Landers

“How long will it take to get to the airport from here?”
“Forty-five minutes usually but as you don’t know the road I’d give it an hour.”

With this in mind I was content in the knowledge that if we left at 10:45pm we’d get to the airport in plenty of time. You can imagine the state I was in when at 11pm Brad was still munching away at steak/chop/kebab (delete as appropriate) from the barbecue and telling me not to worry and that we had plenty of time.

We did, but not because he said so, but because the flight was delayed. It seems every Ryanair flight anyone goes on, other than us, is delayed. Ours is always early or on time but never late.

I love meeting people at the airport. Seeing all the human interaction and knowing I’m going to be part of it soon. Seeing people smile as they step out of arrivals into the arms of a loved on. Seeing people nod as they see a sign with their name on and know they car must be for them.

Mostly I love it because it means people are coming to visit and I love it when then happens. Even when its people you haven’t seen for a while, years in fact, friends who you really care for but for one reason or another you don’t see as often as you should, if at all in some cases!

I’ve often found it remarkable how friendships built on one common interest can grow.

I joined blog many moons ago (when the “made by you” was “beta” and I was a founder member not a pro!) and began adding people to my friends list. They were only online friends though, not real people, so if I never blogged again it didn’t matter. Then we got that step closer in AIM or MSN or GoogleChat and these people became semi-real. They were still only virtual friends and although I was growing quite fond of some of them they were still strangers to me who I only knew through blog.

Then I exchanged contact details with one of these virtual people! He gave me his phone number so I gave him mine. As nervous as I was it still didn’t matter as he was still only a virtual person. Someone who was never going to ring as in the real world he didn’t exist.

This changed when I looked at the screen and saw “I’m calling” in the chat window. I held my phone in my hand and suddenly got all nervous. “Brad, you know that scouser from blog, the one from the Wirral, writes for the metro or some other free rag up there?”
“Yeah,” came his reply.
“He’s about to call me!”

Before the conversation could continue the phone was ringing. I was half tempted to hang up and then type a chat massage to him saying something like “sorry, foster kids need me!” or something like that but instead I actually answered. What’s the worse that could happen? We could actually become friends (lovers in the future x) and call each other again? We might meet? He was still going to be a virtual friend, he was still going to be that scally from blog!

A while later I made the mistake decision of doing an open blog invitation to my final birthday celebrations while living the UK. A few bloggers actually took me up on the invite. My real friends, those not virtual as the bloggers were/are, thought we were all swingers from some internet porn site but in reality we were a group of people with that one common interest.

These people, the scally included (who had an incredibly beautiful woman with him and I’ve still no idea how he managed that one!), suddenly became real. I’d read all about them, spoken to them on the phone, exchanged emails but now they were sat in front of me.

Things on blog really changed then. The people I was reading about became actual people. There were real, they had substance and I was beginning to feel ever closer to them. They, and others, became real friends.

“But how do you know them?” she’d ask.
“Through blog mother, we all blog together!” I reply.
“Well that just sounds mucky!”
“It’s a diary mother, an online diary and people read it.”
“Could I read it?”
“You could but you might not want to.”
“And you all know each other from there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you swap pictures and stuff?”
“No, I post a picture and people can look at it.”
“Not naughty I hope!”
“No mother!”
“I don’t get it!”

And she doesn’t and probably never will but she does read now and then.

“Who is Nici and K?” she asked.
“Friends,” I replied.
“Well I gathered that but who are they, you’ve not talked about them before.”
“I’ve talked about Nici mother. Abi. The american.”
“The one with the whip?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you do something with her on that site once?”
“I changed her blog design mother, that’s as far as it goes!”
“And they’re coming over?”
“Yes.”
“Well that’ll be lovely for you.”

She’s trying to be nice but she still doesn’t understand and never will and when father asks how I am she’ll say “don’t ask Roger, you won’t like it.”

We got to the airport in just as the plane was due to land but it was late so we actually had time to grab a drink. Unfortunately all the shops had shut and the machines didn’t take notes! Damn it!

We didn’t have to wait long before Nici & K arrived as as we hugged not only was a warming and heartfelt it was also like it had only been a couple of weeks since we last saw each and not a few years. I felt the same when giving K a hug and this was the first time I’d ever met her!

Once home we cracked open a bottle of wine and it was gone 4am before we finally went to bed after much catching up, getting-to-know-yous, and just general fun and chat.

