Springtime on the Costa Blanca

Where does one stand? Sunshine follows rain as hot follows cold and warm comes cool. Like a woman’s mood swings during her time of the month, as are the changing of the seasons. T-shirt or Barbour coat? Who knows, I will take a guess? Can’t win either way, just like with women, doesn’t matter what I say during the change of her seasons.

Snow, sleet, or hail? Rain, wind, or gale? It don’t matter as long as the skies stay blue. An April snow falls and an Easter heat wave’s humidity soars. Flip-flops or Timberland boots? Got to get away, board a plane, where the rain usually stays. I yearn for chaotic consistency, Benidorm or Torremolinos? Too early for Ibiza, too late for Tenerife.

Sangria dreams and lager-fuelled nightmares await me. Cheap cigarettes and half-price cigars. Fish and chips, pie and mash, or calamari soaked in olive oil? Galician octopus and white anchovies with garlic prawns. Prickly heat on my back, not a grey cloud or miserable sour face insight.

A carton of Rioja for one euro, screw it, I’ll buy five, same as the hourly price for the beach’s sun-beds anyway. Tacky nightclubs, karaoke bars, cabarets, and casinos. Horny middle-aged birds named Tracy and Sandra that can’t get enough.

Seedy apartment blocks, high-rise hotels. Hail a taxi to the Old Town, lose bets, win prizes. Tell jokes, hear stories. Compare notes, compare past glories. Cinco Cervezas, por favor?

Kirstie Girl

Kirstie Girl eyes are brown. Happy face, sad frown. Yorkshire accent, London attitude. Scottish blood, English heart. You say you’re dumb, yet you’re vindictive, sly and smart. No makeup, no falseness. You talk so much yet say very little. White noise, my ears bleed. Give it a rest, I plead…

Just Landed

Sweat leaks from my face with a power drill headache. Where did the previous seven hours go? Last recollection I have is of the terminal bar at Schiphol. Onward to the duty free for 2,000 Marlboro.

Announcements in Arabic and English ring havoc in my ears. Shit, did I delete those nudie pics of my ex-girlfriend off my phone? Oh fuck, I hope that Dutch Hash isn’t still in my pocket? Beer and Brandy stained jeans, piss-soaked underwear. Shirt that smells like an athlete’s locker room. Unbrushed teeth, mouthful of vomit, lethargic eyes, itchy scrotum. Hands with dermatitis and chemical burn.

I handover my passport to the big Emirati guy dressed all in white, he stares vigorously, looking me over. I become unnerved and shifty. He chuckles aloud at my leaking skin and shakes his head. Stamps me in for 30 days, I alight the terminal, shaking uncontrollably into the humid Dubai night.