A Sucker for Punishment

The Suns heat had begun to diminish in strength and its glare coming off the beaches and roads lessened to a murky haze.  The almost naked bodies took a few minutes longer to cook to a nice crisp brown, or in many cases a vicious violent red; and inevitably the pace of life began to slow down so Dave and I could take a little more time relaxing.  Our own tans were now a lovely warm brown, the white bits starkly white in contrast and as we’d taken our time to develop the colour, it was all the more consistent and uniform; we actually looked liked ex-pats now.  We’d transitioned through a year that so far had offered a number of delights, excitements and the occasional shock and sadness, but one that had been memorable if nothing else.  Bar Confusion was still busy as September 1989 plopped into being with its offer of evening rain to counter the daytime warmth, a blessing to the locals and a misery to those who’d paid a hefty price for late summer heat.  Dave and I were tiring of bar work by then and we took longer to rise each day, to stock up the bottomless fridges with bottles of Heineken and to open the doors to customers.  September’s song was mainly one of games of seduction married with football on the beach, a heady mix of sex and sunshine all washed down with beer and tequila of an evening. 

Natalie had arrived mid-summer with a gaggle of friends and we’d taken a good day to get into one another’s underwear.  She had returned to the Island in September for another break, staying with me in town and we’d spent a nice week together; Natalie going out with Dave’s wife Rebecca and her friends as I worked, meeting up late on to satisfy ourselves of the built up sexual tension that sun combined with alcohol has a tendency to concoct.  I was still happy to mix it up once she had returned to Norwich; she was from my hometown and a nice co-incidence as there might after all, be someone to go home to now, as well as my Mother!   Once Natalie was home I’d returned to my Lothario role as if nothing special had happened and as if to prove his existence, the God of “What goes around, comes around,” decided on having his sport pretty soon after she’d left.  Tony the Tennis Pro’ and Yachtsman was preparing to leave late September taking with him, a woman he’d met on the island who was from Liverpool. 

She was in her late thirties, though more likely early forties but whose figure and looks belied her age hoodwinking the onlooker into believing she was far younger, although in truth there is nothing wrong with that.  To bid farewell to them both I convinced her to extend to me the gift of a goodbye blowjob and she obliged rather too easily looking back.  We’d managed to sneak off to my apartment after a late evening spent in Star Club where she’d not even let me undress before clamping herself onto my knob and sucking like a Dyson.  In fact, such was her mouths vice like grip and power of suction that I swayed between pleasure and pain in equal measure.  It was more “suck-job” than blowjob, as she breathed through her nose and never once looked up, down or sideways.  If she had she would have seen my face alternating between fractured grimaces and eye-popping pleasure.  Her powers of suction were starting to worry and funnily enough annoy me, as she went at it like a limpet sticking to a rock, burying her head into my groin deeper and deeper.  

I tried my best to focus on the more pleasurable aspects but looking down at the top of her head I was suddenly distracted, as I could see the roots showing through her dyed jet-black hair at the crown.  “Focus old son, focus now,” my brain shifted its attention this time to her tits, honing into view in brief snippets as she moved backwards and forwards at an ever increasing rate of knots.  “Use the force young Skywalker,” said a voice in head and as I started wondering just how much force was needed to get her to relinquish her grip my orgasm ripped through me.  Shouts of joy and relief were equally matched as she slowed and I tentatively moved backwards afraid of what might drop from her lips; “Would I recognise my lifelong friend after that terrible journey into the unknown?”  

She raised her eyes to look at me; her smoky slightly saucy fairground looks those of a Gypsy girl, her lips a vivid red pout.  In fact her pucker looked like a clowns it was that red, it was so very red because I was bleeding for fucks sake!  I leapt backwards and smacked into my wardrobe, my limp Willy dropping from her mouth like a leech falling of an arm once gorged on the feast, only this time drained of blood.  She was a bloody vampire.   My head rang as it clipped the wardrobe a good one and I looked through stars and birds for a moment as she sat there looking at my waist covered in blood.  “Oh…my…God!” her voice rose with each word as she sat back onto the bed, its springs arguing beneath her and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.  Her lipstick was long gone and her hand fell away revealing a line of blood merging with sweat.  She had after all been going like the clappers.

