Home | Features | Music | Fashion | Interviews | Archive | Contact Us



The Adventures of a Nobody

By Bernie Bostik 



The call came in on the Motorola flip thing - one of them first models that weighed a ton. 'Get your self a transit van and get yourself down to the smoke'. So six hours later I was in the smoke hooking up with  Gerry 'Dog Cum' - He got his nick name from obviously being on the receiving end of some mutts love juice,  the mutt being a mates staff which was asleep on the couch having a wet dream when Gerry got in it's firing line. He had a jet ski that needed delivering to Ibiza - without going into specifics some sweaty had a debt with the lads and had his jet ski confiscated and with the lads needing a play thing for their summer chilling out on Sellinas beach,  I cop for a free holiday.


With my pockets bulging with jock twenties (exies given to me by Dog Cum) I was off in the  van with only a small Sony tape machine on the front seat and three tapes for company, oh and of course a jet ski in the back. The three tapes were:


1) The Flying Teapot - Gong. For those scary  night-time speeding in the fast lane motorway drives. There is nothing better for getting the adrenaline pumping than trying to dodge your way through the wagons and their spray,  whilst descending down over the Massif Central into Montpelier at 120kmph in the pitch black  in the middle of a relentless thunder storm, in a van with balding tyres and grinding brakes,  with the wipers on full whack and visibility still down to zero thanks to the steamed up windscreen, with "I am, you are, we are crazy" pumping on the stereo. I think Fergie refers to it as squeaky bum time.


2) Rubber Soul - side A, Revolver - side B Beatles tape. For those picking up some female hitchhiker type drives. They're a great ice-breaker the Beatles, everyone loves them especially foreigners. So you can while away the first hour or so after picking the victim...errr...I mean passenger up,  by chatting the usual fab four fables "me mother went to school with Paul McCartney and me dad fixed Ringo's Ford Zephyr once... honest to god la"  before you get on to more important issues like "If you let me in your knickers I'll promise to take you  all the way to Marrakech" before they do a runner at the next toilet stop .


3) And some Italiano piano house mix conundrum kindly donated by Dog Cum, for those cruising around built up areas,  wolf whistling the skirt with the windows down and the system up, for full on white van man mode type drives.


With my cranium a little worse for wear thanks to the Tequila slammers me and Dog Cum twatted the previous night In Break for the Border on Argyll Street and the jazz funk rollie I had for breakfast  before departing, I got lost. Basically I had the mother of all  whities and ended up going the wrong way on the M25 and before I knew it, It seemed easier  to go to Harwich and catch the ferry to Holland instead of driving to Dover and catching the ferry to France (it was one hell of a whitie I tell thee). It was no hard ship really It just added a few extra milage to the jaunt and the ferry ride taking all night instead of just an hour and a half. With bars, cabarets and casinos to entertain me on board I thought I had made the right decision. On being woken up by the boats address system at 7 o'clock the next morning telling me to disembark, I knew I had made the wrong decision. My head felt as though all its brain juice had been vaporised by the presence of a killer axe in the head migraine,  as it screamed 'GET ME SOME H2O YOU BASTARD'. My last memory of the night was crawling to my cabin on my hands and knees after downing shots of gin and vodka with a long haired biker from Birmingham,  who I  annoyingly kept calling Boon even though he kept reminding me his name was Ray and his fat arsed leather clad misses called Tina .(I was deffo on for a 3some until I collapsed off the bar stool)


I quickly got my bag and fucked off into the bowels of the boat to search for my van. As I rolled off the ferry I joined a queue of traffic fronted at the head by what I thought was just the Dutch immigration. On closer inspection it turned out to be not only the passport militia,  but just the other side of their barrier there was a few Dutch plod randomly tuggin'  drivers and giving them a Breathalyzer test. SHIT!  A few  hours previous I had been doing my  Georgie Best impression with Fat Arse and Boon, how was I going to swerve this one? Luckily for me the plod were to busy with a gang of English louts in a mini-bus to take any notice of me as I wobbled past. I  purchased a map  and  planned my route over a ouitmeister (Dutch ham and cheese omelette) breakfast at a near by cafe. Brussels, Paris, Barca then ferry over to I-bye, easy peasy lemon squeezie.


Not so, the Brussels ring was a 'mare and took hours. Paris wasn't too bad as I just skirted around the bottom on my way heading south. The problem started when I was becoming tired and was looking for a hotel at one of the service stations south of Paris. Everyone was full, even a few trips into little one horse towns just off the beaten track were a waste of time, as that just served to blow my cap even more as I got more and more agitated the further off coarse I drove. I finally ended up getting my head down in the van at the services. I parked up foolishly next to a family of Moroccans who squatted on the kerb side spitting their mad lingo at each other till dawn, which didn't help my sleep pattern.  Which had gone to fuck over the last few days ( about 8 hours kip in the past 72 hours). FUCK IT. A couple of strong coffees and another speedy sherbet dip dab with the finger in the bag of fast  and I was on the road again. Apart from the squeaky bum moment in the storm I zoomed through the rest of France hassle free, that was until I came to the last Péage just before the border with Spain. I had run out of French Francs and the ugly wart faced gremlin was giving me iron girder from her booth. They would take sterling but were confused by  my Scottish sterling, what threw them was the three different connotations the Scots have of a twenty pound note. The Bank of Clydesdale note, the Bank of Scotland note and then the Royal Bank of Scotland note. It didn't matter about all the different types I kept insisting,  as I  pointed out the words '20 pounds sterling' in all it's glory printed on every note. After an hour of phone calls, consultations with duty managers and so forth they finally accepted the sweaty poke, but I was to pay a premium by the inflated exchange rate they charged me - cunts! 


