Arrived in Bermuda with all the energy of a 14ft python who’d just eaten a fattened cow.
3 hours on the tarmac waiting to take off for a 2 hour flight. WTF American Airlines.
1st night was like a scene from a Stephen King novel. I opened the wardrobe and there he was… waiting for me… the giant flying roach… flip flop in hand I got into bed and waited.
I then clocked him spying me through a crack in the door, 10ft tentacles flaying around. After noticing my 6 inch scar and undercut he determined he was no match and fucked off back into the crevice he’d come from.
Woke to blue skies and the warm fuzzy feeling of ‘home’. Blissful day filled with birthday celebrations, delicious food and a dip in the heavenly crystal clear ocean.
The night ended with a successful flip flop splattering of cockroach #2 who was clearly cockier than his mate from last night.
FYI vermin: I have a goddamn brain tumour and no man-eating-mother-fucking-roach is ever giving me the heebie geebies again.
When I first arrived here nearly 30 years ago, someone said to me ‘You know what Bermuda is? It’s 60,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock.’
‘Fantastic.’ Was my immediate response, ‘I’ve moved to paradise!’
Times have changed since those glory days and just as well because tonight at a party, while chatting to old friends and neighbours, I downed one glass of fizz and was ready for bed. FFS Bambi.
And btw Brad, when the movie rights for Bambi sell, you’ve got stiff Bermudian competition as leading man. There’s a handsome Mr Kempe up for the role, and he’s not of the Spandex Ballet kind.
Sunday followed with more frolicking. At one point I came out of the club pool with my hair swept back and received an extended once over from 3 members of the super bitch wives club. Oh fuck, was I flashing a nipple? Or worse, had I exposed my vajayjay? What were they looking at?
Then I realised it was my impressively large bald patch and scar. They were probably wondering how a rough old slag could have gained access to such a prestigious establishment.
Gorgeous dinner on the beach with one Bermuda bestie followed by a sleepover with another Bermuda bestie and my 12 year old goddaughter.
Her mother had told her all about brain tumours but not much about the ‘birds and the bees’.
So took it upon myself to give her a few pointers and attempt to not expose her mothers overly edited version of her own youth.
The conversation commenced with a ‘pure white flower’ being the symbolisation of virginity and how this ‘pure white flower’ should remain pure until marriage.
‘Mummy told me I must remain pure until I’m at least 35 or married. Just like her.’ She told me.
Well I could accept the first sentence of this statement with a sweet nodding (fake) smile.
But when the second sentence hit my ears I choked on air and fell backwards into a nearby oleander tree.
I’ve known her mother for 30 years and luckily for her she’s in my tighty-tight circle of ‘besties’ and what happens in the circle must stay in the circle.
However, there’s a tinge of regret in not disclosing the truth now because after emerging from the pool that afternoon she declared…
‘You look like that famous character from Game of Thrones!’
‘Aww,’ I responded ‘Which one… Daenerys Targaryen?‘No,’ she smirked ‘I was thinking of The Hound. You have similar scar and haircut.’
Fuck off bitch. I guess we’re both old dogs.
Finally today and on a more serious and sobering note. I’ve requested that she and my goddaughter provide the eulogy at my eventual funeral.
I’ve given them strict instructions that it must be goddamn funny as hell or else I’ll be back as a poltergeist to haunt them for all eternity.