It Wasn’t Me…

Absolutely nothing to do with me. Or Mrs Funk...

There WAS Life Before The Computer…

The Day The Music Died?

RIP Jacko…

Keep The Mosquito Out Of My Mojito!

My view

With the culmination of the wedding, and the return of most of the members of the wedding party back to jolly old Blighty, life has settled into a steady rhythm of getting out of bed, eating breakfast and bagging a suitable spot by the pool…

There is constantly the temptation to eschew the daily lolling around and set off on an overpriced excursion to swim with dolphins, or experience first-hand the no doubt majestic delights of one of the official 7 wonders of the world – the Mayan temple complex of Chitzen  Itza.  Where we could climb a cyclopean stairway to the top (a task which itself would make the 199 step hike to Whitby Abbey seem a mere skip through the Lister Park crocuses) and visit the shed where they did all the human sacrifices.  However, aside from a bus trip to Cancun (disappointing, although we did finally enjoy a palatable ice cold beer or two), we have managed thus far to keep ourselves focused on doing not really much at all.  And that’s the way we like it.

The pool itself is just deep enough, nice and cool and refreshing, and not a German in sight.  It also has a ‘swim up’ bar, serving beers and cocktails all day long.

Spot the faraway look...

The swim up bar was a constant source of fascination to me during the early part of our stay.  I mean, for those inclined that way, it gives you the ultimate opportunity to sit at a bar and quietly have a pee… WITHOUT ANYONE KNOWING ANYTHING ABOUT IT!  Try doing that in the Kings – I’m sure the landlord would have something to say about it.

Having said that, I’m sure there are certain precautions one should take while doing so.  For example, don’t get too close to anyone while you let go – no one wants to feel a warm cloud drifting around their legs while stood next to someone with that faraway look on their face as they finally defeat their potty training.  Also, make sure you have ordered a drink beforehand, and make it a complicated one so that the barman doesn’t need to catch your eye while you are in mid stream – I’m sure he will recognise that look of intense concentration, perhaps from his own experiments earlier in the season.

Terrorist arms cache, or breakfast?

The food is excellent, with a huge choice of dishes at every mealtime.  I was a bit disturbed, however, to discover that the hotel appeared to be dispensing ‘Fragmentation Hand Grenades’ at breakfast time…

Although Mexico has had a fairly lawless reputation in the past, and I’m not sure about the laws here regarding gun ownership, let alone the right to own ordinance such as grenades.  However, in a bid to secure one to bring home for my weapon loving friends, I found myself getting up earlier and earlier, but they always appeared to have run out.  How we laughed when I finally discovered that ‘Fragmentation Hand Grenade’ was merely a dodgy translation, and in actual fact announced the availability of pineapple jam!

Our days here in this wonderful place are rapidly coming to an end now, and soon it will be back to the old routines.  After the trials of the past six months, this tiny glimpse of paradise has refreshed and inspired us, and I have no doubt that we will return in the future to retrieve the small piece of our hearts we are leaving for safe keeping.

On a final note, I notice from the BBC News Ticker that ‘the WHO have declared a global swine flu pandemic’.
That’s all well and good, as long as Daltry and Townshend treat the situation with gravity and decorum.  I mean, it’s not really a suitable subject for a rock opera is it?

A concept better than a deaf dumb and blind kid, or a step too far?

Imodium Is My Friend…

My friend and saviour

Well, after all the anguish and worry caused by the swine flu scare and it’s possible effects on our holiday to Mexico, our trip out here has been successful thus far, and the wedding which instigated it has gone perfectly and without a hitch…

Our take off from Manchester was delayed an hour or so though – due to a hole in runway 2.  However, our pilot was very forthcoming with information, stating on more than one occasion that ‘someone was looking into it’.

On arrival at our hotel, I was a little disconcerted to find myself ushered into a queue for ‘tagging’, the young separated from the old and different coloured tags issued to each.  However, to our relief, this was not a Nazi style classification which would lead to an immediate visit to the ‘showers’ for the elderly and infirm.  Merely the application of indicators which would define whether or not our consumption of the ‘all inclusive’ facilities would include alcohol.  Given the all clear by my subtly coloured red wristband (NOT to be removed under pain of death), my first task after the bags had been delivered to the room and the first of many tips distributed to the ever helpful porters, was to avail myself of the facilities offered by the many bars dotted around the hotel complex.

Accustomed as I am to the amber delights of my mistress, Stella Artois, the quality of the local brew is disappointing at best.  However, my attention was soon swerved by the discovery of the mighty Mojito, which has thus far satisfied my palate and slaked my thirst.

The hotel is magnificent, the food superb.  The beach is all powdery white sand and turquoise milky sea paradise, dotted with coconut palms for shade, and the everpresent bar on hand to dispense cold refreshing Mojitos.

Mosquitoes love me so much that they totally ignore the liberal application of bug spray that I faithfully apply daily, in order to avail themselves of a tasty meal.  My bowels have cranked up operations ten-fold in reaction to the foreign material I am shovelling down for them to deal with.

But who could care when faced with another day in paradise?