Barca was the next stumbling block as the ferry to I-bye was chocca until the next day. So a night down La Rambla was spent,  eyeing and sometimes fucking the whores on display and who by the way,  had no problem with accepting my jock scores. I took my place in the queue for the ferry the next day with all other types of assorted people in an array of vehicles; families in cars, lads in vans, dudes on Harley's', well-to-do's in 4x4's pulling speed boats, hippies in Volkswagen campers, every single one of them going over to the mystical island for there own special adventures and reasons. The two posh hooray henry types in-front of me were going over to film an advert for Davidoff Cool Water aftershave. They would be filmed sailing their  massive yacht (which they were towing) around the island. They were Britons best sailors in there certain category and that's how they got the gig. They were ok as it goes, one of them was the responsible one and the other  was just there for the free booze and party and reminded me of Tim nice but dim.


Once on the ferry i made my way to the bar and joined Tim and friend. On the next table was a couple of young Spanish lads and an absolute model material hot to trot  German dame. You could tell that Claudia Shiffer was bored with Don&Juan  and it wasn't long before we snared her into our company,  or so we thought.  Straight away Claudia  set off on a tirade of blowing ones own trumpet by telling us she had a job as a dancer at Pacha  waiting for her when she got to the island, ( she had the body for it, I'll give her that) and that she knew all the club promoters/owners/djs etc etc. Yawn yawn bloody yawn (think Sophie 'its all about me' Anderton on Love Island...or was I the only sad twat who was hooked on that pile of shite!?). I got on her straight away when she asked me when I was going to spark that spliff she'd seen me build when she was sat on the next table (this being the real reason for being blessed by her presence). You could just get on that she was  one of those drug whores (yep , think Sophie again),  who go to places like Ibiza and hop around from one lad to the next,  but all the time cleverly working their way up the food chain until they end up with a main player.  She stayed with us for two joints (one of which she rolled and front loaded  to fuck) until she got distracted by, and then quickly joined a  couple of Italian Stallions at the bar who looked as though they'd had a stripe.


I bumped into Claudia again in Space the following morning after going straight from the ferry, but she was to enthralled with the Flavio twins from the boat to notice a nobody van driver like myself out here on a freeman's,  buying all unsundry Stolichnaya shots at the bar while one of the lads was waiting for me back at the ferry. I later became Spaces own shuttle bus service when after shutting the doors and throwing us out, I had the unmanageable task of driving about 15 of the clubbing casualties  to their preferred drop off points all over the Island. With five left in the back we headed for Sellinas Beach to continue the party. I found myself a nice secluded spot on the beach and crashed out for 3 hours. When I awoke in the baking sun the colour of a Salmon Sashimi, I knew it was time to get off. I got my head together and made a few phone calls and the location of the lads hotel was found. When I finally arrived they were outback sitting around the pool sipping San Miguel. I walked up to them and without saying a single word stripped bollocko before belly-flopping into the crystal clear blue water of the pool.


After a few hours kip followed by a shower , shave and a raid of the lads wardrobe we were off out. The night started at a Dutch mates villa up in the hills who was having a sort of pre-club barbecue, with all kinds of beautiful people in attendance. The decks set up by the pool were being used by some well known Dutch female DJ, that I'd never heard of.  After my kip-sate and numerous bottles of beer, I was ready for my chemical injection.  I asked one of the lads who returned swiftly with a bag of twenty pills, on putting them in my top pocket of the borrowed Armani denim shirt and giving them a slow tap he told me with a cheeky grin "don't go mad they've got to last you all night" And that was it, the next few days  just collapsed into a full on orgy of pills'n'thrills in Amnesia then more pills'n'thrills in Space, then even more pills'n'thrills in Pacha then finally  bellyaches back at Space.


