Previously, on Confessions of a Middle-Raged Dad….
In my last entry, I shared the first three ‘postcards’ from our family holiday to Majorca earlier this month.
There was panic when my mum cracked her tooth on a Chinese takeaway the night before our departure, embarrassment as I loudly announced the arrival of my sister’s suitcase with ‘a pink strap on’ at Palma airport, sadness as we mourned the passing of ‘John the Blu Tack Penis’, and laughter as Isaac managed to win a bottle of herbal liqueur and a shellac nail treatment on our first night at the hotel.
Oh, and my first dip in the hotel pool ended with me at conversational distance from a sleeping woman’s vagina.
Seriously, if you didn’t read the last entry, you’re missing out. Fortunately for you, here’s a handy link, and the rest of us will wait while you catch up…
Let’s crack on, shall we?
Having bemoaned the fact that on our first two days here we’ve struggled to get sun loungers by the pool, because other guests apparently get up ridiculously early to ‘reserve’ them with towels, and having labelled the offenders “selfish fucking wankers”, I decided to get up ridiculously early this morning to reserve some loungers with our towels. Oh well, if you can’t beat them…
I have to say, my new Stockport County towel looked resplendent. My wife’s Norwich City towel less so.
After breakfast, we sunbathed for a while, but it quickly got very hot and, with the kids already cooling off in the pool and seemingly intent on drowning each other, I decided to join them and keep the peace.
Sadly, due to the fact I burned my shoulders on our first day here (despite regular applications of factor 50), I’ve had to wear a t-shirt in the pool since. So, while all the ‘normal’ adult men have been bronzing their naked torsos in the scorching Majorcan sunshine, me, most of the children, and all the gingers have had to stay covered up. Shame, as I’d been working hard on getting totally ripped for this holiday.
As I waded over to where our boys were swimming, I noticed they were repeatedly jabbing each other and shouting something while giggling. It was only as I got next to them, and the noise from the other bathers faded away, I realised they were in fact shouting “prick!” each time they prodded one another.
Having angrily told them to stop using such language, both boys looked shocked and revealed they were playing a game they had just invented called ‘Water Sausage’, which either means they are very fast-thinking liars, or they’re morons who genuinely made up a game based on them being sausages and getting ‘pricked’ by their sibling. I’m not sure which concerns me more.
When I got back out of the pool and wandered over to where my wife was sunbathing on her (inferior) Norwich City towel, I suggested she might like to partake in a bit of ‘Water Sausage’ in the pool later, but she misunderstood my intentions and threatened to throw a sandal at me if I took one step nearer.
Worth a try.
Following another delicious evening meal, during which Isaac insisted all the menu choices were not to his liking, so he opted for a huge plate of “Dessert Tapas” instead, we headed back to the bar for tonight’s ‘mini disco’, which is on every evening before the main entertainment starts at 9.30pm.
The mini disco involves one of the Animation team (imagine a primary school teacher on LSD) and three guest kids on stage, leading the rest of the younger audience in the same playlist of nauseatingly cheerful song and dance routines. Think ‘Hokey Cokey’ and you won’t be far wrong. Actually, you’d be bang on. It was track 3.
As the adults (plus Ollie, who is way too cool/boring to dance with his younger brother and cousins) watched on from the back of the bar, a waiter approached our table to clear some empties and excitedly announced that the current song, ‘Baby Shark’ is “going to be huge.”
Erm, I think it already is mate. It’s been out for around five years and has been watched more than eleven billion times on YouTube.
He then expanded on his claim, by suggesting it won’t just be huge, it will be “bigger than ‘Evergreen’”. Eh? The Will Young track from the first series of Pop Idol in 2002? Fucking hell mate, where have you been for the past twenty years?
(Before any Westlife fans e-mail me, I’m aware Evergreen was originally their song – well, I am now, as I just Googled it – but I think we can all agree Will’s version is better known.)
The main entertainment this evening was a ‘Bruno Mars and Friends’ tribute act, although ‘Bruno’ only performed a handful of ‘his’ songs, before the playlist ended up in a downward spiral of Ed Sheeran tracks instead. Still, at least it wasn’t ABBA.
