My Bloody Valentine's

I’ve often said that New Years Eve in Marbella is the one night of the year that I hate most. It’s “The Biggest Night of the year” and, as such is full of amateurs out to get completely smashed. I, of course, regard myself as a professional. Plus the fact that trying to get a cab out of Banus on NYE is akin to trying to get the last chopper out of Saigon. But there is one other special day of the year that fills me with dread. Valentine’s Day. Will someone please explain to me, why this one night of the year has to symbolise your relationship? And why does it always have to be pink? It’s not that I’m against meaningful relationships. I just don’t see why I should go from being a SCREAMER - a Self-Centred, Rich, Educated, Adventurous Materialist to a SITCOM - Single Income Two Children Oppressive Mortgage. And after 20 years of carousing on the coast I’ve come up with the following theory. Relationships in Marbella use the same time scale as dog years. A one-year relationship in Marbella is equal to a seven-year relationship anywhere else. (If you travel abroad, you’ll find that the same rule applies in Los Angeles, although with a higher proportion of personal trainers, therapists, feng shui consultants and divorce layers involved.)


Although its just another day out of 365, heaven forbid if you forget to book a restaurant, buy a huge bouquet of flowers or, for the more “high maintenance” girlfriend (for high maintenance substitute borderline physco the tendency to boil bunnies a la Glen Close) - buy something shiny, sparkling and seriously expensive.


As an aside, did you know that the blessed St Valentine was put to death by centurions armed with post bags full of sentimental greeting cards?


Of course, you might be expected to take in a movie. And it won’t be along the lines of the brilliant war film “Saving Private Ryan” or the equally brilliant porno “Saving Ryan’s Privates” Oh no. Films on Valentine’s day tend to be chick flicks, normally featuring that well known phrase guaranteed to to strike fear and trepidation into any red blooded male – “A romantic comedy, starring Meg Ryan” - and it will probably feature Rupert Evert as the romantic heroine’s best gay friend, and invariably a “Lesson of Life” will come from the ethnic taxi driver/cleaner/corner store owner.

Music wise you-‘ll be stuck with the old favourites - “Sealion” Dion, anything by Ronan Keating or that bunch of voiced over Armani models known as El Divo. Of course, all blokes know that there is only one Devo – The plastic attired electro punk group of the late 70s, and I defy anyone to listen to the seminal Whip it Up without spontaneously breaking into bad robot dancing. And the mere sight of a Richard Clayderman CD around February 14 is enough to make me start retching. I also habour a serial loathing for The Carpenters, although this is purely down to being punched by a blazered Sloane when “Close to You” came on the jukebox on the King’s Road many years ago. “I love this song” gushed the Sloane’s stick thin girlfriend. “Ah yes. Karen Carpenter” I sagely ventured. “Songs for swinging anorexics” KERPOW!
Little did I know that Sloane’s girl had an eating disorder….


And then there’s the restaurant. You cannot nip out for a Chinese or curry on Valentine’s night. No. The venue must be Italian. And with due deference to the Dalli’s, Pasta Factory doesn’t count on this occasion. And let’s be honest, if you’re taking an attractive woman to a restaurant, do you really want Simon, Marco or Nick unleashing their thousand watt smiles on your date? And don’t get me started on Aretusa. Ten years ago an (ex) girlfriend literally sprinted from Sinatra’s to Antonio’s – an impressive feat in Manolo’s, I can assure you – when she spotted me chatting to Marco in a Ferrari.

So it must be Italian and it must be expensive. And you’ll have to order champagne, and it will have to be pink. Trust me on this one - a bottle of Mattius Rose is not an option. If you’re really unlucky, the barman will have devised a “Valentine’s Special” cocktail, which is bound to involve Creme de Cassis and guaranteed to bring on a screaming hangover the following day. I’d rather have a pint of Babysham. And because this is this is “The Most Romantic Night of The Year”, you are bound to say, wear or do something wrong. The atmosphere is probably akin to the final question on “Who wants to be a millionaire” if you had to phone a friend for the million. Those of you who have the questionable pleasure of knowing me will vouch for the fact that I love eating out. There’s nothing more fun on the coast that the impromptu lunch that turns into dinner, washed down with a couple of ice buckets of wine, tall tales and a group of friends. On Valentines’ night, however, you’ll more often than not get some special dish that is bound to involve oysters, lobster and other overrated aphrodisiacs, usually on a menu that has been tastefully decorated with two swans. My views on oysters and lobster – known as “cucaracha del mar” in the Brown household, are well known. Take my advice, for a guaranteed aphodisiac, just sprinkle 400 gms of viagra on a McDonalds and “Roberto es tu tio”, as they say in Aloha. You’ll also get the attentions of an enthusiastic waiter brandishing a Rubirosa – it’s the pepper grinder named after the business end of the the famed 50s gigilo. I’ll let you work out the rest – and if you’re really unlucky, either a violinist or bunch of pantalooned students trying top earn some extra cash as a tuba.

But hey, love the one you’re with – as opposed to being with the one you love – and get out their and enjoy your Valentine’s. After all, you’re only a few weeks away from the chocolate bunny and egg fest that is Easter…

Stop the Birthday! I wish to get off!

A few years back I turned 40, and when you’d lived the kind of life that has mainly featured escapades in Marbella and London that have involved epic late nights, enraged bouncers, annoyed bar tenders and long suffering girlfriends, that fact that I made it past 26 is a minor miracle. But after listening to my best friend Hobson’s speech to mark the occasion where he famously remarked that it was a cause of celebration that I was there with a pulse and he did not have to deliver the speech from a pulpit, it caused be to reflect on my innings thus far.

