Behind The Smile....by Anon (A Non-Mother, that is)

There are two halves to most women's lives, clearly divided: BC (Before Children) and AD (After Delivery). As was the case with Jesus (should you be religiously inclined), welcoming a child into your life causes time to start all over again. Such is the significance.

For most, as soon as that second faint blue line appears on the pregnancy test, there comes a complete mental shift in attitude, long before any physical changes are apparent. The carefree, party-til-dawn kinda girl is immediately replaced by a responsible vision of virtue, much like the revered Virgin Mary herself.

Whether the newly-discovered foetus in her womb was the result of a drunken quickie or carefully-planned conception, it makes little difference once the nurturing instinct kicks in. No sooner has the pee dried on the plastic stick than she's tossing that half-empty bottle of Malbec in the wheelie bin and snapping up the Marlboro Lights in disgust. The devil's horns of yesterday's vices are discarded along with the duck liver pate in the fridge, cast aside with the blue cheese and the sushi. Out comes the halo and the wholesome holistic lifestyle. Mung-beans and muesli are on the mummy-to-be menu. For now she is about to enter Life: Part 2.
Shit's about to get real.

Of course, she always knew this day would come. Usually, it's a welcome relief. As much as she loved the clubbing circuit and hectic social scene, she was secretly growing a little tired of the accompanying hangovers, the wasted Sundays (in both senses of the word). Now she can decline the invites with a simple sage pat of the tum, without the insistence that "you simply MUST come!"

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But what about the 1 in 5 women for whom this joyous day never arrives? Those of us who went from dreading a positive test in our younger years, to positively yearning for one later on? Those of us who end up in all manner of awkward positions, mentally and physically, as a steady stream of health professionals peer, prod and poke our vulnerably exposed bodies, shaking their heads forlornly. As the realisation dawns after yet another failed fertility treatment that the day will now never come. What then?

Well, we smile and congratulate every friend, colleague and female relative as they make their announcements, beaming with happiness. We dutifully attend baby showers proffering gifts of baby clothes and toys (or hand over the ones we'd previously bought for ourselves, for our own future families). At this stage, we are still able to contribute to the constant baby-related babble; ironically, having been through years of fertility procedures and spent countless hours researching online, we know more about the subject that most actual mothers.

Later, we hold the gurgling new arrival in our arms, hoping that the mother doesn't catch sight of the tears we're fighting to quell. She never does; she's in a drug-fuelled fug of love hormones, intoxicated by oxytocin.

me with my newborn nephew, baby Hayden

Our lives take on a limbo-like quality as we limp along, smiling sweetly and doing all the things we've always done, as there's no good reason to change. We're the Peter Pans of the party scene, for whom the parenthood fairy never visits to sprinkle her baby dust and declare "Enough! The party's over! Now for the meaningful stuff...."

And that's the tough part.Whilst all our friends are now knee-deep in nappies, busily planning play-dates and lunches with like-minded mummies, us Non-Mums are left smiling along, standing awkwardly on the sidelines of society, our existence barely acknowledged. It feels as though we're driving the wrong way down the motorway of life.

Everywhere we look we're reminded of the ease of procreation: in the creche-like coffee shops on our lunch breaks or the many Baby On Board badges on the morning commute, those lucky ladies cheerfully counting down the days until they can wave goodbye to the office politics and welcome their Mini-Me.

Even the single-cell amoebas posing as guests on The Jeremy Kyle Show are reproducing like rabbits. That's Darwin's Theory disproved right there. Maybe he meant survival of the fattest, not fittest.

Henceforth follows years of carefully deflecting the endless enquiries of well-meaning strangers:
"So, how many do you have?.....How old are your kids?" ...."Oh, did you not want any?"
Questions that are hard to answer without either choking up, getting into a full medical history or simply sounding rude.

Suddenly, around the late thirties mark, the interrogation mercifully stops, as people become aware they're now in dangerous waters with those fishing questions. The relief is short-lived, however, as it becomes apparent that the inquisitive look in their eyes has been replaced by something far worse. Pity. Sometimes, other women hint at selfishness : a shallow personality explaining the lack of children. Okay, so I have my nails done and go on holiday from time to time....wanna swap?

It takes time to accept the life unexpected. To move on. Allow yourself to mourn the family you've lost; just because there's no body doesn't mean there's no bereavement.

Life has given us lemons, so we've made lemonade...and then found ourselves with no-one to serve it to.

So we add ice and vodka.

And rejoin the party.

This post has also appeared on the front page of The Huffington Post UK


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Sack the Stylist

Those first lazy, hazy days of summer tend to bring the average Brit out in a hot sweat, and not just because the mercury is rising.

This sweat is almost as likely to be due to the fashion dilemmas presented to us by the sudden, shocking appearance of that big yellow thing in the sky.

Despite the forecast of good weekend weather bringing a flurry of excited planning a week in advance, casting my beady eye around town it seems that half the population didn't get the memo. Instead of shaving, plucking and tanning to within an inch of our lives in a frenzy of anticipation, most dubious Brits won't allow themselves to believe the sun's about to put in a blink-and-you-miss-it appearance until the evidence is high in the sky.

Suddenly we're shoehorning pasty-white bodies into last year's skintight summer garb and whipping out embarrassingly pale, blue-veined limbs reminiscent of an anaemic squid.

This job is gonna need tools. Industrial-strength power tools.

Fire up the chainsaw and get hacking through the dense undies undergrowth. Get the shears on those thick horny toenails. I've seen elephants' tusks hacked off by poachers with more compassion than some people's pedicures. Dark red polish hides months of nail-care neglect; alternate clamping those feet in a vice and plane half an inch of hard skin off the trotters. Don't forget the protective googles: it's time to get sandal-ready, sisters!

Working as a boutique manager, at least I have none of the "what shall I wear?" daily dress dilemmas, since I spend the entire summer reluctantly clad head-to-toe in black, in the manner of a six foot blonde ninja, as my uniform dictates. I may as well wear a year-round burkha. It's like a cloak of invisibility. Oh how I wish orange really was the new black. I'd love a splash of colour in my sombre wardrobe. I actually have two wardrobes: one bursting with funereal work attire, the other my colourful civvy gear. Sadly, it's the graveyard-friendly get-up that gets the most outings.

Whilst the rest of the country flip-flop sloppily around town, camel toes showcased in ill-fitting white jeans or butt-cheek-bearing hotpants, I'm the one buttoned-up in black, my face pressed up against the cold tinted glass of the steely shopping centre, quietly mourning yet another summer lost to mall life. Two decades, in total. I've spent so many years encarcerated it's a wonder I don't have rickets.

