‘WE’RE HAVING A YACHT PARTY AND YOU’RE ALL INVITED!’
Shouts Fred, to a group of completely arbitrary people, inside of Carpe Diem nightclub, in Barcelona,
*pause scene*
Now is a time to tell you, that at this very moment, I am facing numerous problems on our annual February Barcelona trip:
- Fred is wearing a white vest while swinging his dinner jacket in the air, it is February, the year of ‘Beast from the East’ so, it is rather cold and he has an aggressive nipple stand. He resembles a smartie smuggling salamander.
- We don’t have a yacht, or a party, it is also winter.
- He has been drinking since 3 pm.
- My client has run down the beach with a ‘Dom Perignon’ lighting fixture which he has stolen from the club.
- Security are running after him, the waitresses are angry with my party of animals.
- I’ve run out of Urbanol and patience.
- I have been in the same clothes since 3 am the previous day.
Barcelona, always brings me trouble and Bitches have had enough.
And when I say Bitches. I mean me.
I have been awake for almost 24 hours and I am still in my work clothes.
David has gone missing, and Fred (and his aggressive nipples) is causing a large spectacle.
People are huddled around listening to him rave on about this yacht party where ‘if you come along ‘YOU GET FREE BRANDED BOARD SHORTS’.
‘but don’t worry!’ he tells no one in particular, ‘it’s not a Catamaran, because, Catamarans are for poor people, this is a MOTORIZED YACHT‘.
I am more concerned that we do not have a yacht at all and I am not sure when this ‘party’ is going to take place, as right now, it is actually snowing and I doubt anyone will want to be wandering around in board shorts with the shitty branding of our tiny start up.
‘Mam’ a voice behind me says ‘you need to pay for the stolen goods from the club.’
My client is excitedly shouting from the beach, with the Dom Perignon sign, waving it around, security are talking seriously to him, he is telling them that he does not speak Spanish.
I mutter that I need an Urbanol AND a Ritalin.
The waitress tells me that they do not stock such items.
No of course you don’t.
You should, I tell her.
This day is pure chaos and I NEED to go to bed.
I am praying Fred does not look in my direction and associate himself with me.
Maybe I can just run off and leave him and client here?
No.
They will probably die and I need my salary signed off. I imagine the moment, when the police find their bodies, they will probably link me to Fred’s cell phone, where I recall my last text to him says:
‘if you are late to dinner, I will kill you’
That will not look good in court. I have seen CSI.
Meanwhile, Fred’s voice rings out and disturbs my thoughts.
‘THERE SHE IS! ASK THIS GIRL WITH THE PUFFY COLLAR TO GET ON THE YACHT LIST!’
He points excitedly at me. I turn around and hope there is someone else behind me.
But no.
It’s just me.
And my offensive collar.
5 hours prior
‘Let’s play fuck marry kill!’ , Fred declares in the taxi on the way to the club. He lists off numerous people from the industry and lists some of the worst ones. ‘YOU GUYS HAVE TO CHOOSE OR ELSE!’.
In case you live under a rock, fuck marry kill game, is where someone lists numerous individuals and you have to choose, who you would do the above VERBS with. Usually the goal of the person GIVING the options to the players – is to choose the most heinous humans, which makes the decision quite hard.
Examples:
Hitler, Stalin, your hideous ex partner.
You get the point.
So ultimately, the decisions are quite hard and you begin to question your own morality and gag reflex.
‘Play with us!’ Fred begs the driver and starts to explain the options and characters in grave detail to the extremely alarmed driver.
The taxi driver is not amused and turns up the radio to drown out Fred’s voice.
I tell him I don’t want to play, but can I rather go home.
I am in my stinky work clothes, which I have been wearing since I left my home, (in another country) at 3 am, to get the red eye flight, because Fred did not want to pay for the more expensive flights that left after the sparrows fart.
‘No, you cannot go home! We’re on very important business!’ He uses fingers-in-the-air-suspicious-quotation-marks at the ‘business’ part.
I am in a blouse with a weird, puffy collar, which now I must go to a club in. Who goes to clubs in weird collared tops these days? Me. Obviously.