Saturday saw us have a very lazy morning around the house and after a massive lunch of st

uff and salad we headed into Galway.

We forced the girls to kick the wall but they had to watch others do it before they did just in case they thought we were conning them into something and then we headed into town for drinkies. Galway Pride was on and all six people people turn up for it. Drinks in the Quays, where Nick tried her first ever Guinness which wasn’t up to standard, then a walk back to the car and off to the Duggans.
After coffee and cooing over Ruaidhrí we headed back home.

Brad cooked us all steak. Well, he didn’t cook mine but then again you don’t need to. With my steak you just wave it over the pan a little and then throw it on the plate.

More drinking and conversation and bedtime at some ungodly hour but all very much worth it.

Heading back to the airport on Sunday I think I was the only one who didn’t have a hangover but I wasn’t the only one who didn’t think we’d make it in time! Damn weather, funerals and traffic!

All in all the weekend was fantastic. It was wonderful seeing Nici again and meeting K. They are both lovely people. I’m a little annoyed that they didn’t take either of the cats as promised but there is a box in the hall, miaowing, that I really must post at some point!

If I go to bed at 11pm I wake up at 6am. If I go to bed at 1am I wake up at 6am. If I go to be at 4am I wake up at 6am. You get the idea.

I couldn’t tell you what time I actually got into bed after getting pissed but as per usual I woke up at 6am. The hangover hadn’t kicked in by that point, as I found when I got out of bed to go to the toilet. Getting there wasn’t the usual bleary eyed journey as though I was partially sighted but instead I used the wall and dresser as walking aids and then stood hanging on to the wardrobe until door came past so I could hope in and use the toilet.

Ablutions over with, another glass of water drank and one on the bedside table I went back to sleep. I woke again about 7.30am, took a look out the window and went back to bed again. At 9am I woke up again and that was it, I was wide awake. Thank God for the in-room comfort cooling system as the sun was shining through our window and heating the room up. Suddenly there was strange noise coming from outside. My first thought was that someone was dangling a cat out of a window or possibly it was stuck in the lift but after a long look out the window I discovered it was piper playing the bagpipes!

I could have quite easily killed him but instead I put the telly on, lay on the bed and drank my water.

I felt like death. No, I felt worse than death. If I moved I could feel my brain lolling as through my eyes were about to fall out. My mouth tasted like the pissed bride from the night before had broke into our room and puked in to my mouth and then invited all her friends to shit in to it and then empty the hotel ashtrays down my throat!

Apart from popping out for a few ciggies here and there and getting a drinks from the bar we basically spent most of the morning and early afternoon in the room. During my trips out, taken very slowly, I saw loads of men in kilts which is obviously why the piper was there.

Around 3pm we went down to use the hotel spa and I thoroughly enjoyed forty seconds in the sauna, a minute in the steam room, a couple of minutes in the Jacuzzi and then five minutes in the pool. I’d have loved to have stayed more but my head wasn’t really up to. As I got dressed I saw a text on my phone from Laura and Vicki saying that they were on their way so I went outside to wait for them. Once they’d arrived the three of us sat in the bar and enjoyed cokes all round which was fine by me as I couldn’t have taken anything stronger!

One thing I’ve always thought should be exceeded and not just met are my own personal customer service standards. I’m not one of those that believes the customer is always right but the customers opinions should always be valued and listened to. Now although the customer service hadn’t been bad during our stay the fact that the bed hadn’t been made properly and the awkwardness over the evening meal made me wonder just what would happen when I took my drink back because there was bright red lipstick (not my shade) on the glass.

The girl that had initially served me, as nice as she was, didn’t have the kindest face. She looked the type that worked her staff to the bone, hated the customers and hated the job even more. Thankfully a guy behind the bar saw me before she did and offered his services. I explained about the glass and he instantly apologised and began pouring another drink. He gave me a story about how it had been happening a lot recently and he’d got concerns that the glass washer was faulty. He also pointed out that I didn’t need to hear any of this and apologised again for the dirty glass. Brad had joined us by this point so I order his drink and when I offered to pay the barman winked and said it was on the house as compensation for the dirty glass.

All in all I was very impressed with the service but it was made all the better by the fact that the barman was gorgeous with the cutest smile! At 9.5 he was probably the second highest scoring piece of eye-candy I’d seen all weekend.