The only consolation of being merely an observer of summer, rather than an active participant, like, say, a mum ;-) , is that I get to people-watch from my position on the sidelines of life...

As I sit on the park bench munching my usual M&S sarnie and scrolling blindly through strangers' holiday snaps on Facebook, I can't help but glance up and stifle a snicker at the many sartorial slip-ups of the other earthlings that cross my path. Well, I have to get my kicks somehow, don't I?

Some of the images remain burnt onto my retinas long after the offender of crimes against fashion has left my field of vision. Some things just can't be unseen.

I shall document a few of the aforementioned criminals' offending outfits henceforth....

Ahh, my first specimen, what have we here?

Exhibit A: The Urban Mum

The large battered brown Primark paper bags dangling from the buggy mimic the similarly-sized crinkly bags under her eyes. I hope she's got some big bug-eye sunnies in those carriers. A half-full (or half empty I should say, she looks depressed) Maccy D's drink cup clutched in one hand, squawking child wedged on the opposite curvaceous hip. A pair of faded black leggings are straining across jiggling buttocks, whose circular movement brings to mind a couple of hyperactive ferrets fighting for release. What are those monstrosities on your feet? Crocs?! Really? Those rubbery atrocities with little round holes where your dignity leaks out.

Her expression is as tight as her pre-preggo ensemble, her glazed gaze indicates she's miles away: daydreaming about the cold Sauvignon which awaits when little Archie finally sleeps this evening. She'll chug it down super-quick in a vain attempt to erase the horrors of today's toddler melt-downs from her memory. She clutches the wailing child to her heaving bosom in an attempt to pacify or suffocate him. I'm just deciding which, when my attention is diverted to....

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Exhibit B : The duck-billed platypus 

I swivel in my seat in alarm as a shrill sound emanates from this curious creature before me. I'm reminded of the mating call of some unidentifiable mammal I encountered on a recent jungle tour in Costa Rica, but no, it's just Stacey stepping out of her office for a sly fag and a catch-up with her fella via Facetime. She's cackling with laughter, a Pall Mall dangling from a glossy bottom lip, orange-palmed hands (from a recent dodgy tan job) clutching the phone.

There's a cool breeze caused by her 2 inch eyelash extensions and I gather my cardi around my shoulders with a shiver.  It's a good job there's no real wind blowing today: the way she's alternating between that constipated-duck pout and resting bitch face as the conversation takes a moody turn there's a good chance her top lip would be stuck like that forever.

Reassured I'm not in imminent danger of an animal attack, I relax and surreptitiously take in her outfit. She's slapping about in flat-footed circles in cheap ballet pumps like Pingu's pooed himself. Any real ballerina worth her salt would be horrified by those fallen arches. Corned-beef legs lead up to an unflattering pleated skirt and then....dum, dum, dummmmmb.......my absolute pet-hate.
A black bra under a white shirt.
Why, why, why...?
I have never understood that particular fashion faux-pas. Flesh-coloured bras, ugly as they may be, are clearly the only option under a white top. Like, hello?

My eyes! I look away, in pain. My finger is poised over the number 9 on my phone as I'm about to dial the emergency services. "Hello, what service do you require?" "Police! Fashion police! I've got an emergency....."

Hang on a minute.

I stop dialling.

Could that be....? Surely not....? Someone who's got it....right?

Sashaying along the gravel path is a lady who's clearly got this summer style thing down-pat. She's not so much walking along as gliding, oozing the kind of self-confidence that comes with knowing you're catwalk-ready. If she were made of chocolate she'd eat herself. I bet she high-fived her reflection in the mirror this morning. She probably has several thousand Instagram followers hankering after her on-point pics.

Long, glossy chestnut hair gleams like glass in the sunshine and she casually flips it over one shoulder and strides out in her strappy, low-heeled sandals. She's wearing a jumpsuit and managing to look stylish. At the same time. I'd love to be able to wear those things, but every time I try one on the leg-length is far too short, leaving me looking like Huckleberry Finn with a wedgie. I resemble a deranged inmate, a Death Row prisoner with no hope of reprieve....nothing like this slinky minx before me. A fringed cross-body bag and long pendant complete the look. I'm just wondering how you negotiate the zip up the back whilst alone in the pub loos, when I'm distracted by....

Exhibit C: Parsnip-leg Pete

photo credit

The only way to get from A to B whilst wearing the skinniest, lowest-rise jeans on the face of the planet without baring your backside, it seems, is with dinky pigeon steps. Skinny jeans may be passable on slender teens, but on the approaching chubby specimen they just look painful, as he lumbers up with all the grace of a wounded wildebeest, struggling to contain his hairy butt-cheeks in these blood-stoppingly tight numbers. It's not so much a camel toe as a moose knuckle I'm greeted by as he shuffles into focus, white pants clearly visible, bulging thighs giving way to chunky cankles. These jeans weren't cut from a pattern, someone just drew around the magnified image of a carrot. Or perhaps a parsnip.

There's just time for one last observation before my break is over, so I hone in on:

Exhibit D : Dad-bod Dave

There's something endearingly British about Dave: he's had a go at making shorts stylish, bless him, but he looks a tad awkward as his puny pins put on a brave show of propping up the straining beer belly that's clearly taken a fair amount of time, money and effort to acquire. Fair play to him, he's definitely put the hours in at the pub. Tatty tattoos are green and blurry, an impressive pair of moobs visible under pink Ralph shirt, collar inexplicably upturned. A pair of Ray Bans are perched atop the balding bonce. All the gear, no idea.

I glance at my watch. Break over. Time to get back to work. I get up from the bench, grab my bag, oblivious to the fact that my skirt has got tucked up as I haul it onto my shoulder.

I catch Dad-Bod giving me the eye.

It's a good job one of us has got this summer style thing down, I think, as I shimmy off.

With my skirt caught up in my knickers.

photo credit

                                                             




Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

The Buffet Mentality

As human beings living in the 21st century, we have evolved, adapted and invented so much that we are practically unrecognisable from the knuckle-dragging Neanderthals of times gone by. Yet despite the neatly-pressed shirts and carefully-sculpted coiffures of modern man, there are still the odd visible, visceral reminders that, like-it-or-not, we remain members of the animal kingdom, with all the carnal desires of the flesh being characteristic of the savages that we truly are.

This unsavoury fact is never more obvious than when we're surrounded by savoury foodstuffs. Particularly unlimited, unmanned, savoury foodstuffs.

Yes, I'm talking BUFFETS.

