Phil Long’s blog - Teletranone

Final day of my holiday in Mann.

Well, despite my claim that I would ride to Port Erin by steam-powered train today I didn’t. Sorry.

It wasn’t because of money. Nope. It was because my old friend “booze” called my name and could I ignore it’s pitiful cry? Could I fuck!

In the evening big bro’ shouted me beer and Curry in Douglas with his work colleagues. They were an interesting bunch, mostly made up of non-Manx people who have moved here to work. It has seemed to me that there are few people on the Island who have much real Manx history linking them to the place. Probably why I feel comfortable here

I listened to the usual complaints about school/work (with which I am more than familiar, having a mother who teaches), politics and other such things.

As usual they were as impressed to learn I was employed as a journalist as most people usually are. As usually I failed to convince them it is far less glamorous than it sounds. It was made clear to me everything said at table was strictly “off the record”. I was fed numerous pints of bitter with my Chicken Korma - a lot of what was said was almost immediately dismissed from “record” by default thanks to alcohol toxicity.

So, after a good evening in the Cutty house, Maff and I returned to the house he rents. As we sit chatting Cyril, his French house mate, walks in for a quick smoke after work before announcing he is heading out to the nightclub beneath the “Hilton Hotel” where he works.

My brother convinces him to take “this dickhead” along, and he gives me a tenner pocket money. I continue drinking.

As we walk back into Douglas I am told by Cyril that he once had a chance to play football professionally. But fate was against him - and a jealous coach who didn’t want to lose him from his small town team in Brittany.

He was in trials for a place at a regional “Football Academy” - he came third in the trials, but only the top two were selected.

Some time later he discovered one of the two was unable to take the two. His coach was told he could take the place, but never told him until it was too late. That was seven years ago.

We arrive at the nightclub, called “Toffs” - but I doubt you’d see any in there. I head for the bar, get a drink. But alas, the curry has begun to work its “magic”. I visit the toilets which can only be described as “rancid”. Typical dingy nightclub loos - no toilet paper, no seat and no lock. I am relieved to note it does have a door. I checked the cubicle next door. Worse. Vomit coats the seat. Charming.

I leave and plead with Cyril to find some toilet paper. He heads out for the Hilton and returns quickly with the goods.

Now this is an important thing to remember, so take note. I place tissue on the seat, close the door and lean my head against it to keep it closed. I do get hurt a couple of times when people try and punch the door open - obviously assuming nobody would ever dare to excrete in such a filthy place.

Soon the bliss of alcohol intoxication returns and I return to the club. I buy a drink for the heroic Cyril - thankfully it’s a quid a pint. And so, yet another “holiday poo” adventure to add to my memoirs.

At a surprisingly-early hour (2am ish) Toffs closes - just as I was starting to enjoy myself… and eye up the local talent. It’s surprisingly early because the Isle of Man is the first place in the UK to abolish closing times for pubs. They could open 24 hours if they wanted!!

Anyway, we return to Maff’s house with a pair of Irish collegues of Cyril’s. One is female… with the accent… mmm. Irish women.

At Maff’s we smoke, I drink Pernod for the first - and last - time ever, and soon I turn in for the night. I sleep. And sleep some more for good measure.

I wake at 13:30 with the worst hangover I’ve had to endure since New Year 2000.

So, for the rest of the day until it’s time for my Ferry (which got in late) I vegetate before the television, flicking through the music channels on Satellite hopeing to find the elusive “Daydream in Blue” by I Monster and the thankfully-common “Moulin Rouge” video featuring dirty-girl Christine Aguilera in her Ann Summers get-up (with other lasses). Lovely.

So, now I sit on a one-hour late “Seacat Rapide” (yeah, right!). Still suffering from the night before while it fast approaches the day after the day after the night before. I should just throw-up, but I’m unconvinced of the benefits that may bring.

Additional: 23:58.

Singing on the Seacat. Passengers were “entertained” when a passenger of the 21:30 (late) from Douglas, Isle of Man, broke into song in the barr - soon joined by another passenger on an accompanying Banjo.

I’ve just heard from a steward he could well be arrested on arrival in Liverpool for causing a disturbance.

They keep turning up the onboard stereo. I find the sounds of dance music far more intruding. People were just getting into the spirit of things - and possibly the spirits he was already into!!!

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