The wake-up call came at 9am. I dragged and tugged myself out of bed and could have used a hand. We were all in the bus at 11am but Rusty and Daddyo overslept. We waited three minutes for them. The Singer decided to walk to get donuts. By 11.45 we were on the road taking in beautiful vistas and the gorgeous northern Spanish coastline. Keyo’s bus came with a DVD player and each seat had a headphone jack, we watched ‘Ronin’ for two hours. Pulled over in a small town for chicken sandwiches and were about 120 miles west of Gijon (pronounced ‘Hick-cohn’)

By 3pm we’d pulled up to the hotel and by 3.20 I was in my room on the 7th floor with a full view of the beach and harbour. Seagulls flew past my window and the wonder that is Gijon laid before my eyes like a long-lost lover. It was true bliss and it was around this time I caught a craving for something different, I was craving Irish stew. But I wanted to make it myself, but how? I couldn’t find Irish Barry’s number, then I text’d my friend, Sam, in Scotland. She text’d me back, she didn’t know but she’d find out and email me. She added that it was an odd request. I didn’t deny it, I love Irish stew.

It was now 4.30 and I was watching some Shannon Dougherty movie in Spanish. I could tell it was bad but nothing else was on. So sometimes I’d look out at the boats. The other guys went on a stroll. I was tired or lazy or both. I sat down again and thought about life, as I sometimes do. Most men, I reckoned, usually have a problem with money or they have a problem with women. I think I would rather lose my sight or one arm than have girl trouble. At least once you lose your limb you know it’s gone. It aint gonna call you at 6 in the morning asking for it’s Beatles CD’s back or you don’t have to guess what mood your old limb is gonna be in that day. Many men have foolishly offered themselves over these two things aforementioned. I guess people can’t get their head around these things. Well I aint perfect and though I have been left in a bad way by a girl or two I do know you always get over it. Hopefully, things are sensible and civil. And, failing that, there’s always the bar….

And then I got to thinking how all this longhand is gonna drive Caryne nuts and I even imagined her taking liberties with smug editorial sidebars! (Me, as if I would?!!) See, my handwriting is atrocious; I can’t state this enough and I snore, I’m short, I tell bad jokes and repeat myself, I change my mind often, I don’t hear so well, I don’t mind eating alone, I have bad taste in clothing, I’m lazy, I’m cheap, I like bad movies, I hate parking and I hate waiting. I have slight narcolepsy, I like taxis. I have no problem with pornography, as long is it isn’t too expensive. I hate cats and bullies. Most poetry is awful, as are most poets. Writing, I think, is overrated. So is learning and so is teaching (Here comes a side bar from Caryne….) (Actually, Mike, to a certain extent I agree with you about teaching but this isn’t my diary!!) and so is car racing. Visiting points of interest is only useful in conversation at parties and it only fools people for so long until they realise how much of a bore you are. Football fans make the best company. I prefer women who aren’t too religious and who eat meat (Now here a lesser person would put a ‘Carry On’ type joke about needing someone to ‘share a sausage with’ but I’m above that sort of thing!! Caryne) that’s just me though. Woman who take too long to get ready are just plain trouble. Add up all the time you wait for then, five minutes here, fifteen minutes there and, before you know it, you’re looking at months of wasted time. And if you’re in my shoes, and you add a seven year relationship, with a six year relationship, toss in about 90 minutes a day of waiting on them and multiply it and you’d see that I’ve waited almost a year. That’s a little under 10% of my last 12 years spent WAITING, so now you know why I hate waiting, because I’ve suffered.

Mike Randle