A buffet has the curious ability to bring out each of the seven deadly sins submerged just beneath the surface of our psyches, which are ordinarily forced down by our carefully-constructed charismatic public personas.

Lurking under that smiling exterior lie gluttony, sloth, wrath, lust, envy....all triggered by the dreaded b-word. Actually, there is one sin a buffet doesn't encourage. Pride. After all, there's nothing to be proud of whilst foraging nose-first in a tray of prawn vol-au-vents like some kind of demented sniffer-dog. The other six sins are, however, in full effect: vultures dismantle their prey with more compassion than your dad attacking the barbeque chicken wings, or that chunky aunt chugging down chicken nuggets without chewing, pelican-stylee.

The merest mention of the word buffet gets my salivary glands a-juicing and my elbows sharpened, ready to jab and poke my way to the profiterole tower. The second that paper plate is thrust into my hands I shrug off my deferential demeanour and the inner demon is revealed : beady eyes narrowed as I hone in on that cold quiche slice, dodging Aunt Nelly at the wedding as she slides into my peripheral vision to strike up polite conversation, focused instead of getting that oleaginous object onto my piled-high plate double-quick. To hell with the fact that I'd never ordinarily get within spitting distance of a quiche. This is a buffet. No rules apply.

As I load up my quivering plate with carby goodness, my only aim is to devour the lot pronto, so I discard the used (pasta) shells and reload the ammo immediately. Because as we all know, if it's not a sit-down meal, the calories don't count. You can slip those cocktail sausages down your gullet in gay abandon whilst absent-mindedly checking out the Best Man's behind, but if you don't chew them properly, the badness doesn't stick to your butt-cheeks. Or something like that.

It took me years to comprehend that liquids could be fattening. It just seems so WRONG that wine can make you fat, I whined. How can a cheeky champers turn you into a chubmeister? It sounded preposterous to me. The same is true of buffets: a nibble of nuts here, a scoff of crisps there...surely there can't be calories in a pretzel? They're made from wood, no? Hmm. I mulled this over with a mouthful.

Anyway, it matters not. There's no point protesting. The glint from a silver-plated serving tray never fails to catch my eye. The pull of the platter is as strong as a magnet and we are merely the iron filings being sucked towards it, helpless. There's no point in pondering it, just succumb to your basic, beastly instincts and plough right on in: strip those chicken satay sticks with gnashers bared, devour those sexy sweet-and-sour ribs with a shrug.

"What?" You say, all innocence, as the slimy sauce drips from your lips onto your dry-clean-only dress. "I'm merely an animal, after all..."

Where I come from, "All You Can Eat" is a challenge. No self-respecting 'Sarf-East Landan' lass is going to pat her tiny tum and demur softly, mumbling shyly about being stuffed as she nudges a limp lettuce leaf around the plate. Ooooh no. We like our nosh. And we like it unlimited.

I've had to draw the line lately though. I simply can't go on those 'All-Inclusive' package holidays any more. No matter how long I've spent primping and preening in the plush hotel room, the second I sashay into the rammed restaurant for our evening feed I'm transformed into a carnivorous beast : my pinkly-manicured nails become grasping claws, my glossed lips curl back from previously flossed molars to reveal blood-thirsty fangs.

It's like the Teen Wolf transformation, only not as cute : this is a crucial mission to consume the contents of every container. The Egyptian catering staff roll their eyes, before fleeing under tables as they realise the situation is becoming serious. This is battery-farming on an industrial scale, only the cute fluffy chickies have been replaced with ravenous Ruskies. The armed hotel guards in Sharm aren't just there to keep terrorists out, they are primed for the potential carnage at the meat-carving section of the buffet.

Silver serving dish-lids clatter noisily as I struggle to slap the entire selection onto my plate. Spaghetti strands fly, meatballs become missiles. Starters, mains and sides mingle in a mountain of mis-matched munch. Desserts are decimated. If I don't like it, no matter, it's discarded. There's plenty more where that came from....

Or is there?

I catch sight of a bun-fight between Russia and England at the cheesecake table. Tensions are heightened due to the volume of cheap free-flowing local spirits consumed around the pool this afternoon. Andrei and Andy are arm-wrestling for the last helping of tiramisu.

Afterwards, I'm spent: incapable of dancing the night away in my usual fashion as my burgeoning girth is fit to burst. I'd probably break the bar if I attempted to dance on it here.

The sickly-sweet wafts of the shisha smoke are curling up into my nostrils and curdling the contents of my jelly-belly. And besides, I reason, we need an early night so we can rise at dawn for the best seats at breakfast....

No.

No.

Stop.

This must no longer happen.

As an alcoholic avoids pubs for ever more, so a buffet fiend must distance themselves from the dining area. These days, I avoid all-inclusives at all costs. It may be a bargain, but what price your dignity?

Despite this strict rule, last night I slipped up.

Dear reader, I must confess. I fell off the wagon. The wheels came off the bite-sized bicycle. Throughout my day at work I kept having impure thoughts about bountiful buffets. I knew it was wrong. I tried to resist but the lure of the limitless legumes and four-meats mountain was too strong. Like a rip-tide pulling me out to sea, the tug towards the Toby was Just. Too. Much.

Eventually, I picked up the phone to Andy, my no-buffet sponsor, to plead for support. But it was no use. The thrill of the grill had got to him too. Like a couple of zombies, we drove full-throttle to the local carvery. The anticipation was palpable. We could almost sense the salty gammon, taste the tangy-mustard mash. The crispy roast potatoes were calling our names. We followed our twitchy nozzles like a couple of hypnotised Seventies Bisto kids.

To avoid the masses, I'd feverishly booked online. As I pass the menacing-looking oik with straining Staffy in the car park, it's all I can do not to whip the dog's muzzle off and strap it to my face in one last-ditch bid to avoid this buffet.

The sea of tracksuit-clad chavs parted obediently as we were led straight to our table. They'd had the foresight to wear their elasticated waistbands, but obviously not the nouse to avoid waiting in line. Gutted. Pass me the gut-buster dustbin-lid of a plate, I'm going in!

Staggering under the weight of the almighty self-service roast dinner, there's just space for lashings of gravy in the hollow of my humungous Yorkshire pudding. I am the Dyson of the buffet world. It won't take long to inhale this badboy and get my fix.

"What's that, Mum?" asks a moody-looking tweenager of about 12 years old, prodding the sloppy Dauphinoise potatoes suspiciously. "It's, errr...Dolphin-ese, love," she replies, leaving her daughter curling her lip at the unethically-sourced dolphin paste in disgust.

