The Alicante Tales

The Prologue

The showers of April have gone, the buds of May have bloomed, school's out for the summer and...

...I'm on a bloody bus.

"A package holiday," she said, "No driving or stress," she said.

Liar.

This is the single most stressful experience of my life. From pushing past the protruding bums of strangers to watching Barry the Busman throw my case mercilessly into the belly of the beast, and now listening to one kid's iPod whilst another kid decides we should all be treated to a lungful of his crying - this, in short, is the nightmare I am living.

But here we are, travelling from Canterbury to Alicante via what feels like all of the motorway systems (plus a few bonus ones invented for the morons who go on bus holidays), seeking the holy trilogy that is sun, sea and sand. (Maybe sex, but I did call her a moron for suggesting bus transfers would be ok.)

The mother of the crying child has told it to effing shut up before she reconsiders adoption. I am never travelling on a bus again.

***

We've pulled over for an obligatory bathroom break, and for Barry to fulfil his nicotine addiction. Why we didn't fly from a nearer airport I'll never know. Well, I do, I argued the toss about saving money - maybe there's something to be said for me bringing this on myself...

Anyway, Barry's fag out and ablutions obliterated, we're off again.

"I'm bored," shouts one fellow passenger to anybody. "Anyone got anything to do?"

No one replies. I'm twitching with the sheer lack of obedience to the social contract of buses and strangers that this man has just flouted, it's obscene and, well, just not British at all.

"Go on darl, tell him a story like one you tell the kids," another bloke guffaws to the eff-off mother. She scowls at him before he continues. "Once upon a time there was a bus full of tight gits trying to save some dollar for their booze on the beach..."

His words whirr into the background as my mind kicks into overdrive. The cogs of a publisher brain never run dry, especially when the publisher wants to be the writing protegee and not the man pushing forward other people's lousy ideas. And then - wait for it, it was my first one creatively speaking - a lightbulb moment.

"How about," I pipe up, much to the consternation of my other half, "We do what this fine gentleman here has suggested: let's tell our stories on the way to the airport and the hotel after the flight, best one wins...wins..."

"A piss up!" yells the original story-teller, earning him an elbow from the wife.

"Go on then," I say, giggling like a schoolboy. "Whoever tells the best story on this trip gets one drink from each of the people who've told a story. Sounds like it'd be a free and mellow evening for the winner."

I can hear the minds stirring at the word 'free', contemplating the free night of inebriation, possibly to blur out the memory of this foul coach trip.

"I'm in! Name's Reg," says the story-teller mark one. He's followed by a series of awkward hand-raisers and coughers indicating their willingness to participate. I can see the other half rolling her eyes and turning to sleep, wedging her headphones so far in her ear her brain must be getting a good tickle.

"Fab! Does anyone want to go first?!" I ask excitedly.

Silence. Didn't anticipate that. Then...

"Go on, I'll do it."

Excellent. I wave my hand with a flourish to indicate the man can start his story, and he smiles at the gesture. I feel a mild pinch of guilt at the smile; he doesn't know my plan to find my inspiration amongst these minds, to be the intellectual sponge gathering their words for my own use. But...needs must...

So on we ride, and listening to what we all have to say...