Christmas Part II: Cocktails and Dreams

Boxing day and those that followed were just as relaxing and mostly spent sea swimming and sunbathing. My mother and brother took a helicopter tour of the island, we all spent the day snorkeling with turtles on a catamaran and I spent my time catching up with friends who’d just made it across the Atlantic on their yacht in a neighboring bay.

It wasn’t the most active of vacations but I did manage to keep up with my training for the new years eve run and even gathered the energy for polo lessons. I’d been wanting to try my hand at the sport for a while but a hectic schedule every time I’d returned to the UK had allowed little time for riding, let alone learning to ride with one hand, standing up and swinging a mallet whilst cantering across a field populated by numerous other riders all doing the same in close proximity.

Having befriended several Argentine polo players the last time I was on the island who’d all been keen for me to ride with them but never having had time to take them up on their offer I decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to get back in the saddle. Very early one morning I headed up to Apes Hill Polo Club where life-long polo devotee Nick met me with a selection of polo ponies. (The Caribbean climate and the pace at which the horses move about the field require that each is replaced after twenty minutes.)

The first thing you have to learn is how to ride for polo. It’s at odds with much of what you’re usually taught when riding. Two sets of reigns sit in your left hand leaving your right free to carry the mallet. In order to position the horse alongside the ball and manouver as quickly as possible about the field the ponies are incredibly responsive and swerve left and right quicker than a drunk driver on a dual carriageway.

To get your eye on the ball and swing your mallet with enough gusto to hit the ball up the pitch you ride almost constantly stood up in the saddle and rely on the tops of your thighs to hold on as your lower legs are used to assist with steering and in your right hand a wooden mallet measuring approx 53” is carried. As you may have seen the idea of Polo is to ride along side the ball and whack it either forward or backward towards your teams goal. It sounds simple enough couple this with racing around the pitch at a frighteningly fast, (many polo ponies are ex track horses) canter and it's a whole different ball game.

It’s impossibly hard, frustrating as buggery to learn, scary as shit but absolutely awesome all at the same time. When the stars aline and you and your horse are weaving your way up the pitch at a rate of knots whacking the ball as you go it’s one of the best feelings in the world.

Polo was just one of many highlights of what has to be one of my all time great Christmas’ and the trip has inspired me to make several new resolutions/ambitions/dreams to follow:

1) Never to spend another Christmas in the UK – faffing around in Tescos at 6am on Christmas eve and trawling the west-end for slippers in the run-up to the big day really takes the holiday out of the ‘Holiday’. (Easily done.)

2) Investigate a transatlantic trip by boat. An inspirational Catamaran captain has assured me I’d make a great first mate and it’s a step in the right direction toward a lifelong ambition to row an ocean. (Apparently I just need to hang out in Harry’s bar in Antigua mid March, or the south of France mid May to get a crew gig so hardly a chore.)

3) Get my polo playing up to an ability where I can at least take part in a friendly match, (Nick’s able to accommodate a week or lessons when I return to the island and I have another spare week in Brazil post Carnival so could always head to Argentina for a little practice there).

Plenty of plans to make and lots to look forward to in the new year, but there’s still a little left of 2008 and one last flight to make up to NYC. So while it hasn’t been the best, any time you wake up and play polo in Barbados before breakfast and fall into bed after manhattans on Manhattan can’t be all that bad.

A Break From Tradition

After a rather unhappy Christmas ’07 and a difficult 2008 including the loss of both of my remaining Grandparents, my family and I resolved that December 25th 2008 would mark a change in tradition and departure from the norm. Following some extensive research and several location visits I persuaded my Mother and Brother that the Caribbean was the only place to spend the festive season. We booked our flights and ten days in a beach house in St Lawrence Gap, Barbados.

It’s my eighth visit to the island and every time I leave I want to come back as soon as possible, (so much so that I’ve already booked a return flight for March). It has everything you could want; great food, friendly locals, beautiful views, glorious sunshine pretty much all year round and above all it’s fun. Not just any kind of fun but the non-stop dancing, Champagne quaffing, midnight skinny dipping, sleep all day in the sunshine, aspiring lower middle kind of fun that makes Barbados to me what Hawaii was to Flanagan.