We retake our seats and tuck in, eyes rolling back in our heads, as the full-on flavours take hold. The fact that it's cheap adds a certain 'je-ne-sais-quoi'. Looking at the low price tag displayed on the menu as we chew rapturously adds an extra dimension of satisfaction to the experience. I take a sidelong glance at our fellow buffet-munchers. Telltale muffin-tops curl over 'skinny' (yeah, right) jeans, purchased solely because that was the only way the word skinny could ever shoehorn it's way into their day-to-day vocabulary.

Parents are piling toddlers plates into a volcano: even the podgy baby wedged into a highchair has beef gravy in it's bottle and a mushy roastie clamped in it's mitts. Doggy bags are slipped into weekender-scale holdalls for the pooches back home, who patiently await their owner's return, ready to rip into the meal face-first in a similar fashion to their beloved leaders the second they step over the threshold.

Even the frail elderly couple, rail-thin, who look like they have the appetites of anorexic sparrows are buckling under the weight of the plate as they stagger bow-legged back to their table.

Soon, the plates are licked clean.

Afterwards we're racked with guilt at our gluttony, as the meat-sweats kick in.

But not so much that we turn down a strawberry-cheesecake sundae, dabbing at our sweaty brows with the cheap paper napkins.

You see, when I see the neon-lit Toby sign at Badger's Mount in Sevenoaks, it's like a red rag to a bull. A hungry, angry bull. And I get very hangry indeed.

Stop!

No more buffet-snuffling.

This just will not do.

I've got a girly holiday fast approaching. At this rate I might accidentally inhale a few of my Skinny Minny mates at dinnertime. I need to be bikini-ready, not buffet-ready.

From now on I'm giving the buffets a wide berth. For the sake of my girth.  Andy and I drive home from the carvery in silence, ashamed.

That's it.

We've agreed, we're going cold turkey.

Mmmmm.


Turkey.

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Our Fifteen Minutes

Until the first episode of Ibiza Uncovered aired on Sky1, the fact that we were about to appear on a weekly television show hadn't fully sunk in. Sure, we'd signed on the dotted line of the contracts, filmed the "before" scenes: packing our cases at my parents' three-bed semi in Sidcup, then another happily skipping out of Harvey Nicks after our last shift. The crew had appeared at our apartment a few days after we'd touched down on the White Isle brandishing conspicuous cameras and big fluffy mics. But it wasn't until that first Friday night episode went out that the reality of the "reality show" finally registered.

By this point we were living diagonally above The Ship Inn, having moved three times already; following our two-week package holiday near The Egg in central San An we spent several fraught weeks at Villa Angelina, although that was the mother of all misnomers, seeing as it wasn't a villa at all, but a damp, stone-walled underground cave with an icy dribble of an excuse for a solar-powered shower slap-bang in the middle of the living area.

This low-ceilinged subterranean dwelling was wholly inappropriate for a couple of lanky six-foot sheilas like ourselves, so we took to crawling about in there like a pair of tipsy trolls, necks craned at awkward angles, constantly cursing as we bumped our heads in the darkness after a boozy night out. It was like a scene from Alice in Wonderland; we'd drunk the wrong potion, clearly. Angelina, the crazy old cat lady who owned it, must have been stifling her sniggers as she pocketed our pesetas after that particular deal.

The darkness in the cave was disorientating too - one day I worked 6am-4pm, and went home to sleep at around five, before waking at seven-thirty and running to work in a blind panic thinking I was an hour and a half late for my 6am start, only to discover on arrival to everyone's amusement that it was actually still the same evening.

The accommodation situation had clearly become untenable, so it was time for home number three. One day we simply pitched up at work with our suitcases in order to take up Juan's earlier casual offer of residence in the flat above The New Star, which, it quickly became apparent, was an even worse idea.

By this time Kez and I were working opposite shifts, one of us on 6am to 4pm the other 6pm until 4am, which meant we shared a lumpy single bed and slept on rotation, with one of us waking the other when we finished work. Being employed at The New Star was crazy enough, living there as well....total chaos. Dodgy characters, shady deals, suspect "ladies of the night" regularly passing us on the stairs...hmm, time for us nomadic numpties to move on yet again.

Our fourth and final residence of the summer was, thankfully, much more suitable - a two-bed apartment at the top of the strip, aka the West End. It was very noisy, obviously, but being above The Ship was a huge selling point for us, and at least our neighbours wouldn't be complaining about us playing loud music.

The Ship was, (and still is, 20 years later), a lifeline for workers on the island. Landlord John and his lovely wife Denise were like surrogate parents to the scores of clueless young Brits washing up weekly in search of jobs and a summer of fun. Their toddler daughter Krystal was similarly adored by us workers. To describe the couple as pub landlords would be a gross understatement; they acted as employers, recruitment agents, agony aunt/uncle, estate agents...you name it, they'd be there with a pint and some sound advice. To us workers, John and Denise were Ibiza's A-Team. If you had a problem and no-one else could help, they were the go-to gurus.

The homely pub was a constant hub of activity as workers gathered around the noticeboard scanning the job ads, watching telly or reading their phone messages, since none of us owned a scrap of technology : no TV, mobile phone or landline. (Come to think of it, we didn't have work permits either, but times were different back then).
It was like the local post office, with the added bonus of selling beer. If one of our friends or parents phoned for Kez or I, the bar staff would just shout up to our balcony to summon us down. The same happened when our programme was about to start : the pub packed with rowdy holidaymakers watching the show on the big screen, with Kez and I sat cringing amongst them also watching it for the first time, albeit from behind our fingers.

We shared the apartment with two other London girls we'd met called Sam and Maria, who also got roped into appearing in the occasional episode of Uncovered with us. Being savvy Londoners, we soon had the idea of moving various randoms into our living room for an inflated rent, thereby reducing our own payments considerably, including the bonkers bong-smokers Noah and Kristina, a couple of American body-piercers. It was a bit cosy with six of us in a two-bed apartment, to say the least, and sometimes I'd come home from work in the afternoon to find the door wide open, the flat full of revellers, music blaring and several fully-clothed strangers asleep in my bed.

Anyway, back to our fifteen minutes....

After that first airing we got our first taste of "fame." Maybe notoriety is a better word. Workers and holidaymakers (or "tourists" as us workers patronisingly tagged them) whom we'd never met began calling us by name in the street, asking to have their photo taken with us (I bet there's some horrific shots yellowing in many an attic), giving us their varying opinions of our on-screen personas and situations and generally offering unsolicited advice.

