More happy days, oh, more happy days…
Fabula diBeaumarchais - June 2004
You see, I have just returned from a… no, it is perhaps kinder for me not to say… a … urrgh… family holiday.
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 More happy days, oh, more happy days… Aversion Therapy, Aversion Therapy! Block it all out, Dear! Darlings, there’s a pre-emptory precursor to the madness that is to follow. You see, I have just returned from a… no, it is perhaps kinder for me not to say… a … urrgh… family holiday. So bear the above in mind, won’t you, while I fill you all in on the explicit details of my terror-fortnight in Costa Del Skanger. It was some months ago, now, when I made the landmark decision to bring the aforementioned Kids someplace nice. Someplace sunny. Someplace where, if a horrible accident befalls a small child, not an eyelid is blinked in the face of the white slave trade. Electing to dump my staff in Mosney to visit with their multi-patterned brood (honestly! One Romanian looks much like the next when one is too wealthy and drunk to care! Tra la laaah!) and settling on Spain, with tickets booked, accommodation reserved, and my Sunday’s Well Mansion shut down for a brief spell, I packed up luggage and children alike and set sail… wing?… for Forgotten Andalusia, my own pearl of the Atlantic. Except somewhere along the way Gummy Paisley fucked it all so irrevocably up and we were stranded in a three-star Brit-And-Tat-Pap Hole somewhere along the southern coast of Viva Espana’s hideous high-rise depths. You can imagine, dear reader, I was not impressed! Upon landing, we were shown to our “Hotel” (what is it about magnolia walls and beige self-cleaning Formica that makes a Norrie go ‘Oooh! Self-Catering in Spain, what a good idea!???) via a busload of screaming families with dirty children singing Atomic Kitten Tuneless and wearing neon pink Lycra, where, clutching my ample bosoms in abject panic, I demanded to see the manager. A child-youth by the name of ‘Carlos’ was produced from somewhere within the depths of the ‘Hotel” (which, may I add, made the old Blackpool flats look like fucking Gaudi!) who listened to my complaints with a slightly stupid face, and the proceeded to tell me: ‘Leesen, Meeses DiBeaumarchais, thees ees the best we hab to offerrr. “. Leaving him a sullen and bloody mess on the terrazzo floor, I ascended the elevator with my silent brood, in horrified anticipation of what lay ahead of me, and, having seen the room, proceeded to order myself a large coke and needle… I mean gin and tonic… for my jangled nerves, while the older children bound and gagged the younger ones, in vainglorious attempt to appease my wrath. The next morning, after smoking my way through a rather tawdry breakfast of melon balls and cornflakes, and a family of Pavies called Sharon, Michelle and Nat’lie cooing nasally and in much ecstatic ignorance over the quality of the repast, I decided to try to make the best of it. Myra DiBeaumarchais raised her clan to be resourceful, reader, and Adversity, I find, is the Mother of All Compensation. So I brought the kids to the ‘Pool’. Now, I realise that I’ve led a charmed life, full of couture and hats and lovely imported gins, but that’s still no excuse for the rest of the Proletariat Holidaymakers to feign enjoyment (it cannot possibly have been real! Even for them!!) at the sight of the big hole in the sand full of Bleach-N-Piss-N-Screaming-Teens, like a Hundred and One Ballymun Mankies. The Pool made the Holocaust look like Rwandan Genocide, and Rwandan Genocide look like a picnic on ‘Glenroe’. Picture it, readers, won’t you? A million or so hideous, fat, wallpaper-paste-skinned White Oirish Mams and their Ginger Giro Husbands slowly getting skin cancer on rented plastic chairs, while the products of their Drudge-Union scampered about, pissing surreptitiously into the chlorine brew. I was not happy. But fortitude, dear heart, I thought. It can’t get any worse. Sometimes, children, even I am wrong. And that’s how it feels when Doves cry. Walking – actually walking – along the beach to indulge in a little retail therapy in the shanty town – I mean Fuengerola – located at the opposite end of the pier, I noticed a gathering of celebrity-hangers-on and Spanish press snapping pictures and clamouring for quotes. ‘Aha!’, I thought. ‘How sweet of them. Here’s my chance to regain my power-base!’. Until I saw that the object of their affections was not myself: Entertainer, Doyenne, International Multinational and the best set of gams since Dietrich in ‘Sappho Nazi Follies’. No, theirs was an altogether more… …common target. That Beckham Slag. Calm! I told myself. Courage! I cried, inwardly. Optimism! I shrieked in silent panic. But it was just no good, Dears. The Star Within erupted and… well, to cut a long story short, I made it look like an accident. Plenty of practise with Miss Aonghus McNally on ‘Anything Goes’, don’t you know. And I’m sure little David won’t be desperately upset. I mean, there’s only so many times one can look up one’s wifes’ nostrils and see her brain mid-coitus. No wonder Rebecca Loos got a look-in. Whoever heard of a real-life Miss Piggy holding onto a man? Still, dears, now that I am home life is good again. The children are sedated and happy, I am drunk and happy. Spain. Spain my Hole. Next year I’m having a small island of the coast of the Third World cleaned and re-planted and I am making sure that I will be the only one on it. And who knows? If another Daily-Mirror-Made-Micro-Celeb happens to cut in on my turf there, well… …let’s just say an unmerciful kick in the cunt was never frowned upon chez DiBeaumarchais. Until we read again, dear Reader, I bid you all a very fond… …Lovings! Hoorah! F DiB XXXXXXXXX
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