Road Trip
Last year I was enjoying a spell on the "rock and roll', and whilst in my favourite boozer in my home town of Amsterdam, an old chum who moved to Spain comes in. Much back slapping, beer slurping etc. Anyway dear pal tells me he is just up to pick up his caravan to return it to spain - three day road trip all alone back. "Bollocks!" says I and a plan is quickly formulated for me to accompany him.

Sunday morning and off we go North to pick up the Caravan. After just 20 minutes the conversation dries a bit, and I feel a little apprehensive of the trip - ahh no it's just early and the grey ones aren't awake yet. Well we get to the holding place for the Caravan to find that the owners have buggared off, and there is chums Caravan in a secured field with a fuck-off great big security gate in the way. After an hour he's had enough so we end up breaking in by dismantling the gate post, grabbing his property and heading off at great pace, me in dread of the Politie in tow. But fortunatley no cops and no immediate comeback.

Now my Chum can be a tad hot-headed (he is a staunch Welshman) and when he gets pissed off, he gets pissed off. And sadly this trip was the one to really piss him off. I'll keep it short but in summary, 2000 miles of no conversation, a very slow van, running out of petrol, losing my passport at the Spanish Border (this is two days after the Madrid bombing - we were let through fortunatley) and just general being called a useless cunt a lot. But eventually we get to our destination, not so far from the border with Gibraltar.

Now the fun really starts. I also find out my mate does not like being helped with anything, whilst I cannot sit around and do nothing while others toil, so when trying to help load up his new house for the summer, I am barked to just go sit in the sun, so I relunctantly pick up one of his garden chairs and as I try and move it to be more sunward facing, break the reclininig arm off. More abuse. And it got worse.

My mate has a rather powerful motorbike, and rides it like he stole it. 150MPH + most days. I am an experienced pillion, but oh no, not to his way of riding (I had never seen a pillion with one hand on the tank, one on the seat tail - works mind) - but of course I don't do that, so first 150-20 in 3 second brake and im struggling to hold on - more abuse (of course if he had of pointed out the correct method he prefers - ah well). And on it went - fag butts on the floor one morning - a death threat. One beer to many - I'm an alcoholic. In fact everything, no matter how trivial, was just wrong and I was constantly reminded of it. Demoralisation it seems was my pals speciality - and boy was he good at it.

On the Wednesday he left in the van to pick up the bike to drop me off in Gibraltar for the day (wanting to be shot of me for a bit), and just 2 minutes after he left (in a naturally foul mood) I realised I had left my jacket in the van, ergo it would be left where he was picking up the bike from and thus no jacket - no bike ride, and I just realised how mental he was going to get upon his return. It all just came to a point there and then and that I was at the lowest point I had been for a long long time. I had hit rock bottom - so low, and truly unhappy at the whole trip - completely demoralised and all self confidence and worth had gone. I sat down on the garden chair and realised that life was truly shit, I should never have travelled, my relationship with my once good friend was now impossible, and that things could not get any worse if they tried.

Oh the Irony.

At that precise moment, I hadn't moved or anything, but the chair I was sitting on which was now relying on just one reclining arm since my earlier fuckup, decided it had had enough and decided to throw me backwards onto the floor as the other arm gave out. A beautiful back somersault, base over apex that would have made Nelly Kim proud.

I was 35 and I just wanted to cry.

A hasty decision was made to leave for Holland that very day - phone calls were made to my girlfriend to help me get a flight, a mate in Cordoba said I could go and see him, and then my mate returns with the bike. I nigh on broke down explaining what a bad time I was having and that it was definatley time for me to go home. Anyway I guess he hadn't realised how unhappy I had been, as he lightened a tad and told me I was going on Friday as planned and to cheer up. Well the last couple of days were certainly better, and we are still good pals, but hell it will be an awfully long time before we do another road trip.
(Waynster James Joyce is fucking my sister!, Fri 17 Jun 2005, 7:18, Reply)