At first, we assumed we'd met them before, perhaps after a few drinks, but nope, they were complete strangers just sidling up for a chat. One family of nutjobs practically camped under our balcony for two weeks with a camcorder pointing up at us, filming us at every opportunity as if we were Hollywood stars. A few of the bars gave us a frosty reception, of the opinion that the programme brought the island into disrepute. I reckon the island was doing a good enough job of that on it's own, thankyouverymuch.

We started receiving calls from various journalists and TV production teams via The Ship's phone service, with regular exciting messages appearing on the noticeboard, leading to some welcome extra wonga from spin-offs and magazine articles. I flew back to the UK several times over the summer to appear on television shows such as This Morning and The Vanessa Show.




By now, we had several jobs on the go. Kez was propping for Amore Mio, an Italian restaurant in the West End. I was still at the New Star, we both did a spot of flyering and also sold tickets for Cream at Amnesia amongst other club nights, plus I was part of the entertainments team at Manumission. This basically involved dressing up as something ridiculous for the themed parties at Privilege on a Monday night, getting wasted and dancing on stage or mingling with the eight thousand clubbers in attendance, doing such random acts as peeling potatoes whilst sprayed head-to-toe in silver paint (over a leotard, of course) or dressed as a milkmaid milking a cow on a podium. The latter was the safer option, as I nearly gouged a few eyeballs out with that peeler as drunken revellers bashed into me. The week I had to hand out melon which I'd cut up in the middle of the club with a machete was a tad hairy too.

My cow co-star was a guy called Ben, who was really beefing up in his bovine attire. He'd get a bit irritable in the heat of a packed Balaeric nightclub in July wearing that full furry costume complete with huge udders. "Mooooo-ve," he'd cry as he negiotiated the crowds in his costume. In exchange for creating a spectacle (the only vague requirement of the role), we got into the club for free and could help ourselves to the workers' bar, plus a small wage. Sweet. We'd do a pre-party parade around San Antonio before hopping on a special disco bus (oh, it was special, alright) and heading to the club for midnight.

I have many memories of those hedonistic nights, my favourite moments involved floating about in the back room drinking a Coco Loco (an intoxicating potion whose dubious ingredients were unknown but the effects were pretty spectacular) and dancing ecstatically as the sun came up through huge glass windows. Then it was onto Space for the Carry-On, where Kez worked for a while handing out fruit on giant platters. Oh, how very civilised.

Space opening fiesta was another stand-out snapshot of the summer. Juan closed the bar, got the New Star team in for free, then the Sky crew rocked up and filmed our day, the joyous scenes of us dancing on the terrace in the sunshine with our fellow worker pals immortalised on celluloid, the many tatty VHS tapes of each episode of the series still lurking in my loft.

To avoid the extortionate bar prices, someone would wrap a load of drinks in a half-deflated lilo and sling them over the wall. The less prepared would simply go "minesweeping" instead, which was the unethical practise of swiping unattended drinks from tables.

And so the summer of '97 passed by - a heady mix of sunbathing, work, partying and general, off-the-charts high jinks, as only one who's been to Ibiza can understand. The daytime parties at Kanya, Mambo and Bora Bora spring to mind, to name but a few. Radio 1 parties. The Funky Room at Pacha. PAs from Sonique at Amnesia, Skin from Skunk Anansie at Es Paradis stand out in my mind. The MTV quarry party on the night Diana died. Morgana. KM5. There are so many anecdotes I could share, enough for a book not a blog (if only I could remember half of what happened). Perhaps these are best whispered in person directly into your shell-like, so I can watch your lips curl upwards and your eyes widen.

The overriding emotion, looking back, was a feeling of good fortune. How lucky were we to have escaped the rat-race whilst our mates slogged away at home like London-based lemmings? How lucky were we to be spending our days lying in the sun, working (in the loosest sense of the word), and going to the best parties and clubs in the world on a beautiful island at the pinnacle of it's popularity?

One of our favourite pastimes was sneaking a peak at our watches and then reminding each other what everyone at home would be doing right at that moment. At 8am on a Tuesday morning whilst people at home were on their silent stony-faced commute, we'd high five each other as we stepped over the threshold into Space.

In 1997 Ibiza was in it's prime, and so were we. It was the most amazing summer. From May til October we'd made firm friendships, most of which endure to this day (largely through the power of Facebook, which reunited us all, years later).

So it was pretty obvious that as we attended our final closing party and packed our suitcases at the end of the summer, the words on every worker's lips as we hugged each other goodbye were:

"Hasta luego amigo....see you next season...."

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

The New Star(t)

Like a cartoon bomb, the lit fuse on our two-week San An 1997 package holiday was getting dangerously close to it's explosive finale, so it was with great relief that Kez and I finally secured the jobs that would diffuse the tense situation, thus allowing us to swerve the depressing deportation back to boring Blighty and instead providing our golden tickets to a great summer of working and partying (but mostly partying) on The White Isle: Ibiza.

With just a small fistful of crumpled mil peseta notes tucked into the back pocket of my favourite faded Diesels, we'd been a-begging for jobs, cap-in-hand, like innocent little Oliver Twists amidst a sea of Artful Dodgers. Finally the grovelling paid off, and we gleefully tore up our return tickets to Gatwick and strutted confidently along the San An shoreline at sunrise, en route to The New Star to start work.

Eager to impress Juan, our Super-Mario moustachioed boss, we arrived early for our six o'clock shift, at around 5.40am. The previous evening we'd physically forced ourselves to stay in for once: barricading the door to our apartment and resisting the pull of the hypnotic house music wafting up to our balcony and beckoning us down.

We focused instead on selecting the most work-appropriate of the various rumpled skimpy outfits dangling from every available surface in the flat, and polishing up our slightly scuffed sandals - much like any other nervous newbie preparing for their first day in a longed-for job. Only this wasn't like any other first day in any other job we'd started. Oh no. This was about to be the most memorable first day ever....

So, it's 5.45am, and all is deserted at the bar, which is what we expected from this benign-looking establishment on the outskirts of town. Leon, Claire, and a few other staff are quietly sipping black coffees, bleary-eyed, as they shuffle about looking subdued, preparing for opening. Kez and I had made a pact on the walk up : to stay together and help each other along, having previously blagged it that we were experienced barmaids, musing
"how hard can it be, eh?"

To our dismay this deal, solemnly sealed with a firm handshake, is instantly broken as Juan stations Kez out at the back terrace bar and me in the main one. There's also a front terrace with yet another bar. Oh right. We hadn't realised there were three bars. We look at each other imploringly as she's led away like a death-row prisoner. Oh well, it'll be quiet so we'll have plenty of time to learn the ropes, I think. How wrong could I be....