“What, the fuck, have you done?” I said, tenderly cradling my cock in my hand; it resembled a skinned and legless mouse (could’ve written rabbit, don’t wish to brag!), all timid and afraid to raise its head again.  “I don’t fucking know!” was her reply.  “You’ve killed it,” I said, “its dead, it’ll never work again.”  I ran to the bathroom and bathed myself in cold water and after sometime, with the skin cleaned of dried blood, he returned to a nice pink colour.  The blood had actually come out of the end, from my japseye, not through any cuts I could see and I went back to my bedroom to find her disrobed and in bed.  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I asked her.  “Going to sleep, it’s the middle of the night.”  Her assumption that she was ‘invited to stay’ was a step to far.  “You’re not fucking staying! You could have bled me dry you mad twat.  Get dressed and get the fuck out.  You’re barred.”  

I grabbed her dress and shoes and threw them at her.  I went into the lounge and waited for her to get dressed and she walked out of the bedroom after five minutes or so, trying to hold her head high but failing, miserably.  “Dave said you were bloody mad, he was right.”  I said as she sulked past.  “Well I’m going away with Tony tomorrow so you can get fucked.” She continued to mutter as she left, her lady-like tone echoing off the cobblestoned road and stuccoed houses as she went, her Liverpudlian accent ringing in my ears as she shouted, “Cunt.”  

I went inside and collected loads of toilet paper and wound it around my knob, pulled on a pair of boxers and went to bed; an early doors appointment with “One-shot Vidal” was called for!  Vidal the Doctor had a surgery on a side road leading up from the bay, not too far from the West End.  I took a seat in his waiting room and sat reading unknown Spanish from a magazine until called for.  I entered his surgery and Vidal sat behind his desk.  He looked typical Ibicencan; he had dark hair, slightly chubby and definitely wasn’t tall.  Gesturing for me to sit down he asked in good English what my problem was?  He’d become known as “One-Shot Vidal,” back in 1984.  Anyone and everyone had been going at it and inevitably, viruses and infections were passed around.  Vidal had a massive store of Antibiotic’s, or quick access to them and as the main Hospital was across the Island, he’d quickly developed a loyal local customer base and an annual on-going trade from visitors, who’d collected something on holiday that they’d rather not take home, along with their miniature Raffia Donkey and Leather Pouch of Sangria.  

I explained the basic facts, leaving plenty out, assuming he’d rather not know too much.  Wrong!  In a wonderful Spanish/English inflected accent he asked me questions that quickly ascertained exactly what had happened.  “So, these a lady fellated you until you bleed, correct?” I nodded meekly, “I must a look at these a penis please,” he said and I dropped my shorts to reveal my old fella swathed in toilet roll.  One-shot put on his gloves and peeled away the makeshift bandages until my knob dropped away and hung there.  “Ok,” he said.  A thorough examination followed and he finally stood back surveying the damage.  “She sucked your blood from inside, there are arteries inside by your tubes and the blood come a through the walls and out of the end.  Understand?”  I nodded again.  “Nothing to do but a wait.”  I nodded again.  “No infections here, I don’t a think so anyway. No pains or aches?”  He asked. “Nope, none,” I replied and he gestured for me to dress.  “Take these a bill to the desk and pay the girl, thank you,” and that was that.  One-Shot had cleared up my worries and apart from a few days on the subs bench, I would be playing first team football in no time.  

With September upon us custom dwindled away fast, only the bars in the West End turning over any trade.  Long days and long nights started to reduce as we were closed earlier after a later opening, movies weren’t shown by now and we spent more time in the OK Corral and on the beach.  One afternoon I went back to my rooms to find someone had broken in and had stolen my Leather Jacket.  I was fucking livid and had an idea that Les the Chef had done it, only I hadn’t any evidence to go on of course.  Blind with anger I marched into the bar on the other side of Confusion, where Les would drink beers when not cooking.  “I know you've got my jacket, you thieving twat,” I accused him, waving the wrench around that I had collected from Confusion on the way past.  “Fuck off dickhead,” he replied.  