It was a poor choice for someone who knows, she should not try to be cool and trendy. I thought it might make me look sophisticated and grown up.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and realise that with the bizarre blouse collar, and my face pulling at Fred (who is now hanging out the window singing at people on the street) that I am extremely uncool and resemble a constipated clown.
David, as always, remains silent.
Sometimes I forget he is around.
The man of few words, his last sentence was directed toward Fred during dinner, telling him ‘you’re never invited out ever again’. It might be worth mentioning, that we have just been at a Michelin Star restaurant for dinner and have eaten 25 courses. How did we slip so far!
We waited on the ‘wait list’ for 6 months.
When I say we, not ME, because I am simply the help and I am a fan of feral fun, which does not include fine dining as I thought Michelin was a type of pesto, which I also recently found out, is something suitable for human consumption. I was raised on chicken schnitzels and salads (not pesto). The schnitzels were the readymade kind, from the store and often came in discounted bulk packs.
I was quite happy with my schnitzels, unlike my father who was dismayed at ‘chicken again’, which seemed to be a hot topic of conversation growing up.
Anyway, fast forward in my life, and I am eating meals worth 1500 euros per head. No more schnitzels.
At that price, of course, along with the 25 course, came 25 matching wines. It is all too complicated for my simple chicken schnitzel brain to pair, so I (regrettably) allow Fred to drink majority of my wines hence now he is hanging out the window singing at no one in particular. He asks me if he should enter idols.
I say no.
I think back to 10 minutes prior, where we were asked to leave the restaurant when Fred started smearing the dessert cream on his face, telling us that has decided to become ‘Father Christmas’ and ‘ho ho ho’.
The waitress did not find this amusing and asked us to ‘leave the establishment, immediately.’
Father Christmas? A singer on Idols? We have the whole package here.
The taxi stops at Carpe Diem night club, where we are to meet our clients.
(inset suspicious quotation marks as we’re on a ‘business trip’).
I clamber out of the taxi and pay.
Fred gets out, buttons up his blazer in a very- important-person-manner, takes a deep breath and starts shouting at the top of his voice:
‘OH MY GOD THAT’S DISGUSTING, SHE HAS JIZZED ON THE SEAT’
People in the street are staring.
People outside the nightclub are staring.
He is pointing at me, then pointing at what looks like a paint stain on the fabric.
I sigh.
He woops with laughter and runs off. I secretly wish it was me, running off.
I see some other people from the industry. Great now everyone thinks I am the girl who jizzes on the seat.
Nice.
This is going to be a long night.
The taxi driver says:
‘Please don’t call me, to come collect you’
I don’t blame him.
I sometimes wonder where that taxi driver is.
Probably in a psychiatric unit after having the grueling options explained in great depth by Fred while playing ‘fuck, marry, kill’
It is now 8 am. I am in my hotel room bed.
I switch my phone on. I have 23 missed calls from Fred.
He has left me a voice mail, telling me that my ‘kill’ choice from, ‘fuck, marry, kill’ is waiting at my door, for me, and that I should only be polite and open the door. This person was obviously not at my door, but I will save this voice mail for a rainy day when I need some blackmail.
There is knocking at my door.
It is David, standing in his striped pajamas.
‘Fred is very ill’, he tells me.
‘REALLY!’ I exclaim.
‘I wonder why?’ (and where did you disappear to last night? I wanted to add, but do not).
‘He has an awful migraine’, David continues.
‘He has been sick, poor thing. (what a waste of 1500 euros I say, David pretends that he doesn’t hear me)
‘Do you have something in your drug box? I think he must also have a BUG! Also, do you know anything about a yacht? Fred has a piece of paper with random names and cell phone numbers on it with today’s date on it circled numerous times. Is it related? There is also a Dom Perigon sign in Fred’s bed. It is quite chaotic!
I tell him we will talk about it later.
I start tapping at my phone ferociously.
‘What are you doing?’ David asks.
‘Finding a yacht’ I tell him.
Berries and Botox. 