The chronicles of the unfortunately handsome meesterboom, shipwrecked on a volcanic rock somewhere sunny and awash with alcohol... although he manfully tries to push past the seeming neverending horror of free booze, food and stunning weather, a glimmer of hope appears that perhaps, just perhaps, he can find a way home...
There's a mountain nearby. No, not a mountain. Apparently, a bloody volcano.
One of the locals, Big John, accosted me one night in one of their fermented vegetable juice establishments.
Yagadagga yagadaggadoo!
He burbled excitedly in the irritating local tongue.
I shrugged my shoulders at whatever incomprehensible codswallop he was babbling.
He pointed up at the mountain and gabbled more bilge.
I looked at him as if he were some kind of exotic cabbage and shrugged my shoulders again.
Eh, ya fucking daftie?
I said as amiably as a man drunk on fermented potatoes and blazing sunshine could.
He grimaced and took a long swig of the muck that they call beer here before answering.
Fooksake, ah canna believe ya canna fookin understan me, Newcastle is only doon the road from you Scots bastids.
He ground out as slowly and as carefully as he could.
It was no use. We were caught twixt worlds of understanding. Perhaps I was fated to never understand these simple Island folk.
Ella piso es muy mujado?
I knocked out a few words of the local lingo I had managed to pick up but he just threw his hands up in the air and made a strange gah'ing noise.
Fook it. See there?
He waved his arms like a seagull that had been fed too much arse pâté.
It looked as if he was gesticulating to the nearby mountains, one in particular.
Big fookin hill, Timanfaya. Go Boom!
He moved his hands apart in a reverse clapping motion as if parting a Texan woman's labia.
My mouth dropped slightly.
Say again?
I stuttered in stark disbelief.
Big John smiled. It was a big happy smile. The smile of an idiot who has finally managed to open a jam jar.
Up there, big volcano! You have to see it.
His smile faded as he saw he had lost me with his jibber-jabber again.
He slid his half empty beer glass around the table and dipped two fingers in the tepid amber piss that the locals masturbated in and called beer.
Big hill...
He jerked his head in the direction of the mountain again.
Go BOOM!!
He nodded excitedly, seeing the understanding on my face again.
Big hill, go BOOM!
He flicked beer from his glass into the table top as if there were a small ejaculating dolphin in there.
I looked from his wet and grubby butcher's fingers to the mountain behind him.
Could this be the sign I was looking for? Was the universe attempting to communicate an escape plan to me, Boomy, through Big John of the New Castle?
He gabbled some more foreign gibberish but I ignored it. My heart was pounding at the thought of escape from this cursed Island with its ridiculous sun, clear skies and oceans of sour alcohol.
They said that no one left before their time. Well, bollocks to that.
I remembered the arcane writings of that madman who lived on the underside of the earth, something about not living your life by default.
Yes. I would take this sign. It was time to get out of Dodge and finally escape this shipwrecked hell.
I looked at Big John and my smile for once had nothing to do with semi-naked ladies or inebriation.
I thumped my chest with my fingering hand and then pointed at the volcano behind us.
Boom go big hill.