Despite “knowing” he’d done it, I had no evidence and after shouting a lot, I walked out, reminding those in the bar that if I caught the thief, I’d brain them with the wrench.  But the Jacket was gone and along with it my desire to appear as George Michael.  Perhaps George did it?  Competition scared him?  My time as a lookalike was done and I decided to never again dress up as George and prance about; I’d retired from that career for good.  Whatever John Fashanu might or might not offer upon my return, I wasn’t going to do it.  I wanted to join a band and sing my own lyrics and I would do so in the New Year.  For now, we had to clear up the mess created over six months of madness and have our staff night out.

She Slips, He Scores

August rolled into view and with it the stunning summer heat of the Balearic Islands.  Tony, a tennis pro and sometime playboy had been frequenting Confusion for the past month.  He owned a yacht and had sailed between the Islands and the Spanish mainland most of that summer.  Tall, blond, late thirties and he was confident that he had what it took to attract women and invariably wandered into Confusion with a new girl on his arm most evenings.  He liked me as I would take him along to Star and Es-Paradis nightclubs and gain free entry.   In return and as I had a few days off as Confusion was shut due to another licence infraction, we took a couple of girls onto his yacht and sailed around the headland past Calla Bassa and Port des Torrent, the two main beaches served by water taxi’s from San Antonio and out into the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean.   As Tony guided the yacht around the headlands and smaller, uninhabited Islands near to Ibiza I lay on the deck and slept under the warm blanket of sunshine, a nubile body close to mine within stroking distance.

We anchored two hundred metres offshore, a small beach and Café at Cala Tarida serving lunch to the sun worshippers who were finding the heat too much during midday and the beach was as yet unspoilt by the developments of the future.  I grabbed flippers, goggles and a snorkel and slipped over the side into the warm waters and dived some 3-4 metres or so to the bottom of the sea and silently glided along looking around at the small fish darting out of my way, the sunlight catching on the waves above and slicing down through the blue, illuminating the depths around me. 

I dived again after taking in air and saw an old clay pipe about six inches in diameter and a metre long.  I picked up one end and peered into it only to disturb a large Octopus that slid out the opposite end and propelled itself away in a cloud of sand and ink.  I laid the pipe back down and looked up at the hull of the Yacht and swam up towards the stern and the ladder hanging down into the water.  Climbing out I slipped of the flippers and headgear and grabbed a beer from the cooler. 




Tony was lying on the deck with the girls and we sat talking and sharing ideas for the evening ahead.  I spent much of the afternoon below decks whilst Tony sailed the yacht back to San Antonio in time for dinner at the Chinese restaurant by the harbour.

My partner that day and for the week had been an English girl who worked as a dancer at a bar/club called The Wigan Pier; a stunning brunette, she was tall, graceful and pretty.  I’d thought I could attract beautiful women but I was frankly playing on the substitutes bench for a Premiership Team in terms of pulling power, given that I was 5’8’’ in my socks and walked with a slight limp by now.  I was a good-looking Roger “Verbal” Kint if you will.  He was Kevin Spaceys character in movie, The Usual Suspects, but I was definitely not any kind of “Keyser Soze”.  That said I regularly made first team appearances and played way out of my league and often out of position on most occasions, if you’ll forgive the Footballing analogy.  Needless to say I was very much apt to falling in lust with her and she was not shy in saying what she wanted me to do for her and to her.  In fact her confidence in all bedroom affairs left me open-mouthed to an extent and I rapidly assumed that our relationship was one that could / would last the remainder of the summer.  Wrong again!  After a week of some seriously debauched bedroom gymnastics I was substituted for a taller, smoother sucker who probably believed that he was onto a summer long good thing but who was also dropped for the next guy on the bench not long after.

“The Vern” was a Londoner friend of Dave Bennetts.  Easily 6’5” he had jet black hair slicked back Dracula style and a presence like a sleeping volcano.  The Vern always wore a long overcoat, no matter the weather and he turned up in San Antonio to stay with Dave for a few weeks.  The Vern was a character insofar as the meaning applies to someone who was definitely operating on the cusp of the law or appeared as if he did.  But The Vern was fun, often very funny, had stories to amaze and enthral and was a genuinely likeable man.  