The main change that I’ve noticed so far that I’m a classic case of the mind being willing but the body being weak, especially after a session at Dreamer’s. It now takes me the whole day to recover. In the 80s, I was able to party until the dawn broke over Ipanema Palace - a club that, like my youth in Marbella is now long gone – grab a couple of hours sleep and still be able to hit the beach at Tramps that afternoon. Now it takes an effort to crawl to the sofa, fumble for the remote and let something easy on the brain wash over me (and if you don’t watch Spanish TV, they seem to specialise in game shows, quiz shows and mind-numbingly banal reality TV shows that are perfect for the hungover, trust me)

And if an evening of clubbing is enough to tire you out, don’t even think of any sporting activity. I’m an enthusiastic member of Marbella Rugby Club, where my enthusiasm gets as far as single handily trying to drain the bar of beer on match day. Last season, however, my old team from Richmond, “The Bulldogs” came over on tour and I was honour-bound to step fearlessly onto the pitch. Needless to say I was flattened several times, but the large amount of liquid that was consumed after the match and well into the night helped numb the pain. The next day however, I found it difficult to move, and was the object of much mirth for my father, who gave up playing rugby after school and took up the much safer career as racing driver. The other problem with sport is that everyone over 34 is described as a veteran, whose legs are “not what they were” I’m still pleased with my legs, thank you, but in a subtle change of sporting options, I’ve found myself loitering around golf shops. After all, Greg Norman, Sandy Lyle and Nick Faldo are all in their 50s, so I’m a comparative youngster.

Another sad fact of life is the amount of money I spend as I get older. Granted when I was 17 we used to buy a crate of 24 San Miguels, drag it down to Puerto Banus and sit opposite Sinatra’s, but I remember going out with 2000 ptas in my pocket, and carousing through the Puerto Deportivo in Marbella, usually ending up in Joe’s Bar in Banus, and still having 500 ptas left to get me back to the family home in Nueva Andalucia, but now it seems that I can’t even break into a sweat for less than €200


When you hit 40 you also find that all of your friends are getting married – four weddings for me last year alone – and are having babies. This, of course, makes crashing over at friends’ houses more than a little difficult. In my twenties the cry “everyone back to mine” would result in half the bar getting takeouts and decamping back to someone’s villa to carry on the party. Sleeping arrangements were simple – you slept where you fell. At one memorable occasion we went back to a Hungarian foodie friend’s house, who insisted that we partake of her own flavoured vodkas. The next morning the garden resembled a crash site – bodies and furniture were spread over a large area and I woke up in the hedge. It wasn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last…

Of course, if you are crashing with friends who have children and arrive late and/or “over refreshed ” they are likely to extract a subtle revenge. Such as putting you on the sofa bed in the kiddies’ playroom thus ensuring that you are woken from your slumbers by a four-year-old jamming an eggie soldier in your ear while her two year-old brother expertly sets the DVD to full volume and blasts you with the first five minutes of Ice Age. At this point mammoths, sabre tooth tigers and the rest of the prehistoric herd are not the only thing that I wish were extinct and ”Wicked Uncle Giles” is quickly sent staggering towards the taxi rank.


Then of course, there is the small problem that when you hit 40, you still think that you are 17. This can lead to some embarrassing, “oldest swinger in town moments” My classic came at the 20th anniversary of Comedia. As a young lounge lizard in the 80s I had, of course, been to the opening night. Standing at the bar, I was treating a young lady to my full smooze routine, when she remarked that she didn’t remember the opening of Comedia. “Yes” I said, flashing my best George Clooney grin “It was a pretty wild evening, wasn’t it?”

“No” she replied. “I don’t remember it because at the time I was three years old”

The crashing and burning sound after that reply was my youth flying out of the window…

Even worse is if your friends have 20-year-old nannies, au pairs or nieces. Then you find yourself desperately trying to appear a sort of hip, Ray Ban wearing Svengali like figure that has been there and done that. They, of course, think that you are a manically grinning weirdo who doesn’t know who The Ting Tings or Dizzie Rascal are, and keeps going on about how he used to go to the gym.

Yet another sign of middle age is the dreaded school reunion. I wondered why none of my contemporaries wanted to go the annual ex-students dinner last Christmas. And then it became incredibly clear. I was sitting on a table with some of my old teachers when the announcement came over the PA “And now we’d like to welcome the oldest ex-student here tonight” I looked round expecting to see a grey haired figure being wheeled on from the shadows. “A big round of applause please, for. …Giles Brown!”

I have never felt older…


I’ve also found myself becoming crabbier as time wears on. I get stroppy if the cocktail barman doesn’t know how to prepare a lychee martini, for example. My neighbour has dogs. Eight of them, in fact, that he keeps in a courtyard beneath my bedroom window and have the totally acceptable canine habit of trying to recreate “The Anvil Chorus” in a doggie fashion, with a blistering crescendo of yelps, barks and the occasional well timed howl. My 20 year-old-self would have slept through the noise while my 30-year-old self might have considered this the perfect wake up call and hit the gym. My 40-year-old self, however, was found surfing the Internet for stun grenades on ebay.



But with age comes wisdom, and as I turned 40, I was struck by this sage observation I’m finally turning into the kind of person my parents warned me about…