Loser Gets a Life

Woot Woot party time for my month long anniversary in London town, and what better way to celebrate than spending no time there?

Thursday I had a melt down. My first significant one. The day only seemed to get better when I exited the house and went for a long walk and the lady at the local café offered me a job. I declined then had to go home and cook the bearded English man Paul lunch as promised. I made him steak and made myself tin spaghetti and cheese toasties, again this improved my well being, and he then kindly dropped me off at Turnham green to meet the delightful Mrs Henry (oops) I mean Miss Gompelman with whom I have had the pleasure of catching up with only two weeks prior. I had a stunning night out with my ripping friends, the delightful hot Kellie, her significant other Kev, my favourite bubbly non boyfriend boyfriend Oliver and his equally delectable and perhaps marginally better half the young smoking hot Jessica and their two friends who I don’t know the names of. The waitress was more uncoordinated than me and spilt the whole tray of beer over Kev, who then managed to salvage some from his shoe to drink, much to the delight of fellow diners. It also meant as he is big time sports star and twitter fanatic, that the tweeting for us to now pay only half of our dinner, and have desserts free as he was now swimming in beer, meant that we not only got that; we also managed upsize of all our ribs and two bottles of complimentary champagne to share. Winning!! The topic of dinner conversation improved considerably when I pointed out that I have retarded thumbs. Kellie says that I probably shouldn’t tell people about my gluten rash, my retarded thumbs and refrain from snorting and I may have more chance with men.  Dinner with my dearest’s/ London family was exactly what I needed. It was instant relief.

Friday was productive I had interviews & stacks of them, I also had to do this HS&E exam in the morning, which after my first job offer, I minded less that I failed. Apparently you should study for it, and as study is something foreign to me, it was only obvious that after everyone said for me to study that I didn’t, booked and then failed. Ha, fluke I can no more it appears!!

Anyway Paul said that his work mate had booked a night away with his gf in Brighton and couldn’t go anymore and wondered if I’d go, I didn’t really buy the story, but I’m all about making the most of an experience, particularly when he is treating me quite nicely- as opposed to some of you other losers that may be reading this so after a hectic day of interviews and job offers coming out of my ears, I felt like my head was imploding and said that I would go. Brighton, the beach, is nothing of the sort. It is quite shit actually. And as you all know how polite and nice I am, I’m sure he also is aware that he probably shouldn’t have taken an Aussie to one of the shittest beaches on earth. I promptly took the opportunity to go back to the room and book a holiday with the equally unemployed Jess to make up for the lack of sunny beach action I was getting. Mallorca here we come.

Upon my return from Brighton, and met up with my friend with the largest head and littlest teeth alive, Tosh, and his London posse who were all awesome and lovely, to watch the soccer double header in Shoreditch. Within the posse were some guys I met at the tour de France in 2012 when I was here last. Yes, London crew expanded!

Sunday meant only one thing. Majorca. Jess and I had a pleasant journey from Gatwick and arrived in Magaluf, which is like Ibiza, but crapper. Some people including old mate Paul call it Shagaluf, when you get here you can see why. We spent the first day trying to have a quiet night in, but conceded early when we commenced strawberry daiquiri beach drinking from arrival, basically. Our hotel is debaucherous, but we are too cool for these kids, so went out and found our own fun. We met some circus performers and are off on Wednesday to see their show which also includes all the sangria you want and a full meal- sounds amazing. I wonder if they actually perform or we just get so drunk that we think that they do? We lasted until 3am. Rookies.

Sun, meant that the beach was called for and we spent all day at the local. It was there that we met the Italians, and Jess mind you is super impressed that I could converse with them. Francesco is hot as, he is Calabrian, doesn’t speak a word of English and could do with some work on his front tooth and then he’d almost be perfect. He and his friends Giovanni, Tito all play Division 3 in the Italian soccer league. Anyhow they told us that Palma was good. Well they told me and I translated everything to Jess. That night we caught the local bus to Palma, and were so glad to have done so. Shopping, shopping, shopping and real inexpensive Spanish food which I was delighted to introduce Jess to (Magaluf is catered to the Brits, so the food is shite). Tuesday was equally as successful, we asked a local where the best beach was to go, he then told Jessica she was the most beautiful princess he had ever met (whilst I was sitting there saying huh excuse me, and he goes oh’ you’re alright too but she is perfect.) and told us we were looking for Illettas. We asked numerous people for directions, none knew, apparently people rarely venture out of Shagaluf and said the beach is beautiful here why leave? Wow, so glad we went; this place was liquid ecstasy. It was like Lagos, Portugal but not quite as beautiful, with considerably warmer aqua blue water.

The remaining nights out were like a cloudy brain space. We met many ripped, smoking hot boys, i sat there and listened to every guy tell Miss J how she was perfect while she explained she had a boyfriend and then they would simultaneously move their attention to me- wankers! We danced many a nights and mornings away and drank copious amounts of caramel vodka shots, daiquiris, mojitos and vodka lime sodas. We spent our days by the beach getting 10 euro massages from chinese women and planning what to eat. P.S. Miss J and her food consumption is up there with my Mrs Miss Salvatore.    

However now sitting at the airport McDonalds, writing this as a broken corpse of my former self, severely hung-over complete with a large hollow feeling having spent 4 nights partying in Majorca- (plus a large Maccas meal with extra cheeseburger), makes me excited to be heading home to my new life and maybe even start working. Although really I just wish I could retire already.