I was booked for a George Michael appearance at The Playa Bella complex across San Antonio Bay and asked The Vern if he would accompany me and act as Body Guard.  He thought this would be a blast and readily agreed, so on the night he and I climbed into a Mercedes belonging to the Playa Bella Hotel complex’ owner and were driven around the bay to the hotel.  Most of the action was taking place by the pool area where there was a permanent stage and plenty of people crowded around to watch the band perform and more importantly watch very attractive young girls in their swimwear parade across it.  I stayed out of the way, changing into my outfit in a closed office in the near dark to avoid being seen.  I could hear shouts and cheers coming from the show and wondered how many people were there, such was the noise.  The Vern knocked on the door and said it was time to go and we climbed back into the car for a very short drive down to the pool area.  I climbed out and was greeted by a huge cheer from the massive crowd; there were easily two thousand people who had come from all over the bay to see the show and to see me as the band had been plugging my (Georges) appearance for some time and it helped that the real George was again on the Island staying at Pikes for a holiday.

Current Playa Bella

The Vern came around the car and led me through the crowd towards the stage.  A pathway appeared in front of him as people moved back to allow us through and keeping my head down we walked briskly towards the stage where I found what looked like a moat in front of it.  A plank was laid over it and I danced across as it wobbled beneath my feet.  In front of me the bands singer who was acting as the evenings compere’ was stood alongside a row of stunning and some not so stunning women wearing swimsuits, (not bikini’s) and high heels.  The girls looked at me and I could feel their excitement; it was if they believed that George Michael was there in person to present the winner with her sash, bouquet, prize money and crown.  I stepped forward and the compere’ shook my hand and started interviewing me!  

I had no idea this was going to happen and we had not rehearsed in any way as I had been told I simply needed to sing two songs and present the prizes.  Asking me questions such as: - What is your next album called George?  What about these girls George, do any take your fancy? was ok but I needed to think on my feet in order to carry off the deception and he wasn’t helping.  To make matters worse they had forgotten my backing tape and we saved ourselves from a nightmare only due to the fact that I carried a copy in my leather jacket, but this had the original tracks on the reverse.  The sound engineer or “knob head” put the tape in the wrong way around and pressed play, only for George to start singing “Faith”.  The crowd went silent and I quickly said into my microphone, “You can hear the real thing when this guy shuts up!” to nervous laughter from the Band and I gave the engineer a look that could kill.

The tape was quickly changed around whilst I told the crowd that I’d be singing two songs, one either side of the prize giving.  “Faiths” strumming guitar intro began and I performed well, dancing around the stage in between the women, the lyrics relevant in their references: - “If I could touch your body, I know not everybody has got a body like you” etc. and it went down well.   Applause and cheers came as I finished the song and I stood next to the compere’ who said he now had the final decision from the Judges, who had been using the time it took me to sing the song to choose the winner.  He announced the result in the time-honoured fashion; reverse order and I presented a sash and bouquet to the third and second place girls.  The drummer started a drum-roll and with a smash of the cymbals the winners name was announced and she stepped forward only to wobble on her high heel and she slipped arse over tit straight into the moat.  The moat was empty so she fell a few feet to the bottom but stood up almost immediately, hair slightly askew and a look on her face that dared anyone to laugh, just once. 

The Vern leant over to lift her out and led her towards and across the plank to get back on stage.  The compere’ asked the crowd not to laugh, (which was a bit impossible) but instead to cheer her back on stage as she walked awkwardly across the plank and took her place at my side.  I leaned in and planted a nice big kiss on her cheek and as I placed the sash over her head said, “Well done, are you ok?”  Despite glowing with embarrassment she said she was fine and this was her first ever win in a beauty contest.  “This is a first for me as well,” I replied and gave her another kiss for good measure as I placed the crown on her head.  In fact she did well not to cry as she’d taken quite a fall and then had to stand there whilst I sang “Father Figure” to her, the poor sod.  

As soon as I finished I wished everyone goodnight and for them to, “Join me at Amnesia later and I’ll buy you a drink if you ask me nicely,” figuring that if they were going anywhere, they may as well go see the real George at his favourite club on the island and pester him to get the beers in.  I walked off stage towards The Vern who led me through the crowd and by this time some had decided that I was not George, ‘a damned imposter!’  The Vern was having none of that, so anyone stepping forward to offer such an insult found one of The Vern’s large hands in their face for daring to suggest such an untruth and shoved back into the crowd. 

