‘With great beaches,’ Raj carries on listing the essential ingredients.
‘Bea-ches.’
‘Somewhere historic, steeped in art and beauty; somewhere we can delve into the local cultures, have some great food and intellectual stimulation.’
‘California?’
‘Perfect!’
To your average hot-blooded male, particularly one who has recently seen less action than a French commando, California possesses all the ingredients to make a fool-proof elixir with which to combat the lack of loving illness. California and its girls conjures an image to us men that could only be equalled in the girl world to a country populated by Robbie Williams clones. Baywatch, Charlie’s Angels, American Pie. Beautiful blondes with honed physiques and dark bronzed skin that looks like they’ve been left overnight to marinate in Ronseal, silicone implants that defy the earth’s pull as they jaunt on the volleyball court, and yet more dim than a class of blonde special needs girls in Basildon.
California has beautiful women. Legend has it that these sun idolising, in-line skating, cheerleading honies are highly susceptible to the British charm. One whiff of our accents and their draws would be dropping to their ankles. If we can’t pull in California we won’t be able to pull anywhere, ever.
There are times when I should realise that I am undoubtedly a member of the more stupid sex.
We shell out seven hundred quid for our flights, pack enough sun cream to coat a small elephant whale, find the naughtiest beach shorts you’ve ever seen (turquoise and white jacquard Lycra briefs from Pringle) and buy a bumper pack of American brand condoms called Trojans (we make the obvious jokes at the counter about ‘Greeks bearing gifts’ and ‘wooden horses’ but the teller doesn’t share in our childish humour. Mind you she is American. Troy probably means nothing to her, other than the wire operated puppet of Stingray fame who swam with that sexy Marina lass – you know, the one that all boys fancied).
We had heard only bad reports about LA. An urban sprawl that lacks character and is devoid of charm, but rife with violence. Santa Barbara, however, sounded by all accounts the place to be. While it might bring back memories of an appalling Dallas-esque 80s soap, Santa Barbara is California. Spanish adobe buildings line the streets like large sandwich cakes, painted in Battenberg yellows and pinks. The sidewalks are littered with the tallest palm trees you have ever seen. Invariably at the bottom of the palm there is a hippy playing Bob Dylan on his didgeridoo. The irony is that he is probably way more wealthy than the sun kissed blond guy who drives past in his Corvette, hoping to get noticed by the chicas parading up and down the esplanade. The shops are sumptuous, Gucci, Prada, even the Banana Republic looks different to its branches in other cities. Starbucks latte comes automatically ‘skinny’.
Sipping our local brand beer from ice cold bottles, we sit outside one of the town’s many sports bars (Oakland Athletic are beating Anaheim Angels in the playoffs) we perch on the edge of our stools in silence, agog at the sheer number of top tottie to pass our table. We look at each other and nod approvingly, California was the right choice. These girls are gorgeous but clearly vacuous and bound to fall for our British banter.
That night we prepare for the feast. There is a reason why Santa Barbara is a great city. The place is exclusive, and exclusivity begets frigging expensive hotels. So we decided early on to rent a room in one of the many fine motels on the outskirts of the city. One large double bed (just as well we brought sleeping bags), in a cramped room with complimentary breakfast served from 8.30 to 10.00 – rank coffee that tastes like filtered Irish peat and synthetic muffins that contain a liberal sprinkling of rat droppings for chocolate chips.
Tonight will be our first experience of Santa Barbara’s après surf. We break out the double cuff shirts and chinos. After all we want to distinguish ourselves from the local competition, and what better than a bit of Jermyn Street’s finest tailoring. Having forgotten the plug adapter for our travel iron, we make a quick run to the 7-Eleven supermarket in search of an American iron. The shirts must be pressed; it may mean the difference between pulling and not pulling. Of course we don’t have an ironing board but the bedside table and the complimentary motel bath towel prove an admirable substitute.
