I am a (perfect) boring old moose. Basically.
You know that my bladder is shot to shit, and you also know I have a love/hate relationship with both my post natal body and my post natal wardrobe, (Size 10 fuckers! My jeans that is…) so at this point I feel it only right to give you a little more insight, and a little more honesty about my first proper night out/off since becoming a mother! (Cue marching band!) Five of my oldest friends gathered from all over the world (Spain, England and America) for a get together of epic proportions! We were going to dance the night away! Drink the bar dry! Celebrate motherhood and adulthood in style!
Unfortunately, we were heading out for a night in Puerto Banus. (Groan!) A place I spent a lot of time during a very misspent youth. I say unfortunately because Puerto Banus is the place I blame for the majority of insecurities I have now around love, money, friendship and most of all ‘the fight to be thin and perfect!’ Because if you are thin you are perfect right? (This is where it all began… Once upon a time in a shit hole called puberty, lived a thin and evil wench called peer pressure who spent alot of time bullying the normal sized kids on the outskirts of puerto sodding banus!)
Ok, maybe that is taking it a little far. (Which really is not like me! As you know I hate the drama! Ahem.)
So ok, I don’t blame Puerto Banus for the all of the above per say, but I will say this; Puerto Jose Banus is not the place you read about.
OK! Magazine describe it as ‘Glamorous’. Heat magazine are constantly showing (every summer without fail) shiny, glitzy photos of celeb’s lounging about in what seemingly appear to be exotic surroundings. Beautifully emaciated women hanging off yachts and jumping in to crystal clear ice blue water in skimpy bikini’s, while their enhanced chests gleam and shine as much as their white, toothy smiles, while their teeny, tiny short wearing football player boyfriends, with their rock hard abs, and arms made of what can only be described, as bionic materials, admire longingly their own personal Barbie doll’s, beautifully enhanced oil clad bones. (And breathe!)
But what Heat! And Ok magazine never seem to show you, however, is the other side. The side of Puerto Jose Banus which greets the mere mortals whom dare to trespass through it’s over priced doors.
Puerto Jose Banus,
- for those of us who do not have 3 to 15 thousand pounds worth of cash ’invested’ under our breast tissue, (Jealous? Moi? NO! I like the fact my nipple can fit in my belly button! Honest!)
- For those of us who do not have an income of over 70 thousand pounds a week, (Jealous? Moi? NO! If you toast stale bread you can’t taste the difference can you Woo? I said CAN YOU WOO?!)
- For those of us who can not have our babies at Harley Street and whom now let out a little piddle when we sneeze. (Yes, I am trying to blame the NHS for this…why not? They get the blame for everything else?! They won’t even notice!!)
- For those of us who read magazines like OK! And Heat as escapism (at the doctors/dentist/gynae/doctors/doctors/doctors/WhSmith.)
- For those of us who get dragged on a hen night, (dognam my younger BFF for daring to get her proposal and walk down the aisle before me. Jealous? Moi? No way! I would say no! I really would….) expecting a day of glamour and frivolous entertainment,
- And for those of us who do not have (gasp, shock horror!) a friggin yacht to hang off, but Volkswagen polo (Jealous? Moi? NO! What would I do with a yacht in Eccles?) parked in the driveway (what driveway?) at home,
This place is a garish, boring, badly airbrushed, turn down the HD, early morning dirty nappy type of shit hole.
Well ok, I can’t speak for everyone can I? I am sure some of you have visited and enjoyed but oh deary me. Gone are the days where I flew off to the Maldives and found little to moan about. Gone are the days I would swan up and down Marbella with my 28 inch hips (when I was 8!) and a superiority complex as big as my perfectly coiffed Hair piece (when I was 18.) Gone are the days when I can laugh at myself while ordering slippery nipples (no down a bit now love…) and gone are the days I can profess to enjoying myself ANYWHERE! (Hair toss, slam a shot, eager smile!) Now I am literally a moaning, yawning, tired and grouchy, old, achy, frumpy mess!
Is it motherhood that has done this to me? Is it motherhood that has made me sarcastically question EVERYTHING with a dismayed eye? Am I (shock horror!) boring now I am a mother?!
I’ve turned in to a grumpy old woman! And I’m only 26 (cough cough). But I can’t deny it! Who knows why I used to love Puerto Banus in my hay day? I used to think it was cool as hell; I used to look at the gold diggers and admire their energy and envy their gold shoes and matching Vera Duckworth earrings. I used to ignore the men they would hang off while admiring their platinum cards! The thought of returning had made me positively shudder with the insecurity of it all! My thighs are too fat for Banus! My hair is far too Worzel Gummage for Banus! I am not good enough for Puerto Banus! I had worried, and quarrelled with myself, and changed my outfit about 20 times along with bursting in to tears and dreading being, (because surely I would be) judged by all my old friends and perfect strangers. In Puerto Banus you have to be thin. In puerto banus I could never be good enough could I!!!
Looking back now I can’t see why? What a waste of energy! It is not the place I remember. Or maybe I am not the person I remember, but whatever, either way! Puerto Banus resembles Clapham after a cheap dodgy face lift! All fur and no knickers! All sparkle with no spark! All make up no natural beauty! All farts no tarts!