Meanwhile at Bar Confusion Dave was up against it.   He’d steadfastly refused to hire any cover during my absence and was becoming overwhelmed with customers.  He could open a bottle and slosh a spirit and mixer into a glass perfectly well enough, but my forte’ was cocktails and slammers and he didn’t have the time nor the patience to mess about perfecting those skills and was telling punters, “Only got beer and spirits.  Nothing special tonight, whaddya want”?  In the main our customers stood for it as the music was the draw but even that required Dave to mess about loading cassettes and he was going from one end of the bar to the other and losing patience with customers who couldn’t decide what they wanted!  He was quite annoyed when I wandered back into Confusion with The Vern, and it was near total confusion as I said, “Beer please Dave and one for The Vern,” as we reached the bar.  “Fucking cheeky twat, get it yourself,” replied Dave.  “You’ve got a fucking cheek you have, I give you the fucking night off to go do your singing and you drop in as if you own the place, fucking big time Charlie, fuck off.”  Dave was obviously annoyed, but sod him, I could have been back in England on TV for all I knew and that opportunity was long gone.  He probably wanted me to get to work behind the bar there and then, but I felt it was worthwhile to let him work alone and realise how lucky he was to have me.  So I walked back out and wandered through town, still in all my George Michael finery towards the Star and Es-Paradis Clubs.

Es Paradis

Star and Es-Paradis were located in a side street a hundred metres from the road running around the bay and as I stood outside deciding which club to go into, the winner and faller from earlier in the evening came wandering up the side street, still wearing her sash, swimsuit and crown, carrying her flowers.  She’d obviously shaken off her embarrassment and walked unsteadily towards the clubs no doubt having taken on a few shots of Dutch courage along the way.  I walked towards her and as soon as her eyes focused in on me she shouted, “I saw the real George tonight, he gave me this (she tugged the Sash) these (and waved the Flowers under my nose) and a kiss,” as evidence of her meeting George.  I smiled and said that was nice, “You look like him though,” she carried on, “he kissed me twice.”  I asked whether she wanted to come to Es-Paradis or Star as I could get us in free.  “I’ll get in free anyway, I won these,” she whooped and continued thrusting her winnings at me.  I let my “bad” self get the better of me as I leant into her ear and said, “It was me tonight, not George and I can prove it, I said that this was the first time I had done this, as I gave you your sash, as you’d told me this was your first ever win.”

She stopped dead, looked at me and slowly the realisation dawned that it was me who'd crowned her.  “It was you?” she asked.  “Yea, me, sorry to let you down,” I said suddenly consumed by guilt, and afraid I’d ruined any chance of a shag, which had been my ulterior motive all the time.  “Great,” she roared, “Great.”  This threw me for a moment but only until she grabbed me and kissed me with far more enthusiasm than I had when I kissed her earlier.  “Es-Paradis?” I asked slipping my arm around her waist, “Lead the way,” she said.  

After a nights drinking and dancing we stopped by a bakers as the sun was rising and bought ham rolls, (Ah, the romance of it all). I let us into my room and we crashed for a few hours where upon we consummated our relationship and soon afterwards went our separate ways.  I went to work and she went back to her hotel with a story to tell about a win, a loss, a fall and a fuck.  

I failed to save Jesus (Hey Zeus!)

The summer of 1989 on Ibiza quickly became notorious for the Ecstasy drug, with Acid House Music as its musical accompaniment.  The Island was suddenly bulging with people; the bars and clubs were packed, the hotels full and the beaches hadn’t a foot of sand to drop a towel onto.  What had been predicted as a weak summer for the island with business owners all preparing for a slow, torpid summer had morphed into probably the best summer of their lives in terms of numbers of people suddenly arriving and the profits to be made by those ingenious bar owners who could differentiate their offering from the mainstream. If the high-end bars and clubs in and on the road to Ibiza town were packed, by comparison the cheaper clubs in San Antonio were full to bursting.  

