Gordy’s stomach lurched again and the burgeoning banks of his beleaguered bottom burst to unleash a loose load of liquid shit into his ludicrously loud shorts.
At that precise moment in time, as the stares of angry onlookers dripping with chunks of his chunder burnt into the pale Ray-Ban shaped mask of his eyes, it would have been impossible to find a more unpopular person than Gordy Brewer in the whole of Majorca.
But as he lay there, soiled, sodden and stinking on the soft sticky surface of the crash mats, all he could think of was that face in the crowd.
Because sunstroke, hallucinations and delirium aside, Gordy was almost certain that he had just seen Daisy Flynn.
Chapter Seventeen
Daisy spent two long years in Tanzania before Glynn and Lynn Flynn upped sticks and moved on again, this time to Zambia. After a further two years there, in which time Daisy finished her education, she at last left Africa at the age of eighteen, leaving her mad missionary parents to carry on the work of The Lord without her.
But Daisy had done with it. So with Glynn and Lynn’s blessing, she piled her few belongings into a ruck sack and hit the road - heading for new adventures of her own choosing.
In the ruck sack, she packed her trusty cassette recorder, a whole load of tapes and her precious journal, which she had begun to write after leaving England.
Writing had been just a fanciful idea at first, a way to while away the long, lonely hours in Africa, but soon it became incredibly important to her and she grew to love it almost as much as music.
For something to do, she had written a few articles about several bands she liked and, almost on a whim, had sent them off to various musical publications - unable to believe her luck when one or two actually published them. Even more surprising to Daisy, was that the magazines had sent her a small remuneration for the pieces, which encouraged her all the more.
She imagined that journalism might be a nice thing to get into but didn’t really consider herself qualified enough to pursue it. Besides, for the moment she was intent on seeing the world.
So from Zambia Daisy flew to Cape Town, using what little money she had saved. She worked there for a year to earn enough for a flight to Sydney, spending another year back-packing across Australia, working various jobs and earning a li
ttle extra for her written efforts, which helped to support her.
In Oz she picked up with a like-minded band of similarly aged wanderers from Europe and travelled with them up through Malaysia, then onto India and finally to Thailand until they all went their separate ways. By this time, Daisy had grown weary of the nomadic lifestyle and was longing for the familiarity of England where, even after all her travels, she had been at her happiest, remembering fondly and often her Summer at Bailey’s Bandstand and the boy she had met there all those years ago.
Daisy, now twenty-two, decided to work her way back through Europe, with a view to arriving back in the UK for Christmas where she had arranged to meet her parents who, by then, would be ‘Out of Africa’ - with Glynn and Lynn Flynn being the hemp-happy, holy-hippy version of Robert Redford and Meryl Streep (although Bob and Mez might not have seen it that way).
So, with the little money she had put-aside, Daisy flew to Spain where, after all her travelling, after all her experiences of the world’s wide and varied cultures, nothing could have prepared her for the screaming attack on the senses that was Lloret de Mar on the Costa Brava in the Summer of 1985.
Daisy hated it instantly - all the drunken British tourists out on the pull, having sex on the beach and throwing up anywhere and everywhere before pouring yet more alcohol down their sunburnt necks. All the bars were ‘English style’ pubs that showed the Footie on a Saturday and served Yorkshire pud on a Sunday. The beaches, although lovely, were packed with oiled up lotharios and topless totty with their tits on display, whilst the warm Mediterranean sea was awash wish lilos, pedalos and piss.
Even though Daisy loved the UK, loved it’s people, she couldn’t stand what happened to them when they were abroad and Lloret seemed to bring out the worst in them.
Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool Page 20