Today, we had pre-booked a glass-bottom boat trip in the nearby resort of Alcudia, so we arranged a couple of taxis with reception (which took TWO FUCKING HOURS to turn up) and, once we got there, we fortunately had a bit of time to do some shopping and grab lunch before heading to the harbour.
As the boys have some holiday spending money, Isaac immediately set about adding to his already excessive hat collection (as well as satisfying his sweet tooth with some nasty-looking confectionery), while Ollie’s main ambition was to buy a football shirt.
I tried to explain that he already has dozens of kits, including both Barcelona and Real Madrid (which understandably ruled out most of those available), but we then spotted a row of Spanish national shirts from the 2010 World Cup at the back of a shop and, no sooner had we shown a slight interest in one with Andreas Iniesta’s name and number on the back, the owner approached us was not taking no for an answer.
Fortunately, Ollie (with some assistance from his mother) managed to haggle the owner down from €40 to just €20, which he was delighted with – Ollie, not the owner. In truth, such a price drop almost certainly means the shirt is fake, but neither Ollie nor I could tell the difference and so long as he’s happy with his purchase that’s good enough for me. After all, he didn’t say anything when Santa got him that supposedly genuine Barcelona kit from a Chinese eBay site for just £13 a few years back.
This evening’s entertainment was a trio of very talented acrobats, although Isaac seemed more fascinated that they “had their boobies out” (side note: they were all men who merely had pronounced pecs – as is so often the case with acrobats) and, while we sat there my phone pinged with an alert from MyFitnessPal. Turns out, the app was just checking in on me, like an old friend, because I haven’t logged anything I’ve eaten – or, perhaps more importantly, drunk – since we arrived.
“You haven’t logged your lunch for today. Would you like to do it now?”
“Mate, I haven’t logged anything at all since Tuesday, and I had doughnuts for breakfast. Probably best not to ask.”
After the excitement – and heat – of yesterday’s boat trip, we decided to have a quieter one by the pool today.
As per usual, it didn’t take long for me to embarrass myself, firstly by capsizing in spectacular fashion while mounting my niece’s giant inflatable unicorn, and then by getting stuck in her rubber ring as well (I cannonballed into it, arse first, from the side of the pool which, in hindsight, was a mistake). Naturally, my wife found this hilarious and, rather than help, she grabbed her phone for a photo.
It wasn’t long before our exuberant jumping in from the side of the pool began attracting unfavourable glances and mutterings from a family sat by the edge. As far as I’m concerned, if you insist on getting up at 6am to reserve those loungers, you should expect to get your fucking feet wet.
Following one particularly spectacular cannonball from my brother, the older lady of the group (their party seemed to span three generations, like ours), beckoned him over to where she was sat.
I was too far away to hear the conversation, but I did notice a look of confusion on my brother’s face, so decided to offer some support in case he was being chastised for his aquatic enthusiasm. Turns out, she was asking him to solve some of the clues in her crossword, and I then got roped in as well, resulting in the two of us spending at least fifteen minutes leaning over her, much to the amusement of our respective wives. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have found it quite so funny if it had been a bikini-clad twenty-something needing help with her crossword, but there you go.
Tonight’s entertainment was a group called ‘The Cover Girls’ who, as the name suggests, performed a series of cover versions spanning several decades and genres. Highlights included Isaac twerking away to ‘Hit the Road Jack’ (he mistakenly thought the lyrics were “In the Bum Shack”, but I still don’t think that necessitated twerking) and ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ (which resulted in him running towards me from the dance floor, shouting “TUNE!” in my face, and then running back again). Lowlights included the entire medley of ABBA shite they performed for their encore. If I’d known that was going to be the encore, I’d have made damn sure they didn’t come back out again.
Our final day before flying home.
Not much happened of note, save for Ollie entering – and winning – a football tournament, beating a Millwall fan in the final (which was particularly pleasing) and Isaac getting recognised in the restaurant as we walked in for our last evening meal of the holiday. Not by one of my followers, mind (which would, I suppose, have been more plausible), but by the dad of one of his Sandbach United teammates, who arrived this afternoon. What are the chances, eh?
Home tomorrow and, while I have always said I would never return to the same hotel, or even the same resort (what’s the point, when you can go somewhere new?) I’d be sorely tempted to come here again, if only for the superb all-inclusive food and drink, which is the best we’ve ever experienced.
So long, Majorca, it’s been a blast.