Drug Pills Generic Image 450

The presumption that these revellers drank only water was dispelled, as the clubbers were getting hammered prior to going to the clubs.  I believe the clubs themselves intentionally ran out of “Agua” in order to make more money selling alcohol.  The street outside our bar had become a main drag from hotels on the outer-reaches of town to the bars in the “West End” of San Antonio and we were ideally placed to capture trade wandering into town and out to Café’ Del Mar. 

One July evening around 11pm Dave and I were serving customers as normal.   Groups of young guys and girls were heading past the bar toward Kings and Tropicana’s, two of the most popular bars on the main street and we were picking off the occasional reveller and diverting them into Bar Confusion.  Football Club shirts, the mainstay of any working class holiday wardrobe, were highly visible as groups wearing the shirts of Leeds, Manchester United, QPR, Liverpool and various other clubs ambled by, bottles of beer in hand.  We attempted to minimise the number of football-shirt wearing holidaymakers entering the bar through the strategic placement of posters by the front doors that read; No Football Shirts, No Football Shorts, No Disco Music!  Written in bold black lettering, it was a warning, as we couldn’t be arsed constantly trying to break up fights and having to listen to football chants over the volume of the music we’d so lovingly organised.

I’d just knocked up a couple of “Twats and a Bastard” when I noticed that everyone had congregated at the door or just outside and no one was left to serve and even Dave was stood by the door.  I walked over to see what the distraction was and saw a young guy under 20 years old, stretched out in the middle of the street.  I asked what had happened and someone said he’d fallen off the back of a moped.  No one was with him and nobody was going to see if he was ok.  I told Dave, “Keep and eye on the till,” (as if he needed telling), “I’m going to see if he’s ok.”  I walked over and knelt down beside him expecting him to come round or start moving as I presumed he was drunk and had knocked himself unconscious when he fell.  My first aid knowledge was good as we had been taught how to deal with basic injuries and the 4 B’s (Breathing, Bleeding, Breaks and Burns) in the Army and I’d taken a First Aid course in Civvy Street.  

This guy was out cold though and placing my head against his chest I couldn’t discern any breathing nor heart beat.  I tried to find a pulse on his neck but failed and began to get really concerned as to his injuries.  I pulled my t-shirt over my head and folded it into a pad, to place under his head.  I tipped his head back to open his airway and saw blood all over my hand coming from the back of his head and it was starting to soak into the white t-shirt, a vivid deep red patch spreading as I watched.  Fuck!

After checking his airway was clear and that he hadn’t swallowed his tongue I placed my mouth over his and began breathing for him, interchanging with compressions on his chest.  I was not getting a response from anyone else; bystanders stood silently watching as I me performed CPR and not a sound was coming from any of them.  After what must have been a few minutes of my performing CPR I was still not getting much back, in terms of a heartbeat except for faint pulses that appeared in his neck and disappeared as quickly as they arrived.  I needed help and I shouted out, “Does anyone here know CPR? For fucks sake someone call an ambulance and somebody please help me; Christ!” 

A woman pushed her way through the crowd, shouting at people to get out of her way. She knelt beside me and said in a Welsh accent, “I’m a nurse, what do you want me to do?”  Fantastic! At last someone was helping and I told her to manage the chest compressions synchronising herself to my breaths and she fortunately knew the pace to go at.  Performing CPR is not a nice thing to have to do; Ribs crack and pop as you do it, and modern thinking now recommends simply carrying out chest compressions at a rate of up to one hundred per minute.  Not necessarily to restart the heart, moreover, it’s to move blood around the body to the brain thereby stalling brain death until trained Paramedics with drugs and equipment arrive and take over.  As it was back in 1989, it was just she and I and we were trying like mad to get this kid breathing on his own and his heart working again.

I was aware of people around me and Dave said later that quite a crowd had gathered as we worked on the guy.  I was not overly concerned with the wound to his head as I had my padded T-shirt against it and applied pressure as I held his head and breathed for him.  After what seemed an age and was certainly long enough to get me very concerned indeed for the kid (for that was what he was and he looked more likely to be under than over 20 years old), I got a pulse!  I told the Welsh Nurse to stop compressions and put my ear to his chest.  I heard a faint heart beat and shallow warm breaths cooled against my lips as I held them over his; barely touching but close enough to feel the faint warm air blowing out of his mouth, evidence that these were his own attempts to breath for himself.  I heard someone call out that an ambulance was on its way and relaxed a little knowing that a team of fully equipped paramedics were coming to help.