The clock strikes 6am, the DJs Jamie and Dave fire up the decks, spin some vinyl and the beat of heavy house music fills the air. Seconds later, the doors of the bar are flung open wide and hordes of Duracell-bunny partygoers come piling through, eager to keep the holiday high-jinks going long into the morning after kicking-out time at the clubs.

Within minutes, the queue at the bar is five deep and a sea of thirsty faces surges forward, tongues lolling, eagerly flapping banknotes at us, vying for attention as they holler their drinks orders over the dance-music din. I'm like a rabbit in the headlights, pink-eyed and petrified. I've never so much as pulled a pint in my life. I'm about to learn, and quick.

The first attempt results in a pint of froth, the second sees me spilling beer all over me. I wipe my hands purposefully on my clean miniskirt and take a deep breath. I need to style this out. Juan is watching his army of trusty bartenders from a rickety wooden stool at the side of the bar, his beady black eyes boring into me, a lit cigarette dangling from his bemused lips. I don't think I'm a contender for Employee of the Month.

I bat my eyelashes, bite my lip and smile through gritted teeth as I try to remember prices, pull pints and locate drinks I'd never even heard of (Hierbas? what?) on sticky shelves, through a thick fug of cigarette smoke. I amuse myself with the mental image of Kez having a similarly stressful situation down at the back bar, but she's got the right idea, availing herself of the limitless supply of alcohol to soothe her nerves. I'm a bit slow on the uptake, but soon have the same brainwave and, following the lead of the other staff, swig a strong vodka limon between serving customers. I start to relax and get into the flow.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the bar is getting increasingly raucous. Having mastered the basics, I'm able to a step back and survey the scene : it's 10am on a Monday morning and it's what one might subtly describe as "all going off." There are sweaty bodies gyrating on every available surface, including wobbly wooden chairs and tables, although it's not clear whether it's the furniture or the flailing bodies that are the most wonky. It's a health and safety nightmare.

The sun is streaming through the chinks in the windows and doors to reveal beaming revellers dancing and chatting animatedly, marvelling at their good fortune at passing their Monday mornings partying in the sun rather than back in England (Ming-ger-land?), nose to the grindstone, the post-weekend blues rapidly taking hold. They can't believe their luck, and the energy is contagious. It's wall to wall Cheshire Cats in 'ere.

It's not just the punters throwing shapes, the bar staff and DJs are cutting some serious rug too. With the decks nestled right up alongside the bar, pounding bass and slow build-ups sending shivers up our spines, we have little choice. We are powerless to resist: the music is entrancing and we inevitably submit to multiple eargasms.

By now the bar looks like a bomb has hit it, spilt drinks, half-empty glasses everywhere, overflowing bins and ashtrays....but one look at Juan and I can see he's no longer bothered, as he clumsily pours us all another long line of vodka and lime (wodka lima!) chupitos as he jumps up and down.

The staff yell "salut!" over the music and down them in one, slamming the empty shot glasses back down onto the sticky bar and wincing in unison.
He high-fives me and, catching me off-guard, lifts me high into the air, looking wild-eyed and crazy as he declares that I'm his "favourite girl in the WHOLE of San Antonio!" in his unintelligible Spanish accent, planting a scratchy kiss on my cheek through his thick wiry 'tache. At least I think that's what he's saying. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and scrunch up my face.

"I take it I can come back tomorrow then?" I murmur under my breath...

The perspiring throng are, 'ow you say in Eengleesh?..." 'Avinit LARGE mate!"....eyes closed, lost in the music. I even catch sight of Emilio the chef, the palest squid-skinned Spaniard I ever did meet, shuffling to the beat through the kitchen's food hatch. He's having a cheeky dance seeing as there's not much demand for fry-ups this morning; everyone is far too busy dancing to even contemplate the greasy Spanglish menu.

The crowd fist-pump their approval as the DJs drop one tune after another. The unmistakable opening bars of Nalin and Kane's Beachball kick in, my favourite tune of the season, and I punch the air whilst simultaneously pulling yet another dodgy pint...

Then Ultra Nate's "You're freeeee, to do what you want to do...." really gets our juices going. This track will become another of our anthems of the summer, particularly resonating with us as twenty-something's who've escaped the rat-race and feel that right here, right now, the world is our oyster, anything is possible. It's like the song was actually written with us "workers" in mind....

Gradually the bar thins out and the volume of the music decreases, until it's 4pm and only a few straggly hangers-on remain, face down at a table on the terrace, the backs of their necks burnt by the
scorching summer sun, or chatting in tight little groups in the dark recesses and alcoves of the building, cowering from the sunlight, postponing the inevitable painful trek back to their hotel, more battered than last Friday's fish supper.

The following morning dawns and it's time to leave for work once more. I hang on as long as possible at the apartment willing Kez to show up, but these are the days before everyone and their dog owns a mobile and she's nowhere to be seen. Reluctantly, I leave without her, and within minutes of the bar opening, the party is once again in full swing. The place is heaving and we're a (wo)man down. She finally shows up...seven hours late for our 6am shift. Oops. Manuel is less than impressed, and later, Juan sacks her. The Uncovered crew show up to film us, loving the scandal. After a lot of grovelling, she's given another chance, although it's short-lived.

It turns out holding down an eight-hour daily bar shift whilst attending every club night and after-party on the island is no mean feat, even for a couple of professional party-girls such as ourselves. If our work timesheet was as good as our reliable Ammesia or Pacha attendance, we'd be model employees. We clock in and out of Space every Sunday with no problems at all, 100% attendance, impeccable records. No disciplinaries needed for chucking sickies or dragging our heels and showing up late when it comes to clubbing. No Siree!

However, it quickly transpires that we are gonna need A LOT of jobs this summer...

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

Whatever Floats Your Boat

With my brain still pickled from celebrating (commiserating?) a recent landmark birthday, and having dashed straight from a two-day business conference, it's fair to say that I arrive for my appointment at The Floatworks feeling somewhat frazzled. I've been burning my 40-year-old candle at both ends and despite my best efforts with the make-up, it shows.

I get off the rammed Victoria Line tube at Vauxhall and head straight for my float session, tired feet aching in towering heels, and am relieved to discover it's merely a stone's throw from the station, nestled amongst plush residential apartments in St George Wharf.

I am greeted by two fresh-faced, smiling young staff, who shake my hand warmly and politely introduce themselves, before offering me some water and a comfy seat and handing me a health and safety sheet to read. There is a pleasant aroma wafting throughout and a flat screen TV on the wall plays hypnotic psychedelic patterns enhanced by chilled background music, which all contribute to the relaxed ambiance.