We jump in our racing green Pontiac Sunfire. It might only have said ‘midsize’ on the hire form but it’s almost as hot as the top of the range convertible. And, at half the price, it suits us perfectly. Our venue of choice for the evening is Valencia, a new bar on the roof top of a chic hotel in Santa Barbara. We step confidently out of the car, press the beeper to activate its central locking system and saunter towards the club as if we’re Crockett and Tubbs (although we haven’t rolled up our jacket sleeves, I promise). We get to the front of the very short queue. This is different to London already, it’s looking good. In place of the West End hag – a.k.a. the clipboard Nazi – California has hired Conan the Barbarian’s slightly less intelligent and slightly less charismatic cousin to be the doorman. At his request (an expressionless upwards nod of his head unaccompanied by words), we show him our passports, which he holds like playing cards in his ham fists. He looks up and down several times, from the Max aged 16 with spots and facial bum fluff in the picture to the Max in front of him. This is tighter than the security at JFK. Any moment now he’ll ask me to remove my shoes so he can inspect the frigging soles. The final litmus test, he passes a blue UV light over the inside back cover, which reveals a glowing royal crown. I never knew that happened. I am fairly patriotic at the best of times but seeing that symbol of all that is British, whilst abroad in one of our former colonies that is now the world superpower, it has to be said that it made my heart flutter with pride. I feel like the father who sees his son score his first goal for the under-11s team. I make a joke about said colonial history and how great old Liz is. It’s not well received. Then I realise that the doorman is probably a Gulf Vet who served first time round with a British platoon and, despite his colossal size, got his ass kicked by a short squaddie from Pontypridd.
We leave Dolph Lundgren to grunt at the other punters, as we move on to a much friendlier maitre’d. He’s a short but stocky man in his early thirties, his cropped black hair is peppered with grey flecks. Whilst his suit is immaculate and fits like the proverbial glove, one can’t help but think mafioso when you look at him. He pleasantly informs us that entry is free and that drinks are 25 bucks a pop.
‘Fuck,’ I exclaim.
‘Fuck,’ says Raj.
‘Gentlemen, watch your mouths, no cursing please,’ says the maitre’d.
‘Sorry. Twenty-five dollars. Fuck.’
Ignoring his disapproving scowl, we take the lift to up to the roof garden on the ninth floor. There are two other people in the lift, both girls. The taller one has her blonde hair classically curled like a 1950s starlet. She’s wearing a halter-neck top in powder pink. The shorter brunette pouts in a fashion that is almost ludicrous. There is no getting away from the fact though that they are beautiful. Beautiful and aloof. They don’t talk for fear that any form of movement will send tremors across their face resulting in at least one hair being out of place.
The club is lavish. Spanish hacienda meets New World chic. The music is low and chilled, laced with that Spanish influence you find everywhere in California. Several hundred twenty-somethings are huddled into the main courtyard, a fountain trickles and flaming torches flicker, gasping for breath in the night sky that is like an almighty ebony slab speckled with twinkling quartz crystals. Deep fuchsia bougainvillea reach up to it, sexy and infectious, like the high hum of flirting and laughing. It seems only the beautiful people in Santa Barbara have been allowed into the Valencia.
‘Perhaps they’re all like this,’ I think to myself. The women are all as stunning as the two corkers in the lift, like extras off the Beverly Hills 90210 set. They are immaculate, high on life and full of self-worth. Raj and I don’t need to talk, a look to each other says it all. I know he’s thinking the same as me, that I
’ve never seen so many stereotypically fit girls in one club. There’s no point in performing the Rating Ritual here, it’s a bit academic. It would be like comparing one pearl against a load of others, searching for minor imperfections, rather than finding the one pearl in amongst a bag of marbles, which is what we’re used to.
‘Right, all we have to do is talk loudly enough and our English accents will do the rest for us, they’ll come flocking,’ I assure Raj. He nods with excitement.
So, in a fashion akin to Terry-Thomas and Leslie Philips, we talk at three times the normal volume of conversation. After ten minutes we are exhausted. No one is looking. None of the girls have taken the bait, not even a tentative or exploratory nibble. At that moment two girls who are pushing their way through the crowd stop in front of us.
‘Hi, howsit going?’ one of the girls asks. She is a brunette with Mediterranean features. Her slightly taller friend is clearly of Scandinavian origin. I raise my left eyebrow at Raj, in true Roger Moore fashion.
‘One is doing exceptionally well thank you, and your good selves?’ I ask.
For the first time the blonde speaks, ‘Oh my god. They’re Australian. Come on Jules let’s go.’
And with that they melt into the throng.