We had something to eat, which was lovely, and as Laura and Vicki left we headed back to our room for a lie down before our meal.

In the restaurant everything was laid out in a self-service buffet but was absolutely fantastic. I don’t have a lot of confidence in self-service hotel food but I think this stems from European holidays where there food was always vile and congealed. This was totally different. There was so much to choose from and all of it was stunning. Once done with we headed back to the room with drinks and enjoyed the night out there.

I know this a short entry compared to the other entries about the trip but this was literally all we did on Sunday.

I thought that being in a hotel and not at home would mean a different routine. Mostly I was right but on one small front I was very much mistaken. There is this thing that happens when Bert and I are going out. Firstly I set a time to leave. Nine times out of ten it’s not a time that is set in stone, it’s just a suggestion, you know like “lets leave around 8ish?” As I’m writing that even I know I’m lying. It’s usually not just set in stone but signed with a death penalty attached. Every now and then I do let up and give a time that isn’t bound by any prime directive, although it’s not often. Anyway, as I said, the first thing that happens is I set a time to leave. There is no point Bert setting a time as if we book a table somewhere for 8pm he thinks that means we leave the house at 8pm.
So five minutes before the deadline I’m usually sat in the kitchen, car keys in hand, wondering whether I should just nip into World of Warcraft and have a quick battle with someone as I know Bert won’t be ready. As the deadline passes I shout upstairs to see if he’s ready. “Yeah, just putting my other glasses on,” comes the reply.

Five minutes later I’m sat in the car and he comes out, locks the front door, opens it and goes back in. A further five minutes pass and he comes out but this time goes back in without locking the door. Finally at anytime between 8.15-8.30pm he comes and gets in the car and I being to pull out the drive. “Oh hang on, I haven’t changed my glasses!” he says and we have one more visit inside.

Being in a hotel and not at home does not change this.

“Are you nearly ready baby?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’ve just got to put my shoes on,” he replies.

“Okay, will you ring reception and book a taxi? I’m just going to nip out and have a cigarette, I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ll do it right now.”

As I walk out the room I hear him on the phone to reception asking them to book us a taxi and as I bypass the various people milling around the corridors in wedding outfits and a pissed mother-of-the-groom I keep my fingers crossed that the reception will actually a book a taxi and Bert really did just have his shoes to put on. Two cigarettes later, after I’d been staring at the taxi Bert finally turned up.

The taxi ride to the restaurant was short and as we pulled up outside Ask everyone else was also just arriving.

The eight of us – Laura, Rob, Diana, Milly, Tracey, Vicki, Brad and me – sat down at our table and the problem of choosing what to eat began. I’ve never been a big fan of tomatoes and in my younger years was actually allergic to them. I blame my mother, so did the doctor, as tinned tomatoes were her craving during pregnancy and she overdosed on them.

Being in an Italian restaurant and not liking tomatoes meant the menu was quite limited. Thankfully just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean I won’t eat them, I just don’t like huge amounts so the menu wasn’t that limited. As it was I chose a dish that didn’t have tomatoes. It was small but beautiful – just like me – and I could have quite easily eaten it twice.

The next day Laura suggested the reason I got so drunk was because my portion was small and there wasn’t enough food in my stomach to soak up the alcohol. This may be partially true but the main reason would be that I’m a light-weight and cannot take my drink.

The dinner conversation turned to poo, wank socks and tissues, pissing in teapots and Pringles, much to the disgust of the people behind us who seemed to finish eating quite quickly and escape into the night. Pringles became the buzz word of the night and was shouted in varying places and tones followed by anything from willies, boobies, poo and mother-fucker, all in a tourette stylee.

Once the bill was sorted, a story I’m not going into, we moved onto the first bar a place called the Quay Side. It was, I thought, a very contemporary place with high backed stools at the bar and nice small tables around the place and quiet music so we could really talk and get to know each other. We toasted a glass to Kelly who initially was going to try and come over but didn’t in the end so she could spend her holiday time with the mister, and who could blame her? He’s obviously a wonderful man from the way she talks about him in blog and in person. We heart Mister – Send Kelly! The whole getting to know you thing didn’t really happen but instead we laughed, joked, drank and had a great time but as we left I realised I was still non the wiser as to who the new bloggers I was meeting were really.