"How deep is the water?....And how much salt?" I ask skeptically, contemplating the enormous corporate buffet I inhaled at lunchtime. It's gonna take a whole load of epsom salts to get THIS body a-floatin'....

Soon, my pod is ready and I'm led into a room where my i-Sopod awaits. Sounds futuristic? Well, it looks it too : a huge shiny egg with a lightweight lid sits surrounded by a calming blue light. The water inside is around 25cm deep, and about half a kilo of magnesium-rich Epsom salts are added to create a super-buoyant detox soup.

I need all the kidney cleansing I can get right now, so I take a quick shower and hop right in, slowly lowering the lid on my watery tomb. I have reservations that the pod will feel as claustrophobic as a coffin, but to my relief it's actually very spacious, and the high curved roof contributes to the airy feel. The water is so salty that it's impossible to lay on the bottom, and I instantly bob on the surface like a careworn rubber duck.

During the first ten minutes the lights gradually dim and soft music is played which fades out whilst I adjust to my surroundings, until I'm left floating in the pitch darkness. Initially, I'm lying rigid with my arms stiff by my sides, but as my tense limbs become accustomed to the sensation I start to unfurl and I'm soon star-shaped and weightless.

As the water is body temperature and I'm engulfed in blackness, it's impossible to feel which parts of your body are submerged, and I have to physically touch them to find out. Fortunately, for a die-hard make-up wearer such as myself, there's no danger of your face getting wet. I already removed my face make-up in the shower, but this means I don't have to worry about panda eyes with mascara ending up somewhere around my knees, plus you're advised to dry your face before entering the pod. With this level of saltiness, you're certainly not going to want to get it in your eyes, much less ingest any!

Similarly, if you have any cuts it's sure going to sting, so those thoughtful reception staff hand you a few packs of petroleum jelly at the outset to apply to those areas. Shaving your legs (or any other area for that matter!) beforehand is a definite no-no.  However, these pre-float precautions are worth the effort, as the benefits of soaking in this high concentration of Epsom salts seem endless: from eliminating migraines to lowering blood pressure, reducing stress levels, improving circulation, concentration, reducing toxins - the list goes on...

I'm no hippified yoga bunny, quite the reverse, so I'm hardly expecting some transcendental spiritual experience - and none comes - but I am acutely aware of both my heartbeat and breathing slowing considerably.

I'm sure meditation experts can zone out and reach a higher plane, but for an uninitiated stress monkey like me it may take a little practise. I'm sure with regular visits even I could learn to reach that level of zen, such is the calming womb-like environment. After a while, my aching muscles feel less tense, my head clearer. I haven't had a single urge to check Facebook for almost an hour now, so something strange is definitely happening to me....

I'm happily floating about contemplating life when, to my astonishment, the ching-ching tunes start up and the blue lights gradually come on, indicating I have five minutes left of my hour-long session.

I reluctantly climb out of my pod and enjoy a hot shower, availing myself of the delicious complimentary toiletries. Then it's time for a quick tidy-up in the Hollywood room using the turbo-powered hairdryers and GHDs. I'm offered a free herbal tea on the beanbags in the chill-out area, but alas, I have to dash, which I do as quickly as my blissed-out bod will allow. Back at Victoria Station there are delays and an accompanying level of travel chaos which would usually make my blood boil, but to my surprise I struggle to even raise a frown.


Finally home, I sleep like a baby and wake up in the morning with the soft skin of one too, which is an unexpected added bonus. Floating has never before been on my health radar, but I think from now on I will be making space in my diary for it. This is one item on my to-do list I definitely won't be pushing to the bottom....

The Floatworks
St George Wharf
Vauxhall
SW8 2LE
 0207 357 0111

http://floatworks.com/

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76

The Dream Becomes A Reality....Show

Following that first girly jaunt to The White Isle, the crew agreed that the trip had been the absolute dog's balearics and were chomping at the bit to get back over to the party girl's paradise as soon as our sixth-form schedules would allow.

The summer of '94 followed a similar pattern to the previous year, only this time we were older and wiser; we swerved the grasping rep's evil clutches, avoiding the welcome meeting and therefore any attempts they'd make to tease the traveller's cheques from our sweaty paws in exchange for a lukewarm watered-down jug of sangria and a tacky talent show.

No cheesy congas through the West End for us this time, oh no, now we were clued-up chicas who frequented Space, Ku Club (now Privilege), Amnesia and Pacha. We could cherry-pick the best nights at the creme de la creme of clubland.

Ibiza became an annual pilgrimage; we'd slog all year, tucking away tenners here and there in between celebrating our eighteenth birthdays or spending nights down at The Moon and Sixpence pub in Welling, The Polo Bar in Bexleyheath, or cheesy local Kent nightclubs such as Bridewells, T's and Zens. These clubs weren't exactly the epitome of cool clubbing, a world away from their Ibizan counterparts, but they were close to home and so convenient for a mid-week mashup, what with school in the morning and all....

Eventually we'd build up enough funds to trot down to Thomas Cook and proudly slap our hard-earned moolah into their mitts, then we'd be counting down the days on the calendar until our skittish excitement reached a crescendo and the big day arrived, stirring fluttering butterflies in our flat teenage bellies.

Aged 19, despite getting top grades at A level, I'd binned the university offers in favour of gleaning some hands-on experience at the University of Life. I wanted to roll up my sleeves, get to work and start earning some dosh. However, here I was, merely a year or so in and already feeling a bit meh....and then later totally disillusioned. Oh well, only another fifty years to go. But then a little seedling of an idea took root deep in the fertile soil of my brain, and I began to formulate a cunning plan. Why was I spending fifty long weeks of the year working in the UK, for the sake of spending just two weeks in the place I really loved? Surely this was all out of kilter? How did other young people get jobs in Ibiza and pop back to the UK for the odd visit, rather than vice versa? I was determined to be one of them...

The monotony of working at WHSmith Liverpool St (which was basically a slow and painful death disguised in a putrid A-line skirt and naff polyester shirt and sold to me as a 'fast-track management program') soon galvanised me into action. It quickly became apparent that the starchy beige uniform and mundane repetition of the role just would not do at all. Not if I didn't want to gouge my own eyeballs out in frustration at having to manually place daily book orders, poring over reams of print-outs of recent books sales and decide which stock to buy in next. My colleagues and I were eager to shrug off our geeky threads and shimmy on down to the local bars and clubs.
We were the Levis Club : always out the door at 5.01.