There’s no doubting the island’s capability as a great vacation destination but never having experienced anything other than a very traditional English Christmas the jury was still out on whether it would make a great ‘holiday’ location. Would Christmas eve really be Christmas eve if it were spent crunking to the beats of a steel band, rather than staring in awe at the fat bird downing Stellas on the fruttie at my parent’s local? Could the Caribbean sun really compete with the fun, frolics, car accidents, revelations of infidelity, domestic arguments and trips to casualty of Christmas’ gone by? We endeavored to find out.

Sadly the journey to this island paradise wasn’t quite the utopian voyage one might have hoped for. We spent a sleepless night in an overpriced Best Western that was playing host to its local bus company’s office party. The BA club queue at Gatwick was as rowdy as Walmart on black Friday and getting through security was a cluster fuck of New Look beachwear and knock off ‘Luis Vitton’ luggage on a scale only previously only seen the last time the Sun newspaper ran its ‘take your family on holiday for a fiver’ promotion.

Discontent and disheveled we headed straight to the gate where a lovely lady let us pre-board on account of my Mother having broken her toe on her suitcase as we rushed to escape the Western that morning.

A surprisingly short eight hours later we landed, picked up the car and headed straight to the beach house - a beautiful place and the only private residence with access to its stretch of sand. We settled in and hung out our stockings in readiness for the big day itself.

Christmas eve was a rum-fuelled, fun-filled evening at popular night spot the ‘Reggae Lounge’ so much so that the following morning saw my brother and I crawling onto the terrace of our beach house - stockings in tow.

Bikini clad and donning the size of sun glasses usually the reserve of those with a white stick and golden retriever we basked in the sunshine and over breakfast and champagne we raced our way through the mountains of wrapping paper. Several pairs of socks, a Smythson passport holder and numerous paperbacks later we all went for a mid morning dip in the sea, still trying to stave off a hideous hangover my brother and I, Champagne bottles and chocolate money in tow.

It was blissful and set the laid back tone for the rest of the day, we slumbered on the terrace before dressing for a late lunch and one of my favourite restaurants on the island, paddled before pudding then sated and a little sun kissed wandered back to the beach house.

Cake Loving Asian Twins Required

As much fun as Whistler was, as hot and dreamy as Barbados is, London ensures you never forget it’s a city where anything can happen and usually does. Where else in the world can your evening start with karaoke, full nudity, (in a public space and not on my part I should add), more wigs than a cancer care unit and a tambourine and end on an even more interesting/exciting, (and unpublishable) note. I love it.

It was great to be back home - seven whirlwind days of booze, good food, (loving Quo Vadis/disappointed by an overpriced Sophie’s in Covent Garden) fabulous shoes, (I need never watch another episode of Trisha now I have my Lanvins to excite me) and fabulous company. Despite the hectic social calendar in between Moscow mules and Pisco sours I managed to finalise a few more of the practicalities of the next few months, including the commission of my bespoke costume for the Samba parade in Rio.

Now while I’m not exactly sure what the name is in English I appear to be some sort of glittery, bikini-clad water-nymph, (think slightly slutty, transvestite, Ariel The Little Mermaid and you’re in the right kettle of fish). I’ve also obtained my Chinese visa for Shaolin, paid an unsavoury visit to the Job Centre and scored myself a few little freelance gigs. Largely to avoid a second visit to the Job Centre and in a vague attempt to keep the bank manager happy, (or from topping himself with a letter opener at the office Christmas party as may be the case). And so, equipping myself with all the latest high tech gadgetory, (Imac, Iphone, that one application only sunscreen stuff) I’ve set up office on the veranda of our villa, (see pic 1).

Of these projects the one that’s occupying much of my tanning time over the festive period is organising a 40th birthday party for a dear old friend of mine. Simple enough you might think - pub, booze, food, cake, midnight visit to Rhinos, however this friend puts on parties for a living so expectations are considerably higher than a few sausages on sticks in the back room at the Bethnal Green Social Club.

The upside of the commission is having free reign with a sizeable budget and full use of the Aston/Range Rover/Chopper as required, the downside is actually organising the thing. So if anyone knows where I can find a snow making machine, 250 trilbys at cost and a set of Asian twins happy to spend half an evening inside a cake do please get in touch.

"Keep On Keepin' On"

Il Nuovo Anno

At long last the snow has arrived! Not in any record breaking amounts but enough to get both mountains open and me up to the peak and down from it doing the 9-5 with Dolly. And I’m as happy as a bulimic with a bad case of food poisoning. No amount of afternoon visits to Milton Keynes can ever compete with just how good being out on the slopes can be for the soul.

