The Tache

It was dark, and there was a cold wind blowing from a southerly direction. The kind of morning that reminds you of how warm your bed is. There was no joy in waking up at 4.30am deliberately, as opposed to the usual reason of one of the cherubs crying. For a change, both of them were fast asleep dreaming of milk and Iggle Piggle.

I took my morning ablutions in silence, and crept downstairs with my bag. As I left my front door, I took a one last look back to mentally etch the image in my mind, and then moved on with a heavy heart.

I was not leaving home for good, only for 4 days, but it felt as though I was abandoning everybody. But as I moved to the waiting car, my heart lifted as if a thousand birds were carrying it. If I did not know that Heath Ledger was dead then I may have fallen into the presumption that he had hired a Ford Focus and was sat outside my house.

Ian had agreed, to pick me up, the night before and thank god he did. If I looked anything like this cowboy now then it would have been a long journey to North Manchester in the taxi. He was wearing the hat that I have on in the picture to the left, also sporting a similar tache. As we headed off it must have looked like a Brokeback Mountain version of Thelma and Louise. Or a really dodgy American Cop show from the 1970’s that was never aired due to the sensitive nature of facial hair.

It became worse when we all met up and at least 7 people had also made the effort of growing the mudguard. We started to resemble a Deep South Bluegrass convention, and I don’t mean Devon. Liverpool Airport was under no illusion that we were to be messed with, and the drinking began at a time when I would normally be eating my Frosties. It then stayed at a consistent rate for the next 4 days, and so this is where my detailed commentary dries up.

It was hot in Valencia, Spanish, and expensive due to the strong Euro. For all else you can use your imagination. It was a stag party of 16, mostly from Salford, with no agenda apart from two football matches on different days.

Damien was the perfect roommate. I saw him for some time in the afternoon, and the rest of the time was when I woke up and would see him lying face down on his bed with all of his clothes on and shoes. He also had some good news regarding his current contract and a possible get out clause. So fingers crossed that one day he can achieve what he deserves.

Ian enjoyed himself and it was not awkward that his future Father-in-law was there too. I’m looking forward to the wedding now so that we can all meet up, and have that knowing look to each other that you get when you’ve been away and have stories between yourselves. Like war veterans but a bit nicer and nobody died.

There was one injury though, as one of the party broke his ankle on the last night and had to get a cast in a Spanish Hospital. We then cut the cast off before getting on the plane back home, which caused a lot of amusement for us, and not much for him.

This week I will be travelling to Philadelphia with work, more specifically Wilmington. I will be there for 3 days and travelling for 2. So hopefully I will have some more interesting tales to write about in next week’s instalment. If I’d have kept the tache then there would have been a possibility of looking like an American.

Yee Ha!!!!

The Beard

As you can witness from the photo to the left, I am currently sporting a manly beard. To my dismay it has grown, with more than a cameo appearance of, ginger. I feel that each man, and occasionally woman, must go through this period of life called affectionately “the Beard Years”. It doesn’t have to last for a year but as long as you have a good thatch, and more importantly, that people notice it immediately. It brings a whole new dimension to your image and one that forces you to defend your new look continuously.

I assume in the 1970’s, when beards were more commonplace, there was more tolerance to your common all-garden beard, but now the popularity has waned. People have been quite rude about my growth, and at times I have heard it crying to itself on my chin.

Fortunately, others have enforced my voyage into the land of facial hair, and so I have had a fall back when people publicly ridicule me. Also, with a reason backing you up, it can get you through the many days of doubt, and give you the endurance to last the distance.

My reason has come from a stupid idea generated from the Ian Scott School of stupid ideas. The stag party that I am going on next weekend to Valencia will be the climax of this hairy experiment. 16 lads travelling to Spain with beards would be one thing, a collective of professors, but we are not going with beards. No, no, we are going with long “Porn Star” moustaches. The beard is one thing, people in 2008 still have beards occasionally, but no one since 1977 has ever sported a long moustache except The Edge. 16 of us will stand out like a bunch of gay Germans. Not the best way of entering a new country.

In order to pass this joke off as best as possible, I think that to do it properly is the best strategy. This is why I have given myself a 5-week run up, so that by Showtime I should have a moustache to rival Merv Hughes, and Hulk Hogan. At least this way, if at anytime I am found on my own through the weekend, it will look like a fashion statement rather than a joke. Of course, if I am with the group then it will look like a joke, and if I am with one other then I will look like I am holidaying in Spain with my Partner. But these unfortunate scenarios are unavoidable because, one rule for any group of lads travelling together is that, to be an outcast in the group is social suicide. It will open the door for a weekend of abuse from the rest of the group. The same thing happened in medieval times when the Friar’s went in to their first monastery. One of them thought it would be funny to get them all to shave the tops of their heads, leaving a circle of hair like a halo. It was only meant to be a one-off joke but it then caught on and the rest is history.

The other worry that I have, apart from being adopted by a particularly friendly local named Pedro, is the amount of alcohol that undoubtedly gets consumed on these types of visits. Like the moustache, you have to find a balance between keeping in with the group and not having your stomach pumped in Valencia General. I have some experience in this field, certainly more than the moustache, and I hope for this to get me through. With age has come a certain amount of wisdom, even if this is not obvious to the onlooker. As long as you’re there at the beginning, then as the day draws on you will all begin to find your own pace. As the younger members trail blaze in front, you can keep up the rear with a bottle of San Miguel that has been in your hand so long that your hand has grown new skin around it.

This isn’t a real problem and I have complete faith in myself being mature enough to bring the sun down each day without waiting for the whistle. The one concern that is niggling in the recesses somewhere is my roommate. Now if I was rooming with a nice, quiet lad who read a book before bed with a cup of cocoa, then happy days. But I am with Damien who, whilst I am accounting for the Pharmaceutical industry, is playing with a band all day every day. The monotony of normal life is but a distant dream for this young man, who being 4 years my junior, is well versed in drinking for breakfast, dinner and tea. It will not surprise me to envision a situation where I am getting into bed, and he then bundles through the door carrying a bottle of something that he is pleased to punch with because he has managed to nick it from the hotel bar. We shall see.

So the next instalment will inform you of the incidents of particular note that happened during the weekend, obviously censored for decency. Will a group known as the Moustachio Hunterios violate us all in a Spanish prison? Or will we get to the Valencia vs. Racing Santander game on the Sunday unscathed? Please tune in, same time next week for another thrilling episode.