The antihero returns
Having suffered the slings and arrows of an English January, I'm back in my shorts, kicking back on the island of sun, rum and coke.
All appears well in paradise; the sun shines, the bugs bite, but unfortunately, Chef, the chef at my local rum shack, has moved on...or been moved on. No one is saying much about how this came to pass, and this is not a community known for it's tight lips! Mention of Chef the chef is met with a smile and a shrug. Chef was an aging lecherous lothario, come pig farmer by day and chef in a rural rum shack by night. He had a generous smile an infectious laugh and quick hands. Until I can confirm otherwise I am going to assume that it was his quick hands and inability to keep them away from girls half his age that were responsible for his departure.
This is sounding more and more like an obituary, which I guess, in a slightly dramatic rum induced way, it is. I liked Chef the chef; he had a tendency to cook the shit out of things, but he was a gentleman and a blithe but energetic character who laughed hard and loud. Here's to you Chef!
On a similar departure front, I have just been informed (as I sit here at the bar of the Surf 'n' Lime) that our Carol is to return to the emerald isle next week. This is a real blow to those of us who consider her an intrinsic part of the Mullins scene, and the beach will be all the poorer for the absence of her long slender limbs. Reasons for her departure appear far more complex than her initial offering, that being that her boyfriend Malibu's use of the "c" word to describe her boss...to her boss, was the main culprit. Four more hours of rum and coke would reveal that Malibu was simply responding the boss's lurid propositioning of Carol and that said boss had subsequently apologised and accepted full responsibility for the whole dark drunken affair. After a further two hours of rum and coke, which saw Malibu sink into a light rum and coke induced coma, we decided to put her departure down to "one of those things". Here's to you Carol!
On a topographical note, the deep gash in the Mullins beach, caused by outrageously heavy pre Christmas rain washing away a fifteen by ten metre section of sand, has for the most part healed. This may seem a strange thing to comment on, but being so used to dramatic stories of relentless costal erosion, environmental catastrophe and ugly little Norfolk villages falling into the North Sea, it's a beautiful thing to see mother earth healing her wounds with a little natural sand deposition. Here's to you mother earth!
Finally, and sadly, the view from my writing spot on the veranda has been irreparably altered. It seems that my good friend and house owner GBJ, whilst staying at the house in my absence and in a fit of boredom, took a three tonne JCB to the slightly overgrown garden. Whilst some would have employed the services of a couple a local lads tooled up with heavy duty petrol driven strimmers, or weed whackers as they are known around here, true to his bullish, take no prisoners, I'll 'av I'm, nature, GBJ decided on the full frontal George W Bush approach to dealing with a few insurgent weeds, trees, bushes and natural contours. My view is now a debris field, less burnt earth and more buggered earth. Here's to you GBJ!
One final finally. To those of you who suffered middle-of-the-night drunken phone calls from my good self during my last stint out here, I apologise. However, happily I can confirm that those of you who quietly questioned my mental state / state of my liver, were wide of the mark, and that these calls simply go to demonstrate how much I value / revere your friendship and also how good I am at pressing buttons whilst drunk. One last point, those of you familiar with the Data Protection Act will be aware that there is no specific mention of data being used to make drunken middle-of-the-night phone calls, and thus I am unable to confirm that calls from either myself or carefully chosen third parties, will desist.
in vino veritas
[@ 10:34 PM GMT]
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