The Hotel

Bring to mind the worst place you've ever been to in your life.
Got it? Good. Because I’d just like to set the scene a little by saying that the place you’re thinking of is paradise compared to the Hotel Orange in Benidorm.
I slept during the flight out. I always do. I hate flying. I hate being off the ground for any length of time at all to be fair. I don’t even like going upstairs at home. Besides, flying from Liverpool I couldn’t help but fear the worst – that there might be a scally-pilot at the helm; this in itself was never going to be the incentive needed for my staying awake.
We made it through customs with minimal fuss and boarded the coach at Alicante in pretty good mood. I sat besides Mark. He was waffling on about how good he felt getting out of England, how this was just the sort of change of scene he needed to get himself out of himself, should have done it ages ago, and all that bollocks. Wishful thinking I thought. You’re just kidding yourself mate. Anybody could tell just by looking at him that Mark was as suicidal as ever and two weeks in benny-dorm was hardly likely to change things. Probably the reverse when you think of the downer he was certain to cop at end of a fortnight on the piss with me.
None of us knew exactly where in Benidorm our hotel was situated. Neither had we seen a picture of it. All we knew was that it was called the Orange Hotel.
Usually I’m pissed off because I always end up in ‘the last to be dropped off’ group of bods, one of the twats at the back, stopping at one hotel after another, wondering if the next one’s going to be yours, wondering if they’re even aware you’re on the fucking coach at all.
This time I wasn’t one of the last. I was one of the first.
When our Hotel come into view the first thing I thought was … ‘No’.
The second thing I thought was ‘Oh god … please no’.
Like I said I hadn’t seen a picture of our hotel. I hadn't thought to ask for one. But I knew straight away this was where we were staying. How did I know that?
It was probably because it was shaped like a huge fucking Orange?
I actually wanted to die in that moment. I mean it. I wanted to fucking die.
As we pulled up outside our fellow travellers were busy pointing at the absurd orange monstrosity that was our new home and saying things like … "Look at that horrible fucking big orange thing." and "Thank god I'm not staying there."
The rest of the passengers were laughing so much that they couldn't say anything.
On top of that we were sitting at the back of the coach (out of habit) so it wasn't even as if we could sneak out undetected.
"Hotel Orange!" said the rep.
"That's us," shouted Souness, without a fucking care in the world.
Cunt!
All eyes turned our way. I thought I'd smile but when I tried my face didn’t respond. I felt like the world had just told a joke and I was the fucking punch-line.
Giggles and sniggers followed us down the aisle.
Souness led the way, or rather his ‘tache did, drawing attention to us like an hairy spot on a page-three bird. It was just as he was stepping off the coach that the daft scally tripped, tumbled forward and landed head first on the pavement outside. There was a horrible cracking sound as his face hit the concrete.
But even that didn't cheer me up.
I stepped over him and hurried into reception where I was greeted by what I can only describe as the ugliest looking Pedro in Spain. Imagine a prune. Now picture it with eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Now if you can envision that moving and breathing you will have some idea of what this bloke’s better looking brother would look like.
The place stunk of stale farts, damp towels, and cheap coffee. Off in the corner a hairy bloke in a greasy pair of union Jack shorts was feeding coins into an ‘Only Fools & Horses’ fruit-machine. Every four or five goes the machine would say ‘lovely jubbly’ at which time the bloke would kick the machine and tell it to fuck off.
I could hear laughing from somewhere and I looked outside to see several old codgers of all shapes and sizes sitting round a swimming pool watching as two high-spirited fat woman with sweaty faces had hold of a skinny old sod of about seventy and were about to lob him in the deep-end. They’d dragged him to pool-side, one holding his feet, the other holding his head. He was shouting something unintelligible (if I had to guess I’d say it was probably the words ‘help me’) and was looked seriously petrified. There was a third woman, fatter even than the first two and equally as sweaty, who was holding a pint glass in one hand and what I can only think must have been the old boys pants in the other.
Suddenly they started the countdown. 1 and 2 and 3. On 3, ignoring his shouts of “I can’t swim,” they slung the poor old duffer in the deep end and mooched off toward the dubious looking bar for some refreshments. God knows what happened to that old guy. I ain’t seen him around the place since. Maybe he’s at the bottom of the pool. Fuck knows. I ain’t ventured out there and to be honest I’m not likely too.
Mark and Carl brought Souness in between them, blood spilling from his nose, down his shirt-front and onto the floor. They plonked him down on a dusty old armchair next to a sofa where two old boys were playing dominoes or something that resembled it. Something small scurried out from under the chair, shot across the moth-eaten carpet and disappeared behind a pair of brown tattered curtains.
I looked at Souness sitting there behind a mess of blood and moustache. It was souness's sister who booked us in here. I should have fucking known better. When you're looking forward to having a good time you can always count on a fucking scouser to spoil things.
Eventually we were shown up to our rooms. I was sharing with House of Fraser, Mark and John. Souness, Carl and Lamps were in the room next door.
I dropped my case and went and locked myself in toilet where I comforted myself with a hefty shit and a cry.