Landers

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.

Waking up in one the most comfortable beds in the world is not something I like to do when I have plans. This is what happened on the Saturday morning after our Friday night in Manchester with the lovely RowTheBoat. Because we had plans it meant we had no choice but to get up and I really could have just lay there for hours. I hate our bed at home now. Mind you I did before but now my hatred has fuel!

Once awake and polished Row passed the coffees round and then offered to take us to the train station. Rather than suffer the indignity of a bus we I jumped at the chance, stopping in Didsbury first to get some personal items from Boots The Chemist (are they still called that or is it just Boots these days?) and activate our new Halifax Visa Electron cards at the nearest Branch.

I hate Ryanair with a passion but lets face it with Bert out of work and me having a demanding social life sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and fly cattle class. Ryanair know that no matter how many add-ons to the pricing structure they make you’ll still fork out the thruppence-halfpenny to fly with them as it’s better than paying the £200 per person per journey with British Airways or the three camels and your first-born to fly with Ethiad or Emirates. So everyone, including us, does all they can to bring the already Lidl value Ryanair fare down to a figure even a pikey would pay. To this end we got UK registered Electron cards as it’s the only credit/debit card you can use on the Ryanair website where they don’t charge you a million pound fee for using it. Electron cards are not available in Ireland so we got one from a UK Halifax and had them sent to my parents address, lying on the form that we were living there.

“Just complete the form, photocopy your passport, send it all in and your account will be opened and you’ll get your card!” said the application form! Seven to ten working days later our cards arrived at my parents and my mother forwarded them on to us. Brad rang the ‘activation line’ on a sticker stuck to the front of the card only to be told that we have to go into a branch with our I.D. Great! So we get the cards and can’t use them! Bastards!

“But we’re living travelling around the Ireland at the moment!” cries Bert, hoping his tears will convince the guy to activate the cards.
“Oh well,” he says, not really caring, “see you in a branch!”

So after a few more calls back and forth to the Halifax we’re assured that when we got into any branch with just our passports we can activate the cards and the accounts and have access to the £160 that is currently sitting in there doing nothing.

The girl in the Didsbury branch was lovely and had the kindest way of telling us there wasn’t a hope in hell of these cards being activated without a utility bill.

“A utility bill for a house we don’t live at in a country we don’t live in?” I nearly shouted. Instead I just seethed a little showing her how upset and gay I’d become if she didn’t activate them there and then and Bert whimpered a little knowing that once I’d finished telling her how fucking shite the Halifax is he’d suffer the mood and shouting and swearing for the rest of the day.

Either the smoke beginning to come from my ears or the look of utter horrow from Bert took effect on her and seconds later she handed our cards back and smilingly told us they were activated. In my head I knew that the second we got to the ATM they would be swallowed and we’d be arrested for falsifying our address details. That didn’t happen. Instead we took out the money peacefully and went for breakfast with Row into a cafe I could have sat in all day. Of course that couldn’t really happen as we had a train to catch.

Row delivered us to the train station in plenty of time for our train. Four hours early in fact, but this was at our choice not hers. We could check into the hotel in Hull from 2pm onwards but the train we’d booked on wouldn’t get into to Hull until around 5ish. Bert suggested we get an early train and Laura had said her ticket never got checked whenever she used it so to hell with it we’d just use a earlier one and enjoy the benefits of the hotel spa before meeting the other misfits in town.

We’d pre-booked our tickets about four years earlier to get them nice and cheap but all the damn machines that actually gave you the tickets had decided they didn’t like my credit card we’d booked with.

“Is it an Egg card because the machines don’t like them?” shouted a Virgin customer services guy. He worked for Virgin, he might not have actually been a virgin. Well he was at one point. Enough!
“No, it’s a Halifax card,” I replied.
“Is it Egg?”
“No it’s a Halifax Ireland Visa!”
“They don’t like Egg cards.”

Eventually the man that was actually trying to help and not the one shouting about farm produce took to his desk and printed our tickets out manually.

“Now, you must travel on the train you’re booked on, don’t go earlier ones as you’ll pay a fortune if you’re stopped.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir, of course sir, we’re good boys sir,” we said as we backed away and headed for the train sat at the platform. The train we weren’t supposed to be getting on. As we stepped on to platform 1 the whistle blew and we missed it anyway.

We sat in the station cafe for an hour until the next train, again not our scheduled service, arrived and we jumped on. Sure enough no one checked out tickets and while Bert read his Memoirs of a Geisha, I listened to various camp classics, took pictures and stared at the eye candy sat a few seats away. I’m sure he was quite concerned by my drooling but he never moved or said anything and stayed with us all the way to Hull.

Hull train station is like a mixture of something from Miss Marple and Grand Central station. It’s respectfully old and looked after but also tiled with echoey high ceilings. Laura and Vicki came to meet us and once the group hugs had finished and the passers by had stopped trying to figure out who was with who we grabbed a burger from McDogfoods and then went our separate ways. The girls to drink booze with the reprobates we were meeting later and us to our hotel.

Ever the one for forward planning (if you believe that you’ll believe anything) Brad had booked and paid for an evening meal in the hotel but part of the package stated we had to use on the first night. Well that was pointless as on our first night we were heading into Hull to get trollied so before we left Ireland he rang the hotel group and asked if we could change it for the Sunday. The agent said yes and just to talk to reception about it when we arrived.

“Orrr nurrr, we can’t do that!” said the Hitler-esque (fablous party-planner!) receptionist.
“But I was told on the phone I could!” said Brad.
“Nurr, we’re not allowed.”
“Well I don’t want it tonight, we have plans.”
“But she turld you on the fern that you could change it?”
“Yes.”
“Well as she turld you on the fern that you can change it I’ll change it.”

So, it was that easy! Why she couldn’t have just done it straight off is beyond me!

We were given our room cards and off we went. I hate ‘room cards,’ I’d much rather go back to the days of keys and key-rings the size and weight of a doorstop with the name of the hotel on so that you could wave it about and let people know which hotel you were in. Of course this kind of thing was only worth doing if you were staying in the Hilton or suchlike but even than some random skank would get a gander at your room number and while you were waving your key about talking about how wonderful the mini-bar is he’d be stealing your jewellery and mini-soaps and showercap!

The room was not like the picture, but they never are. We didn’t have a jacuzzi bath that we’d hoped for, or an iPod dock that the website hinted at. In fact, our bed hadn’t even been made properly but to be fair it was a nice enough room and clean. The brochure said our room came with ‘in-room comfort cooling’ which turned to be an opened window and a fan. We did have a big flat-screen TV through which made me annoyed that we’d only bought rucksacks! How the hell was I going to get that into it!

We relaxed on the bed for a while and then the usual “going out” routine took place. Bert had a shower and I ironed all the clothes. We rang reception to books us a taxi to the restaurant and our night out was about to begin.

Coming soon – The night out… the video of me pissed and my own little musical tribute to the night.