So said English novelist Cathy Hopkins. I could quite happily strangle her this morning as I wake to the ‘Lord of Hangovers’ and that quote framed all Victorian like, staring at me from the opposite wall.
The plan was to spend the weekend fishing way out in the harbour, meander around small islands and have a bit of a barbie at the end of the day. Mistake No1 was a bottle of Jaegermeister. Mistake No2 was drinking it! Who drinks that stuff? I thought we were going to use it to polish the brass work not swallow it…….
It’s a long weekend here in New Zealand. There’s an excellent folk festival held down in Wellington . A great atmosphere with a good deal of music, singing, and the odd home brew concert thrown in. I also like the Glistening Waters Storytelling Festival held in Masterton. A weekend of sharing stories, laughter and the odd glass of sherry. But I’ve chosen to spend this Labour Weekend with a couple of old friends from out of town. Looking back, I wish they’d stayed out.
I’m in a boat bobbing about in the ocean. We’ve only been here two hours and I’ve already lost count how many time I’ve thrown up . I briefly consider throwing myself over along with my morning tea, welcoming the ocean water into my lungs allowing it to carry me away from all this. Instead I chunder once more.
The trip out is fine. We stop for a few supplies and beverages, chatting to the locals about lovely weather, as you do, and how it might get a little choppy later. Outside people are streaming up the hill from the direction of the ferry building as the early morning joggers jog their healthy way home. As we pull away from the jetty and into the morning sun I watch the city shapes dissapear and look forward to a few days peace and good fishing. Cruising along I’m as happy as Popeye chuckling to myself and enjoying the air.
“Do you fancy a Jaergbomb mate?”
“What’s that then ?”
” A shot glass of the old jaegermeister there dropped into a pint glass of Red Bull…. it’ll set you up for the day mate”
It’s late morning by the time I open my eyes and the lads have had the rods out since sun up. I can see them from the window of the hostel where they dropped me off last night. We’d drunk the bottle and more plus half a box of chateu cardboard. The end of the world wasn’t nigh …. it had arrived. Staying on board any longer for me was totally out of the question so they’d crewed me ashore and set me up in this small hostel to die. I suppose I never really got over my first experience of a hostel. I’d stayed in one in North Yorkshire the first year I started touring and arrived alongside a bus load of Italian schoolboys, we were all in the same dormitory. I remained awake for the next 72 hours whilst the ‘Italian Stallions’ wore off their pent up testosterone by running through the building screaming ……….in Italian! On the third day I broke the spell at 3am picking up a baseball bat, screaming at them they were bastards, throwing the bat at the wall where it caught a fire extinguisher setting it off in a rush of foam. I thought it was a disaster but they thought it was ‘coolio’ and shut down till I left the following day.
Since then I’ve always avoided hostels. telling myself they’d be full of over friendly hikers with creases in their shorts or young hip backpackers swapping girlfriends. Downstairs the reception is staffed by two plump young women who appear to live solely on fried food. One of them takes me through to a small dining room with white stucco walls and plastic flowers on each table. Today there are only two other guests both with their backs to me which suits me fine. I can’t stand small talk at the best of times…… and this is not even close to one of those.
“Full breakfast is it?”
I nod for some reason, thinking that I’ve got to get something nourishing into me after losing all of the previous days meals overboard. I hear the loud ping of a microwave, always a show stopper, and she presents me with a red hot plate of hard fried eggs looking for all the world like tiny silicone breasts and semi raw twisted bacon. I can’t face the food and ask for tea. She returns with one of those silver teapots well known the world over for pouring more tea onto the table cloth than into the cup. I have a sudden Jaegermeister flashback and a sea of nausea hits me. I pay by bill say goodbye to the fried food twins and hurry back down to the beach. The lads spot me and wave . ” No rush ” I shout……. and sink into the sand. I’m about as keen to get back on the boat as I was to eat the breakfast.