I can only remember little snippets of certain bits. Like doing some outrageous queue jibbing as we got ushered into Amnesia opening night like VIP's - that place just blew my mind. Just as we entered some Spanish mush (probably the DJ) was in mid rant  on the microphone about "Welcome to Amnesia's opening night" or words to that effect then everybody went mad and started doing the Charleston as he spun a mix of that tune Doop. Then the next morning me and one of the lads pretending to dance but just really shadow boxing with the numerous Freddie Mercurys on the dance floor inside at Space and that song Waterfall by Atlantic Ocean seemed to get played to death everywhere. At one stage in Pacha  as I was just poppin the last of the pills (I will admit one or two tablets went west  down the gullets of a few horny disco queens as a reward for  indulging in abit of turning-me-on dancing),  I could of swore the DJ done about a 2 hr mix of the song. Claudia  blanked me again in Space - I am not surprised really as I was being a proper string vest out on the terrace as I took out a table full of drinks as I tried to bounce over to her to say hello. Everyone ended up back at the Dutch kids villa for one hell of an after party, which lasted for two days. The 'Handbag' one of the lads spent the two days on a horrific para one on the villa roof, with a pair of binoculars looking out for the Guardia Civil - the fucking nutter!!  While I buzzed around from one gorgeous E queen to the next but all the time getting swatted away like some irritable sex pest fly.


I had sampled the Islands legendary night life, now it was time for a bit of rest and relaxation down on the playa for a few days. The Dutch lads had got a trailer for the jet ski and towed it using there jeep down onto the beach for us, they also got first go on it -  Klootzaks!   It was one of the clauses in my contract that I got first go. Anyway I was made up because the fella had only been out on it for a few minutes when it conked out. It took him forty minutes to swim back with the thing.That was it, with the thing fucked there was nothing else to do apart from take cover under the umbrella and hide my singeing flesh from the rays of the sun, leaving all the bronzed European gods and goddess doing what they do best,  flirting and coping for eachother. I sat jaw ajar in wonderment as tanned gladiators strode confidently over the sands butt naked , plonking them selves next to the juiciest tits and neatly trimmed pussies on show then have the nerve  to chat them up whilst their unleashed todgers nuzzle for all to see in the sand. Me, a  skinny pink blistered Warrington speed freak was dumb founded by there bare arsed cheek. I spotted Claudia over at the beach bar and this time she didn't blank me. It wasn't long before she had wormed her way into our company and within the hour had disappeared into the sand dunes with one of the dutch lads ( she became a regular at the Dutch lads villa and went through three of them).



With the van due back soon ( I'd told them I was only going camping in the Scottish Highlands for a week or so) I received another wedge of twenty's for my journey back. I went over my route over a full English and with the lads chipping in with some sound advice, I decided upon a drive to Santander and catch the ferry to Plymouth. With less driving and spending a few days out on the ocean waves I thought this was the easier option. The only problem -  well it wasn't a problem at all because I loved the place - was having to spend a few days in the Basque country waiting for the ferry. Having never been to this part of the Iberian peninsula  before I was gob-smacked by it's beauty. It was so much greener than the rest of the burnt lunar landscape Spain provides. Driving along the coast road watching the frothy white Atlantic cascade off the sand and rocks was breathtaking. And  Santander  with all it's gorgeous scrummy seafood restaurants. It was here I had my first taste of the dish that is know in the Basque country as Chipirones en su Tinta,  which basically translates to 'baby squid in its own ink'.  I couldn't of wished for a nicer place to spend a couple of days on my own. There is something about being on your own and not with the lads that wants to make you become all cultured and do mad things like go and visit cathedrals and shit. But alas not this time. As I did the usual uncultured thing and got bladdered and went on a stomp for the nearest cat house - well more of a walk out of the hotel *arm up in the air*  *whistle*  "TAXI".........."Putas senyour and don't spare the horses"  type stomp. I did receive a bit of culture when I was given a history lesson off an old fisherman whilst indulging in some tapas in a packed local bar. His English was a little ropey but with a sort of translation off the young bar man I got the jist of the story. I found out why the Basque people hate the rest of Spain and in particular  the people of what was Francos stronghold  in Madrid so much. It was Franco who sanctioned a bombing raid by his bezzie mate Adolf on a Basque town killing thousands of people - the reason for the raid, so the Nazi's could test some new weapons out!  I vowed to return to Northern Spain as soon as possible but  I have only been back once, when me and a mate endured a twelve hour drive from Marbella to Celta-Vigo to watch Liverpool get stuffed in the UEFA Cup.


The ferry ride home was uneventful as I spent most of my time trying to chong the chunk of  pollem i had left before having to engaging with the Plymouth customs and excise people. I did get talking to a nice Argentinean family ; mum - in her 40's dark haired brown eyed dream MILTF , dad -  a balding Ron Jeremy, a 20 year old mini-me-of-her-mother-stunner and a teenage son. They were on a European tour and their next visit was London and I became there own personal concierge as I filled their ear drums with information about the smokes best places to visit. I bumped into 'mini me' on deck one day  and dragged her off for a coffee were I forced my phone number upon her and told her to phone me when she was in London, she only said yes to get rid of me because unfortunately the call never came.



The lads got the jet ski fixed and spent the rest of the summer farting about on the water at Sellinas  and hob knobbin' it with the jet set in the Islands clubs. Me...?  I just sat at home smothered in aftersun waiting for the next call to come in on the Motorola.





Home | Features | Music | Fashion | Interviews | Archive | Contact Us

Copyright © 2006 Swine Magazine. All rights reserved.