There´s no place like home

Our first job since arriving in Ibiza has been to find a flat - and what a nightmare it´s been. Nothing prepared us for how quick you have to be, and how much you have to pay.

We started out by visiting some estate agents in Ibiza Town, who were nothing like their English counterparts - they were friendly, enthusiastic and actually very honest. There was none of the usual “Yeah, the flat´s really handy for transport, it´s only 5 mins from the tube” when in reality it´s 20 mins up a huge hill. After looking at a couple of really grot flats we found out why they are so professional - you have to pay them a commission and it´s an entire month´s rent!

So, being northerners, and not daft with our cash, we decided to go through the paper ads and find a private let. The problem was that after only a month´s worth of Spanish lessons we were no way prepared to do this. They have a saying in Spain “trozo de carne con ojos” which means “a piece of meat with eyes” and that is exactly what Mr B was. I had to do all of the talking, and then when he did have a go the landlord´s actual words were ¡Que horror! It turns out he was arranging to see it at 4.30pm when it had already been let.

We got round the lingo problem by getting every Tom, Dick and Harry at the hotel we´re staying in to do the talking, and we´ve just moved into a place in Santa Eulalia. (You can see the block in the picture above - it’s the Moroccan-looking place in the middle that’s white and dark brown) It´s a little old fashioned - there was a fake flower decoration on the coffee table that an old woman would pay top dollar for - but it´s home.

Nearly there…

So that’s it we’ve left the flat, left our jobs and left London.  We’re up in Workington, Cumbria at the minute saying a final farewell to my mum.  Aww bless etc etc.

The journey up was a complete nightmare too.  Some poor sod threw themselves on the tracks at Harrow and Wealdstone station so the train was delayed for ages.  I was like “I’m only going to Spain mate - no need to get that upset.” I shouldn’t joke really.  If they did do it because of that though then I’d like to apologise for being such a great guy. 

Anyway we’ve only got 36 hours left in the UK so better say my goodbyes quick. 

See you all in Ibiza….

Mr B 

The Lech Monster

They say moving is one of the most stressful things a person can do.  That’s even more pertinent if you happen to be married to my wife - which I am.  She sold my sofa the other day.  When the bloke came to pick it up he didn’t much look like someone who loves lying on a sofa in his skids.  He looked like a rambler or summat - a weirdo who likes spending Saturday afternoons walking around talking about cooking bean stew more than spending that precious ‘me’ time watching Sky Sports News in his undercrackers.  I’m moving the telly into the bedroom for the last few days so I can watch it in bed. It’s not cheating on her - it’s what the sofa would have wanted. She always was a thoughtful old girl…

Aside from that the move is going pretty well.  In regards to packing etc I put myself in charge of deleting old files from the computer while Mrs B is taking care of everything else.  It seems to be working very well - we make a good team.  

As for the name for our forthcoming night, Mr & Mrs B’s Recurso was all right except for two vitally important factors.  The first one was that I didn’t think it up and the second was I didn’t like it.  Los Fabulosos is much better because I actually did think it up.  And it’s much better too of course.

Even though I’m sad to be leaving my job as a journalist in London I’m looking forward to my new career as a club promoter.  I’ve already made some new friends who are going to fly out to the Beef and DJ.  The Lech Monster is one of them.  He’s called that because of his love for a certain potent Polish lager.  He’s going to be brilliant out there I reckon.  I’ll make sure I get a Pole to mule him a case or two of Lech from Warsaw  to keep him happy. Don’t worry though I’ll take the cost from his fee…

The countdown is on - only 11 more days before we fly out. 

Mr B 

Los Fabulosos is born

Mr B doesn’t like the name for our world music night. He thinks it’s not sexy enough. I suppose he’s got a point, Mr & Mrs B’s Recurso sounds like an old fashioned tonic to cure ailments. Not really the image we’re after.

But, despite this we’re not back to square one. Mr B’s been very useful and come up with a brilliant new name… Los Fabulosos. Translated it means The Fabulous Ones, which is perfect - the DJs are fabulous, the music is fabulous and the atmosphere will be fabulous. You can email us at losfab@googlemail.com

So, with that decided I’ve turned my attentions to the big move. We have to leave the flat on Saturday and I’m already in a tizz. If it’s not carrying flat-pack boxes home in gale force winds and rain, it’s dealing with the new tenants who want the carpet cleaned organically – whatever the hell that involves.

Mr B isn’t so happy with me because I sold the sofa last night, so all we have to sit on are some cheapo deckchairs that have been outside all winter. You see, Mr B’s favourite pastime is lying on the sofa. Although, nothing prepared him for the news that I had sold the bed and that we’d have to sleep on a plastic, inflatable mattress for a week. I nearly went through with it until we realised we don’t have a pump and would have had to buy one.

With hindsight I don’t know what I was thinking… sell the bed for £50, but spend a tenner on a pump just to have a week’s worth of sleepless night’s. He even worked out it would cost £6.66 per night to keep it and said he’d buy it himself just so I would have to sleep on the floor. That settled it, no sale. Thankfully.