The Man and I went on a luxury all-inclusive holiday. Here we are, looking happy and brown.
The Man and I don’t generally do luxury holidays. Most of our travel adventures have involved backpacks and quite a lot of foulness. Mostly involving my insides, as you may or may not care to remember.
So to recap, we generally don’t do luxury. Even less do we do all-inclusive. But I was half-dead with exhaustion after giving birth to my third novel and The Man was half-dead with exhaustion after making a really amazing film which I will tell you about when it’s on telly. We wanted to do as little as possible. No hiring cars. No cooking. No discussion even of what to eat. Just a lot of sleeping, sunbathing and rumpy.
Did she just write that? You may be wondering. I’m slightly surprised to see it there myself. For now I’m going to leave it in. I’m feeling reckless.
Anyway, the luxury all-inclusive holiday had the intended result: it left us very brown, very happy and very relaxed. Nonetheless, it was not what I expected. It was . . . strange. On an epic level. It was like the resort in Dirty Dancing had mated with a three-star hotel in Torremolinos. It was really – No, I can’t describe it. It was one of the oddest places I’ve ever been.
But I’m not going to tear it apart because there were a lot of people there who loved it and go back every year. And I’m sure they view my idea of a holiday with absolute horror. With that in mind I shan’t comment on the terrible scenes I witnessed at the all-you-can-eat buffets (the title of this blog is probably misleading) or the extraordinary collection of old lushes hobbling around looking EXACTLY like Patsy. (They couldn’t walk in their heels either. And they chugged on fags all day. And wore ridiculous sunglasses and prada and had massive-yet-thinning bouffants. STOP IT ROBINSON.)
But what I will tell you about is the entertainment. Oh my flaming arseballs, the entertainment! *Pauses in dazed recollection*
One night The Man and I, bored because we had only eaten one course rather than twenty, like everyone else, decided to go and watch the family show put on in the resort’s ‘Entertainment Complex.’ We sat down and watched a man fiddle with a powerpoint presentation on an old pull-out OHP screen that eventually said – in faded, drooping letters – LEGENDS.
Below the word LEGENDS were pictures of Bob Marley, Albert Einstein, Michael Jackson, Gandhi and . . . erm, Bill Clinton. We were a bit surprised but prepared to remain open-minded.
Suddenly the lights went down, swirly graphics replaced the lettering on the screen and all eyes turned to the stage. What was coming our way? Something good, surely! The show was called LEGENDS!
What followed was something I could never adequately describe in words – although for you, friends, I will try.
1. Interpretative dance number ONE was about ‘Albert Enstein.’ (sic)
The dance was performed by six young people dressed in baggy cargo pants with tags hanging off them. Not the tags that were cool about seven years ago though. Somehow something had gone wrong. The cargo pants – and their corresponding tops – had been festooned with tags so that the dancers resembled gorillas. The gorilla’s extraorindary tribute to Einstein was a streetdance performed to the Prodigy’s Firestarter.
After a long costume-change-break, the dancers reappeared, this time dressed as white gorillas. They performed another street dance, frequently lying on the floor and waving their arms around funkily, and then sort of coiled down and died as the song ended. I felt that Gandhi would have really recognised himself in that dance.
3. Er, Coco Cola.
This dance involved three girls skipping around stage, flirting with a man holding a coco cola bottle. Then they all skipped off.
4. Boney M.
Not the Beetles, not the Stones. Not Abba, even. Boney M. The most famous band of ALL TIME! The same dancers performed a Boney M megamix, starting with Babylon and ending with Rasputin. Rasputin was played by a man who was at least a foot too tall for his inexplicable tight white sequinned trousers: six inches of ankle showed at one end; six inches of arse cheek at the other. Extraordinary.
I’m not fucking kidding! Ferrari was deemed so legendary as to get its own dance! Even more inexplicable than the Gandhi or Einstein dances, the choreographer had decided to represent the fast car brand with a slow, bad tango that ended with the female throwing herself at the male’s feet and dying for the second time in the evening.
6. Michael Flatley.
Michael Flatley got a whole eight minutes, complete with piped-in roaring crowds and a shiny shell suit. The Man by this point had completely lost it and was spotted, crouched over his drink, crying with laughter, squeaking, ‘Moroccan River Dance! HERE WE FUCKING GO!’
Elvis was the same man as Rasputin, dressed in the same outfit. He was surrounded by three girls in jeggings and lilac coloured 70s supermarket checkout uniforms. One of his dancers had a big split in the crotch of her jeggings. One of the others looked like she was going to kill herself. The third fell offstage into the wings while performing a high-kick.
To the strains of ‘I could be your hero baby’ (I neither know nor care who penned this crock of shite song) came a video montage of basically anyone who’s ever been vaguely famous. The selection was the most bewildering I have ever seen in a show called LEGENDS. Admittedly it was my first show called LEGENDS but even if I were to see a LEGENDS show every day for the rest of my life, none of them would have a montage quite like this one.
The Pope (the dead one)
A selection of Moroccan politicians
The Pope again (this time with a dove)
Michael Flatley again
I could go on, but I shan’t. Re-living that night has got me far too excited; I need to go and have a rest. Mop my brow. Sit back and reflect on the glory that was LEGENDS. Wow.
PS I will leave you with a picture of something rather odd that we found in a little Moroccan supermarket. This really tickled me. I wonder if Waitrose know?