The only downside is that with getting my daily runs in and plenty going on in town time is racing by making Whistler something of a whirlwind. I’m loving the job, the slopes, and I’m well and truly settling into the Village scene with all my limbs, my liver and my good reputation remaining intact. The gondola launch is only ten days away and the press gangs start to arrive early next week. I’ve been banging out releases like they’re going out of fashion and have even managed to incorporate the phrase ‘twin peaks of panties’ into a recent corporate announcement.

However despite my daily homage to the mountain gods, fresh snow remains sparse but ‘a large dump’ is forecast for Friday which will hopefully make for plenty of powder fun over the weekend and finally give me the opportunity to shred the sick gnar with the kids. Officially the weekend starts tomorrow with the launch party for the Whistler Film Festival and my weekly meet with a local kick boxing trainer before jetting down to Vancouver for the Radical Christmas party, back to the mountain for Saturday night après fun and here’s the piste de resistance of the entire trip... the Cuban Brothers at the GLC on Sunday night.

Those of you lucky enough to have attended the sayonara Sierra party in Palma this spring will remember the homoerotic hip-hop break-dancing beat troop and their near naked stage show. Sadly their reputation hasn’t preceded them on Canadian shores but as Sunday is officially the new Saturday for those working the slopes I’m throwing an impromptu fish and wigs pre performance party. Set to be a great evening incorporating two guaranteed accessories for a great night - sushi and silly hair.

In other news there’s been some movement on the freelance front and I’m being choppered in for a chat with some folks about a little work in the US of A and an old acquaintance has pitched me in as part of an upcoming book. Admittedly being in a book isn’t anywhere near as high stakes as those friends of mine who’ve recently become published authors themselves, (even if it is in small letters on the inside cover) but I don’t know that any of them have been flown anywhere for dinner and a chat with the CEO.

The new year plans are coming along nicely and I’ve signed up for a 6k ‘charradee’ stateside run on New Years Eve. Sadly none of my travelling companions are prepared to take part but have agreed to watch me from a bar with a view of the course. My training has started in full force with a 6k jaunt each morning before a few hours in the office and hitting the slopes for the afternoon. The après may be hindering my times somewhat but hey what’s a day on the slopes without a late lunch and several glasses of red after it?

A fun run may seem like a rather unusual way to kick of a night of overeating and heavy boozing but as the year comes to an end given the absolute bitch that 2008 has been I’m quite happy to run out of it and into 2009. Viva il nuovo anno!

4700 miles, 6 Borders, 3 Car Accidents, 2 Police Evasions and 1 Russian Hooker

I think it’s safe to say the chances of my making it as a professional blogger are slim to none, I’ve been making notes for the duration of my trips, (for the book of course) but life just seems to have been too busy to edit and upload.

Since I last wrote I have:

- Become accomplished in Italian - should you ever need directions to the train station or wish to by a small blue sweater I‘m your lady.

- Discovered the best gelato in Florence - a scoop of amaretto and a scoop of dark chocolate with chilli at Coronas on Via dei Caizaoli. (I'd recommend at least two of these a day.)

- Eaten one of the best meals of my life and become great friends with Italy’s answer to Gordon Ramsay at Cibreo - highlights included goat offal, rolled kid, tripe and a cheeky smile.

- Had fun with, danced like a loon with, cooked with and drank far too much with some awesome new friends - although for much of this I only have the word of those accompanying me.

- Booked a month in Mexico City to check out the wrestling scene con mi amigos - a mask is being especially commissioned for me as I write.

- Taken the best culinary road trip of my life - breakfast in Italy, lunch in Switzerland, dinner in Germany and Champers in France.

- Escaped the patio foundations of a very odd B&B owner on the Champagne trail with the quick get-a-way driving skills of dear Kate.

- Enjoyed one of the funniest nights of my life with a great mate, a fat cat and a Russian hooker in a hotel in south west Germany.

- Covered 4700 miles, crossed 6 borders, been driven into 3 times and escaped the cops - twice.

- Moved back to the UK, turned 32, cooked 9 tiers of wedding cakes, acquired several cases of astonishingly fine wines, had a very unfortunate incident with a tube of super glue, done a week’s work and made it half way across the globe to Whistler in Canada.

Needless to say it's been a hectic few weeks but it’s nice to be settled again.

I’ve been in ‘The Village’ for several days now, I’m staying with a fantastic lady called Adie whom I was introduced to by a friend in the UK. And once again it looks as though I’ve landed on my feet as I’ve been plunged into the heart of the mountain’s social scene.