Bartolo came out of Bar Cantiti and gave me a blanket to cover the guy up and I spoke to the nurse to say that we should lay him on his side, in the recovery position and allowing me to take a look at his head wound. We rolled him over moving his legs into position and placing an arm under his head as he lay on his side, my shirt under his head was now stained a deep crimson.  I parted his hair to reveal a deep slit in his scalp running across his head about 4cm long, with congealed blood at its edge and fresh blood, oozing out and onto my fingers.  I looked up and I saw an Estate car had parked at the end of the paved street some 50 metres away, a Red Cross sticker slapped on the rear door and walking towards me was a chubby middle-aged guy wearing slacks and a shirt; looking for the entire world like he was popping out for a drink in town.  

He walked towards us and when he was stood over the kid he looked down, obviously taking in the situation.  Instead of leaping into action he turned around and walked back to the car, where he collected a stretcher from the rear of the vehicle.  He wandered (seriously) back down the road to us, pulling the stretcher behind him.   He did not speak any English but Bartolo translated as I said what I had done and what I felt the patient now needed, all the time he was nodding his head, saying, “Si.”  I could not see anyone else with the driver so asked where his colleagues were.  “Only him,” said Bartolo, “he is alone, no one else is coming.” 

The driver did not have any medical equipment as far as I could see and he simply attempted to lift the guy up by the shoulders to put him on the stretcher.  I was incensed and shouted for him to stop, which he eventually did and the nurse and I along with the driver lifted the poor kid onto the stretcher together. There was no neck brace or body board and even a brief examination was not done.  “Bartolo,” said, “tell this guy I must go with him as the kid cannot breath for himself and will die if no one is looking after him.”  Bartolo repeated my concerns in Spanish to the driver, who immediately raised his hands and started shaking his head and said “No, nadie va a venir con nosotros.” (“No, nobody is going to come with us”).  Bartolo told me this and I was totally stunned and appealed with Bartolo and through him the driver, to let me tend to the kid in the car.  The Hospital was in Ibiza Town which was over 13Km away and any idiot could see this kid was not going to last the journey unattended. 

The driver hadn’t even examined the head wound let alone applied a dressing!  He turned his back to me picked up the stretcher handle and ambled back towards the car, where he slid the stretcher into the rear and closed the rear door.  I followed all the way to the car, pleading with him as he shook his head and I looked about me to see if I could spot anyone in authority, anyone who could help me convince this prick that I needed to go with the boy.  By the time he was climbing into his drivers seat, I was screaming and swearing at the idiot, Bartolo trying to hold me back. It was all to no avail as the driver drove down the hill towards the harbour and away in the direction of Ibiza Town.  I walked slowly back to the bar; Dave and everyone gathered there applauded as I walked past them into the bar.  I poured myself a large bourbon and lit a smoke as Dave started serving again and the bar filled up with customers, some coming up to shake my hand, buy me drinks and console me as I explained what I was certain would be the outcome.  I was gutted and knew in my heart that the kid would be dead on arrival at the hospital.

The following morning I walked down to the bar as usual to be met by Dave coming out of the door and locking up.  He walked over and put his arm around my shoulders, “The kid was dead by the time he got to Ibiza Town Jonny and I’m sorry mate.  You did your best.”  What a pointless and futile exercise it had been.  “That fucking ambulance driver,” I said.  “This place is going to be swarming with press any minute so I’m going to the OK Corral for a brew and some breakfast, come with me,” said Dave.  We ate in silence apart from the odd word from Reg or Souness as to the why’s and wherefores of Ibiza’s ambulance service, which received muted responses.  Late morning and a guy walked in and asked for Dave Bennett, the ex-footballer?  Reg looks at Dave through the corner of his eye and said, “I’ve not seen him today; does the guy want to leave a message?” “I’m a reporter with the Sun newspaper, my name is Nick Parker; Dave owns Bar Confusion doesn’t he?”  Reg looked around at the faces in the bar and confirmed that Dave did own the bar.  “Can I get you a drink?” asked Reg, always one to make a buck.  “Coffee please,” said Parker.  “Does Dave come in here a lot then?”  Reg said he did and gave him his coffee.  Parker continued to ask questions about Dave, the bar Confusion and eventually arrived at the main theme of his enquiries, “Did anyone see the hooligans who killed that Spanish kid last night?” The bar went dead and Dave stood up and walked over to Nick Parker.