Ok, forget that last one, but you know what I mean.
Having left my yacht parked in the Mersey, we walked in to the port and I immediately expected (and hoped) to be transformed in to a glamorous 6ft skinny model (what? A girl can dream can’t she?) On quick inspection glancing at my reflection in the (finger smeared 8foot window) of Gucci, I was disappointed to notice that I was still the 5ft 3 (not fat, I just had a baby! How old is my baby? Does that matter? Moving on swiftly…) brunette I was upon flying out of blighty.(Darn it, but you know what? I still look quite pretty! Oh my god! and no one is judging me?! huh?!) And not a single pap in site! (The same paps who missed the birth of my baby, missed my entrance! Where the hell are they?!)
Gucci, Valentino, Agent provocateur, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, but where is baby Primark? Where is Baby Hennes? Where can I get excited about new toys for Woo? Where can I buy some more comfy joggers? (What is wrong with me?)
All of the above shops are a sight to see, and after shopping in Aldi and Primarni for the last 10 months, their shiny topped displays were impressive, even if I only saw them from the outside, face pressed up against the glass like orphan Annie, hands on either side, daring myself to breath on the shiny glass. (Did I mention it was me who smeared all the windows?) But seriously? Do people actually spend eight hundred pounds, I repeat, EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS, on a pair of jeans? (They weren’t even glittery jeans!) Think of all the nappies! Think of the places you could go! Think of the funky baby clothes you could buy!!
Gasping for a drink (Burger,) we stopped off at a bar called Salduba for a beer (burger,) where we were harassed by coffin dodging (sorry) wrinkly old men in their fake (or maybe not but who cares?) Rolexes, who took great, delight in staring down our tops while asking if we had ever had a ride in an Audi A2.
Can I stop and ask at this point? When did owning an Audi A2 become slang for ‘hey I’m rich do you wanna go to bed with me? – I can almost, almost understand a Ferrari or at the very least a Porche 911 being slang for ‘worth a second look’ but an Audi A2 – surely the credit crunch is not having that bad an impact that gold diggers across the world are settling for a four door hatch back?
We were quite harrowed by this experience and set off down the road, before we got thrown out for slapping old men, in the hope to find somewhere a little more our age. (Is there a cinema here? I haven’t been to the cinema in years!)
(NB- we were on a ‘hen night’ but I feel it necessary to point out at this point we were not doused in cow boy hats and short skirts (thank god!) nor were we flinging plastic willies about. We are mothers now! (Oh god, it’s true. I am boring!) Onlookers would not have known we were Henning, as this is what the bride requested, and we obliged.) So basically we looked like a bunch of post partum women on a post partum holiday talking about post partum issues. Like post partum thighs, and post partum bladder control issues, and post partum sex. (Code for; sharing post partum excuses.) Those granddads really were wasting their time!
Anyway, we stumbled across a little cocktail bar, (Score!) and spent the next few hours enjoying tall glassed iced drinks (post partum chavs!), that would put the sex and the city girls to shame. (Our outfit changes were a lot less unfortunately and although I looked I couldn’t see Big, (hubba hubba) or Aiden (hubba hubba hubba!.) We sat in those relaxing surroundings with happily, not a single Barney Rubble in sight for a good 3 hours.
I was wankered after an hour.
I think I had three drinks.
My friends were wankered after two hours.
I think they had four drinks. (We are all new mothers!)
Thinking it was about 2 in the morning I suggested going back to the villa.
It was six pm.
But having all been given a random day off from mothering and having seen Puerto Jose Banus by day, and me having finally realised, it is no longer the place to be but the people you are with, none of us had any inclination to stick around, and we headed back for ‘a few drinks and maybe some hilarious frivolity!!’ at the post partum villa.
Although I am coming across like a right old moaning bitch I had a fantastic time. I haven’t laughed (or changed my tena lady) as much in over a year. We absolutely put the world to rights and even though we all live in different countries, and lead very different lives, it was fantastic to see them all and catch up properly face to face.
The evening was finished off perfectly with a glass of champagne while roaring with laughter and discussing times of old, times of present and the times we are bound to have in the future. (It will take us another 10 years, no doubt, to get together again.)
But wow!! What a load of party animals we were!
We were all in bed by 9pm.
I had the first twelve hours sleep I have had in a year.
Screw the old men, (not in that sense!) Screw the gold diggers and their platinum cards, Screw having a yacht! Screw the ‘cool’ factor of being a party animal! Screw dancing until dawn! Screw having to be thin to be perfect!
I got 12 hours sleep!!
Best hen night ever!
And as for ‘the fight to be thin and perfect’ because only thin, rich and perfect people are well, perfect?
Well, I can’t talk now! I am off to meet my beautiful boy and the Irish one for an English breakfast and a paddle on the beach! (I may even have an ice cream for afters!)
Now that is a Happy new year!
On the beach after I’d had 12 hours sleep! Did i mention my 12 hours sleep???? (Pretty bloody perfect.)