Rather fortuitously, the weekend I arrived was BC’s biggest wine festival so the several nights of ridiculously expensive booze, posh frocks and high society shame will come as no surprise to any of you. It seems that even though it isn’t technically ‘after’ yet everyone still makes the most of the Après.

I have installed myself, (part time) in the press office of Whistler Blackcomb and I’m thoroughly enjoying it. If I’m honest I’d no idea how I’d fair, especially given that unlike every game I’ve worked on the mountain doesn’t have a developer, (well not one available to interview anyway), can’t be sent out for review and doesn’t have a launch date.

The only downside of the Canada trip so far is that for the next week or so there’s unlikely to be any snow at the bottom of the mountain which has cut down on boarding time somewhat. To ensure neither my trip or snow skills are spoiled I’ve decided to add in a couple diversions on my travels and will head to Hawaii to wait until the snow arrives and then make my way to a cabin in Vermont for a week after new year.

Sorry it's been so long coming. Next up hot news from Honolulu…

The Days Are Just Packed

There’s only one thing worse than stumbling out of a nightclub at dawn, wearing last nights frock and doing the walk of shame home. And that’s falling out of a nightclub, wearing last nights frock, into a nun and doing the walk of shame home. Such is the curse of living in a city with more convents than it has ice cream shops.

School is good but six hours of Italian is proving gruelling and Franceso who takes me for individual tuition remained ominously silent when I asked if I was one of the slowest students he’d ever taught. I can’t help feeling I’ve regressed twenty years and should be somewhere else with the ‘special’ kids.

Alberto, the personal trainer, being rather more expensive and far less attractive than his website would lead you to believe has been replaced by Federico - a rather handsome young chap who enjoys kick boxing, horse riding and humiliating me in the gym. He’s a hard task master but a pair of deep brown eyes, a beautiful thick mane and being able to ogle the kind of body that most gay men would die for are a small price to pay for enjoying the relentless Italian diet of gelato, pizza and pasta.

I’ve acquainted myself with a thoroughly delightful group of friends, made great use of the terrace for out of hours drinking, had a minor run in with the Carabinieri, (although thankfully it wasn’t me slumped in a shop doorway being carried home) and the car and I have fallen foul of numerous homicidal drivers about the city. Needless to say I’ve established myself on the Florentine scene. And I’m loving it.

As I found in Rio, time is passing all too quickly and there’ve been many great moments already, the majority of them involving fantastic food or wine to excess. This weekend I took the car and Nicole and Anna, (two Kiwi students in my class) to Montepulciano and Assisi, (the home of St Francis). After a minor prang with what I can only assume was a completely blind/psychopathic truck driver we headed out of the city high into the hills, revelling in the sunshine with the roof down and singing along to 80’s pop hits. We’d gone in search of one of the finest wines in all Italy - Brunello Di Montepuliciano. It’s not called a super Tuscan for nothing and we enjoyed several glasses over a fantastic lunch of toast cooked in Bacon fat, (I know, I know but I’m working out five days a week), ravioli slathered in sage butter and Torta de Nonna. I also picked up a bottle to add to the growing collection of fine wines that are being set aside for either my next big birthday, my divorce or in fact, my wedding depending on which comes first and requires more booze to get through.

Lunch and a wander through the cobbled streets of the old town under our ever loosening belts we headed on to Assisi where we ducked in to check out the beautiful frescos before catching the sunset over the Monastery high on the hill top. It was utterly, utterly beautiful.

Back in the city way after dark we called it a night which left me feeling fresh faced enough on Sunday for a run across the Ponte Vecchio. I was out early enough to avoid the hoards of tourists clamouring to buy tacky over priced jewellery that normally renders the place unbearable. Feeling virtuous, I met with Gwen a young artist on a scholarship from Edinburgh, (who also hosted a flash dance off in a launderette last week) and drank far too much Prosecco than is probably decent on the Sabeth. We chewed the cud, bitched about men and got burnt by the freakishly hot sunshine on Piazza de Senoria.

Dull as it may be to comment upon the weather, it has been amazing. But so too have the people, the night life, the food, the men and the overall quality of life. The Italians really have their priorities right and I believe Firenze is better than anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Despite the horrendous expense, the mosquitoes and the inevitable expansion of ones waistline I’m starting to think this could well be my final resting place at the end of the grand tour.