“What do you mean hooligans killed him?  He wasn’t fucking killed by hooligans, he just fell off a scooter you twat.”  Parker turned to face Dave, “And you are?”  Dave looked at Reg and said, “Just a regular here and you have no idea what happened last night, that kid fell off and hit his head.”  I could see this going badly but they carried on talking.  “There were loads of football fans around and one of them punched him, that’s what I heard,” said Parker. “You were there then? Do you know any different?”  Dave sat on a stool and drew closer to the reporter. “The kid fell off the moped.  The lad who works next door went to help and saved that boys life.  He was already dead, lying in the street.  When the ambulance turns up a single medic gets out and takes the kid to hospital.  That’s you’re story.  Crap Spanish ambulances and shit medics.  But no one cares about that. Its not news.  Football fans?  They were holidaymakers in football shirts.”

The reporter continued to talk to Dave, unaware of whom Dave was.  I went outside and opened the bar doors and stocked up, noticing an increasing number of faces pressing against the windows and looking in.  Mid-afternoon and Sky and ITV News had turned up asking questions and searching for both Dave and I.  After a day trying to avoid the press; basically they believed the guys responsible for the death had been in our bar and had run off afterwards and actually ran reports in the UK saying this; Dave owned up to Nick Parker and he ran an exclusive story in The Sun Newspaper, saying what the truth was as far as Dave knew the truth to be.  The following day I was interviewed for Sky News and after that, local news reporters besieged my Mum’s home in Norwich.  They eventually went away after she provided a picture of me to them (a decent one thank god) and some background information.  Running alongside all of this was the fact that Bar Confusion was then closed by the local Police due to a Liquor Licence and Noise complaint (which was bollocks) and remained closed for 3 days!  The press ran the story that the bar was closed out of respect for the lad who died but we knew otherwise. 

Jesus Moreno was 19 years old and had been with a friend for a night out in San Antonio.  He lived near Ibiza Town with his parents and older brother, Raoul.  It transpired that the Moped driver and Jesus, neither wearing a helmet, were idling slowly behind a group of English tourists, (who were of course wearing a variety of English football shirts).  The moped driver was revving the engine behind them, zipping forward to almost hit the tourists before backing off.  The holidaymakers eventually responded by turning to face them and one feigned a punch.  At which point the driver opened the throttle and popped a wheelie.  Jesus fell backwards off the bike striking his head on the concrete.  Rather than stop to help his friend the driver sped away down the street and never returned to the scene.   I hope that over time, he came to reflect upon what had happened and his life changed for the positive because of it.

Raoul came to find me a few days later and thanked me for trying to save his brother’s life.  I was particularly upset when meeting him and we sat together and cried; the brother for his loss and me?  I cried for the shame I felt at not insisting that I ride with Jesus to Hospital and for the waste of such a young and a promising life.  One would be right in questioning the quality of emergency services on the Island.  How could they possibly provide such a poor service to their own countrymen, let alone tourists?  The same year, 1989, had already seen several tourists die from drug overdoses and questions were being asked in the UK Parliament about these deaths.  A few years later the son of a senior member of the Islands government fell from his Motorbike whilst riding between beaches on an isolated Island road.  It was high summer and it took over 1½ hour’s for an ambulance to reach him, by which time he’d died from heat exposure and blood loss.  The same year, after an investigation into all of Ibiza’s Emergency Service provision, new rules and response times were put in place, Medics properly trained and now the Islands services are among the best in the Mediterranean.

Meanwhile, I was back at work and the boys from the Live Band around the corner had been to see me, I was to award the prizes and sing (As George Michael), at the Miss Playa Bella Beauty Contest, across San Antonio bay at the Playa Bella hotel complex.  Me? Surrounded by women? What could possibly go wrong there?