Obviously I’d met Laura before during her mammoth travelling in May for the Berlin blog meet – a week at ours, then Berlin then a final week back at ours. I’d met Rob in Berlin as well and the entire time there I’d not once called him Bob, the second I see him outside the restaurant I shake his hand and say “Hi Bob, good to see you again,” and instantly apologised for calling him Bob. I’d also met Diana in Berlin and me and her sat and enjoyed a wine or four together in the restaurant and then in this bar. I’d met Vicki when her and Laura came to meet us at the station but the conversation went as far as grabbing a burger and where we were going that evening so she was just as much as stranger as the others. Obviously I knew bits about them from reading blogs but essentially they were, as I said, strangers.

During the walk to the next bar, a place called Zillis, I talked to each one, trying to make sure I got to know them all a little better and this carried on in the next bar. We sat outside as the night was warm and so the smokers, in the majority for once, could smoke. A half-pint glass of wine was thrust into my hand by Brad. I’d have complained about it being a half pint but he was too busy complaining about how the Amstel he’d ordered and they’d given him was not Amstel but some piss-poor replica or water-down rubbish.

Now, it’s from this point that my memory starts to become hazy. I’d like to say this is due to swine flu or SARS as that way I’d have a proper real forgivable excuse for forgetting a fair old amount but in reality I got trollied.

I know Vicki disappeared and came back a few minutes later with some fluffy light-up bunny ears for me which I wore all night, in fact when we moved on to a bar called William Wilberforce the DJ dedicated the first song we heard to “the man with the bunny ears.”

When I say DJ I’m actually using the term very loosely. I get very pissed off when people call themselves DJ’s when all the actually do is either play some MP3′s through a laptop or stick on a CD or two. Some of us were real DJ’s back in the day when you mixed music properly! Bastards!

Much more drinking followed and I remember at one point drinking something that looking like baby sick but tasted like Baileys. It turned out to be Banana flavoured vodka or something like that. it was horrible but I was past it so drank it.

Dancing followed to various camp classics such as Tragedy by Steps, Chain Reaction by Diana Ross and Reach for the Stars by S Club 7. Apparently someone has a video of me dancing and when you see the size of me you’ll realise when the camera is a bit shaky. The drinking, singing and dancing continued until it was time to move onto the next place. I didn’t realise it but by this point we were already one member down.

Heading to the next place Milly and I decided to make it a goal to get as many pictures with cute guys and girls as we could. Actually I think I made it my mission and Milly, bless her, joined it. This had actually been going on most of the night but now, as we walked, we became more determined to get even more pictures.
Sadly as we walked the fresh air hit me and my intoxication became worse. I remember almost falling in some ruins of something but it might have just been some road works. The state I was in was not good and in the end the decision was made that Brad and I should head back to the hotel. I honestly couldn’t tell you who made the decision but Brad didn’t seem to mind so we went and queued for a taxi. After thirty-odd minutes of waiting it arrived and I made sure the driver was told to drive slowly and carefully or I’d vomit in his cab. He was happy with this for some reason but I did assure him I would get plenty of notice if I was going to puke. I then proceeded to give him a lecture on being a taxi driver in Galway and how unfair it was on all the real taxi drivers as they were allowing anyone to be a driver!

Finally back at the hotel we stumbled into the lift and pushed the button for the fourth floor. We stopped at the first floor and in came a bride being held up by two bridesmaids and a man who just stood there laughing at her. So did we. For some reason the bride took a bite out of one of her bridesmaids as the lift filled with the shrill of “Michelle dernt beyte meh!” in the strangest accent I’d ever heard. As the doors opened the bride let go of her supports and she fell out the lift flat on her face, leaving a shoe behind. As the doors started to close Prince Charming (Brad) threw out the shoe to the pissed up Cinderella on the floor and the pair of us started laughing.

As we got in to the hotel room I turned to Brad and said “Now I’m not that bad am I?” Before he could answer I’d collapsed on the bed and demanded he got me a drink of water. With the window open and the

comfort cooling

system running I drifted off to sleep with the thoughts that I’d had a fantastic time, met some wonderful people, made some great friends and drank far too much.

So, here I am, in glorious Technicolor, pissed and waiting for the taxi. Apparently there is a video of me dancing but I don’t have it, haven’t seen it (don’t want to!) and know nothing about it. Brad took this one. The shame!

Coming soon… the morning after!

P.S. All the pictures are clickable for a bigger version.