However hard we tried, and we were very persistent in our concerted efforts to replicate epic Ibiza-style nights out, the grey and drizzly City of London just wasn't cutting the mustard.

Over an Archers and lemonade (hey, it was fashionable at the time!) we'd fantasise about telling Mr Philpott (our boss) to shove his book orders somewhere unspeakable and jet off to the white island, pronto. I'd suggest this poker-faced and deadly serious, but when the dutch courage had worn off the other girls seemed a little less sure. I didn't fancy being Billy-No-Mates on Bossa beach, so the idea was temporarily shelved.

A year on, I saw my opportunity for a new life in the sun and seized it with both hands. It came packaged in the form of a fellow six-foot blonde bombshell colleague. By this point, I'd sacked off Smiths in the name of sanity and was now working in the more suitably glamorous surroundings of Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge as a make-up artist and skincare consultant for Clinique, alongside a new party-loving partner in crime, Kez Wells. Equally passionate about what happened between the hours of 5pm-9am rather than the boring 9-to-5, she listened quietly yet intently to my plans...and to my delight instantly signed herself up.


"I'm in!" she declared with a high five, and off we trotted to the pub to celebrate.

By sheer coincidence, a few weeks later we were working our notice periods and planning our new life in Ibiza when we had a chance encounter that was set to spice up our summer. Kez was chatting animatedly to a customer on our Clinique counter, who happened to ask if she enjoyed her job. "Yeah it's cool," replied Kez casually, but me and my good mate Sam over there are off to live in Ibiza next week."

The customer, it emerged, was in fact Sam Brick, a producer for Sky, who was about to start work on a brand new fly-on-the-wall documentary, the first of it's kind. It was to be called Ibiza Uncovered. Another ballsy blonde who I'm still in contact with, Sam has since found fame as an acclaimed author and journalist, becoming a household name in part due to appearing on Celebrity Big Brother after writing several outspoken articles.

Hearing Kez's words, Ms Brick's eyes lit up and she took our phone numbers, promising to call. And call she did. The very next week, the Sky crew descended on my parents' house in Bexley to start filming, much to the surprise of my family and neighbours, whose net curtains were soon twitching with curiosity at the van unloading huge lights, cameras and microphones outside our three-bed semi.

They filmed us packing our cases, interviewed us lying on my single bed gushing enthusiastically about our plans, which were woolly at best, having simply booked a two-week package "18-to-Herpes" holiday with no onward accommodation...or job, for that matter. Full of the optimism (folly?) of youth, and long before the days of smartphones and social media networking, we weren't remotely concerned that we had not a single solid contact and only one very weak job lead, figuring since we were heading over in May ('97), the season hadn't yet kicked off and we'd have our pick of the barwork.

A few days later, reality set in. We were staying in an apartment block by The Egg, a central landmark in the middle of San An. It was 10th May, the weather was a bit unpredictable and the West End, which I'd raved about to Kez, the Ibiza virgin, was deserted during the daytime, eerily quiet and dare I say it...a tad depressing. A bit like Brighton pier in winter. It became apparent that she thought we'd made a mistake in coming to Ibiza...which she told me, brutally and vocally, during a fraught fracas after a particularly boozy afternoon's sunbathing.

Nerves began to fray as time and money starting running out : we had to find a home and jobs quick-time, or face slinking back, tails between our sunburnt legs, to the UK....and reality....which neither of us wanted.

To be fair, we weren't exactly trying our hardest to find work, as every time we went into a bar to enquire, we ended up stopping for a "quick one" which led to another and another and suddenly it was 6am and we'd be dancing on the bar, the job-hunting as far from our minds as the childhood bedrooms that awaited us again if we failed. With the Sky crew rocking up at our apartment every few days to check on our employment status, it got even harder to find a job, since the huge cameras trailing us everywhere had a Pied Piper effect, a steady stream of lagered-up blokes forming a never-ending procession behind us, eager to get their grinning rat-faces on the telly.

A cheeky money-saving ploy employed by the bar owners seemed to be to invite potential PR staff to work for free on a 'trial shift' basis, whereby you spend several hours bouncing about outside the bar like a deranged goalie, desperately trying to catch every passing holidaymaker swerving to avoid you, then field them into the bar, babbling incoherently about free shots, all under the watchful eye of the owner. Us Brits are accustomed to the tactics of Chuggers (charity muggers) on every high st up and down the country, so are pretty adept at side-stepping the tackles.

Having watched his potential employee springing about like Tigger in the name of good propping, the owner then makes a decision: will he a) employee you and give you the peseta equivalent of a tenner for a good eight hours of nightly sweaty toil?...or b) blow you out in favour of the next desperate hopeful, thus securing himself a whole summer's free labour as a steady stream of expats come begging?

We 'worked' a few unpaid nights here and there in this manner, until one day we happened upon The New Star, a rather innocuous-looking bar on the outskirts of town, up past Bar M (now Ibiza Rocks Bar), near the petrol station. It was early in the season and a very quiet afternoon in the bar, virtually empty, so we chatted to the two young Brits already working there, Claire and Leon, who then beckoned Juan the owner over to us (later photographed below with myself, Leon and other New Star workers). He looked us up and down, asked if we'd done bar work before, to which we both instantly and instinctively lied "Yes!"

"Okay guapas," he said in his thick Spanish accent through his equally thick black wiry 'tache, "come back at 6am tomorrow to start work." Juan's business partner Manuel, looked on, bemused, from across the bar. Emilio the chef glanced up from his newspaper.

We wanted to leap over the counter and kiss him with delight, but instead simply sauntered out of the bar as cooly as we could, feeling a weight lift from our peeling shoulders, erupting into giggles as we rounded the corner.

Of course, being a relatively small venue on the fringe of San An, we calmly assumed it'd be a breeze - a chilled-out first shift whence we'd gently ease ourselves into the bartending saddle. No-one would be any the wiser that we had no idea how to mix cocktails or pull a decent pint. We'd soon learn the ropes.

Little did we know, as we innocently clip-clopped up to work in our heels and miniskirts at dawn the next morning, that in reality the New Star would be one of the most popular and notorious after-party bars on the island, a heaving hotbed of hedonism, a veritable den of iniquity, that would be the backdrop of an unforgettable summer.

Combine that with a stint in the entertainments team at Manumission, plus the television show we were set to feature in weekly with the first episode about to be aired, and it quickly became apparent that this was certainly going to make a refreshing change to the continous commutes and tedious tasking of our lives back in lustreless London. Oh yes, this was going to be an interesting season alright...


....To be continued....

                         
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76