Hello folks,
this post intends to
take the cudgels for those of us middle-aged men who still suffer from shocking
memories of girls having turned them down (or, if you’d rather, were
responsible for non-sexual events) when we were still younger and pretty as a
picture: have a look over at Swiss Adam’s very fine “Bagging Area” to get the
background, the comment section of his ‘Costa Blanca’ post will explain why I
have a feeling that this post (series even? On other blogs as well? Hopefully!)
is indeed necessary …
Sure, it happened to all
of us back then – more or less frequently even, I suppose – and it shouldn’t be
a cause for worry these days any longer. Still it was unfair and I often wonder
whether I am the only person on earth who still remembers his failures from 30
years ago so well? Are other men as well able to fade out two or three decades
in their more or less bald heads just like that and let their thoughts time
travel without any difficulties at all, so much so that the memories of the
unfairness presented to us then come back crystal clear? And, most importantly:
can women do it as well? Or do they care even less about these non-events today
than they cared back then? Also, and that’s a question of vital importance for
mankind, one of the great mysteries
in life if you like: whatever happened to all of the tapes we made for them?!
Okay, enough philosophy,
you freaks are all waiting for hard facts, I know. Today’s tale happened when I
was 15 and went to secondary modern school (which is junior high for you Americans).
The Smiths released their first singles and by and large I was the only one in
class who thought they were the best thing since sliced bread apart from one
girl who had the same feelings. The was absolutely cute as well, totally contrary
to me I suppose. Nevertheless I thought that the fact that the both of us were
some kind of outsiders musicwise would justify a “deeper relation” (to express
it politely, I guess you all know what I had in mind … I was 15, as I said). To
my great dismay nothing ever happened, although we sometimes saw each other
after school as well. Summer came and I went on holiday to Spain with me
parents, to Sitges in fact (that’s before Sitges became Spain’s gay capital,
mind you). The girl went to Rosas with her parents at the same time, so before
we left Germany we rather vaguely contemplated to see each other in Spain, if
possible.
As you might imagine the
first thing I did when arriving in Sitges was trying to figure out how to get
to Rosas by train and I found out that there was indeed an affordable
possibility, so a few days later off I went early in the morning. It’s like 50
kilometers from Sitges to Barcelona, where I had to change trains, and then
another 150 kilometers to go to Rosas. No problem for me, although my Spanish
diminishes itself to ‘hola’, ‘que tal?’ and ‘una cerveza por favor’ … I spent my time in
the trains enjoying the sea on my right side and imagening the beautiful things
she would do to me later on that day: half-naked, right on the sand of a quiet Rosas bay, just
the two of us … you get the point. The afternoon itself, as you might already
have guessed, turned out to be somewhat rather more uneventful though: we had
an icecream or two somewhere, wandered around a bit and then it was high time
for the twerp to get the train back home again, because hadn't realized that:
1)
the damned train
would stop at every cowshed from Barcelona to Rosas
2)
it'd take me ages
to get from the Rosas train station to the outskirts where the girl’s villa was
located
3)
I’d have to face
the very same problems contained in 1)
and 2) again if I ever wanted to get back to Sitges
So off I went, kiss on
the cheek, see you in school, goodbye. What a waste of time! I was not in the
best of moods when I got on the train back to Barcelona and I really thought
that my poor life couldn’t get any more miserable. I was wrong though as it
turned out, because when I reached Barcelona in the early evening – hungry and
with only a few Pesos left in my pockets - I had to learn that for one reason
or another there was no more train down to Sitges. (Note to younger readers:
mobile phones didn’t exist back in these days, believe it or not, nor were cash
points as frequently displayed as they are today). A bus ride, as far as I
could tell, wasn’t offered as well, so my only option was to get a taxi. Now, I
think you all know what a 50 kilometer taxi ride through the night costs
these days and believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t very much cheaper back
in the Eighties. Especially not for a tourist. But of course I quickly came up with a
solution: “No big deal”, such was my brilliant plan, “as soon as the taxi stops
somewhere when approaching Sitges, I get out and disappear into the dark”.
Again, as you might
imagine, I was too much of a coward to do this when we first stopped, also when
we stopped for the second and the third time. The opportunities to execute my
great masterplan rather quickly diminished and before I could say “ahora que estoy muerto” the taxi stopped in front of our holiday
appartment. Waking up my parents in the middle of the night, explaining them
the whole story and finally asking them to pay the taxi driver the equivalent value
of - so I guess – the bit that up until this wonderful evening didn’t allow him to apply
for early retirement pension was the ultimate indignity.
As you - again - might have already gathered: my
parents were outraged for the rest of the holiday and I certainly didn’t have a
good time altogether until we went back home again. I’ve lost track about what
happened with the girl, I suppose not very much later she quickly devoted
herself lustfully to a bloke much older and brighter than myself, a die-hard Genesis fan
most probably.
Oh, ain’t life grand?!
Here’s an appropriate tune, one of Little Loser’s
favourites. Another note to younger readers: the singer calls himself “Olga”,
despite of the fact that he’s male.
-"I think I'll ring, Kendra. Hello?
It's Olga. C-can I speak to Kendra please?"
-"Just hold on a minute pet. Kendra? Olga's on the phone, do you want to
speak to him?"
-"Ah! I cannot."
I first saw Kendra at a pub called the Ramside Hall - in Durham
So sweet and tender but she did not even see me at all - No
She looked so nice, she smelled so fine
Oh, how I wished that Kendra was mine
5 foot 1 and eyes that were blue
A smile that made me melt
Oh, what could I do?
I had to get Kendra's telephone number really quick - Yes
If I came straight to the point it would do the trick - Yes
I asked her if she'd like to go out with me
She said that she was flattered, but I just couldn't see
Why she said...
[Chorus:]
Oh! Olga I cannot...
Oh! Olga I cannot...
My boyfriend's sitting on the Seatee
He does not want you to see me
So Olgaaaaa... I cannot.
I was really de-pressed, what could I do? I was blue
I'll ring her up again in a day or two, on Monday
Her boyfriend wasn't there, so I felt lucky
Howza bout now baby come out with me?
And she said... she said...
[Chorus]
I would if I could, but I don't think I should
I can't, well I can but I shan't - it's not good man
Olga... I cannot... I cannot! I cannot!! I cannot!!!!
I'm sorry that I ever rang
She said "Don't be dafted. Oh! Olga man
I want to see you, don't get me wrong
I'll contact you soon, it won't be long
But at the moment... I cannot."
I called Kendra another fifty times on the phone - Yes
She agreed to meet me, but I should have known - Yes
I wound the window down in the Rolls Royce
I said "Jump in the back!" and then I heard her voice
Start to say...Start to say...
[Chorus]
I'm going to Lloret for my holiday in Spain
And when I get back, I still cannot again!
so Olgaaaaaaa....
[Chorus]
I talked it over with my mum and me dad
But even my sister and the dog think I'm mad!
So Olga.... yes Olga..... I cannot.
Enjoy,
Dirk
PS: I want my tapes back, Melanie. All of them! Now!!