Suddenly a large hand claps on each of our shoulders. The strong grip is like the hold a sheriff might have employed in one of the old Western films having just apprehended the wanted cattle rustler.
‘Hiya, howsit goin’ fellas?’
We turn our heads to face a large barrel chest. Slowly looking upwards we meet the round face of a friendly looking chap, dressed smartly but not well enough to betray his professional football look. The thing you notice most is his smile. His teeth gleam and sparkle at us like bathroom tiles in a Viakal advert.
‘Very good, thank you.’
‘You boys aren’t from California are ya?’ he bellows
‘Er no, we’re here on holiday,’ answers Raj.
‘Let me guess. Australia?’
What’s with the Australia thing? Can’t they tell the difference? Now I know how Canadians feel when they’re perpetually mistaken for Yanks. I wonder if all the Aussies that come to the States are asked if they’re British. Probably not, they’d be liable to deck anyone who said that. Ah, that explains it, the Americans have probably come across so many irate Aussies who have been mistaken for pommies that they realised it was safer to presume we are all from Oz. Conversely, the reserved Brits would be more likely to correct them politely, rather than treat them to a fist sandwich. And so, keeping to form –
‘Actually, we’re British,’ I explain.
‘Brits eh, you boys are popular here, allies against the Rag heads!’
‘Ye-es quite,’ I spot Raj cringe.
I don’t think he even noticed that Raj might not be of 100% Anglo-Saxon descent.
‘You know you boys need to get out there and work your stuff. Use that accent, man, you gotta head start against us local boys.’
We look at each other despairingly.
‘Yes, we have tried that, but it doesn’t seem to work.’
He ponders for a moment and then throws his head back in laughter. As his guffaw subsides he leans in close, what he might consider a whisper but to you or I is normal speaking volume.
‘Well ya need to grab some ass,’ he explains.
‘Ass?’ we question.
‘ASS!’ he roars.
And wearing a lunatic-like grin he looks around for a suitable victim. He spots a girl in tight jeans walking past. He draws his hand up high past his shoulder, devilment flashes in his eyes. His hand comes down like a great pendulum. We wince in anticipation and disbelief. As his palm makes contact with her fleshy rump, there’s an almighty slap and she lets out an awful yelp. He’s holding onto her like a bowling ball. We expect to see her reel round and return the favour across his chops. But instead, incredibly, she’s smiling. The rapacious jezebel actually enjoyed it. Then, she winks and blows him a kiss.
‘See boys, you listen to old Buck and you can’t go wrong.’
‘We can’t do that,’ I say, sounding horrified.
‘Sure ya can, these hussies love it. Show ’em who’s boss. Anything less and they won’t think y’all interested.’
‘For God’s sake, I’m telling you we can’t do it!’
‘How come?’
‘Because we’re British!’
Buck wanders off, somewhat bewildered at our inability to grab ass. Doesn’t he appreciate that, as Englishmen, it takes hours for us to simply strike up the courage to approach a girl and talk to her. Let alone make an intimate introduction between our hand and her derrière. èClearly we are going to need to effect more radical tactics. We need to be more proactive and stop wasting time on the subtleties that are so clearly lost on this breed of prey. We need to actually approach them.
Raj notices two young girls standing by themselves, just next to the fountain. Although they aren’t sisters, they could conceivably be related. They both have slight figures, impish, with long brown hair and inviting eyes. Raj expresses his carnal interests in one of them and I offer to make the ice-breaking move. I saunter towards them; outwardly brimming with confidence, inwardly dissolving like an aspirin. As I get within striking distance – a term, which to my American friend with the ceramic teeth, would have quite different and literal connotations – the pair turn to face me. The one on the right, the slightly older looking one, turns her head and makes eye contact. Here we go, looking good. Locked in captain, move for the kill. I smile, cheekily. She moves towards me. The fluttering in my stomach increases, but so does the adrenaline, the excitement, the expectation. I open my mouth and extend my hand at the same time, ‘Hi I’m…’
Before I can say anything further she blinks those cold eyes and in a flash, before opening them again, turns sharply on her heels. An SS officer would have been envious of her technique. A snap, a click and a march in the opposite direction. I was astounded. She had looked me straight in the eyes moments before. She knew I was coming over to talk to her. She might at least have politely declined, it was so outrageously rude. I was in such shock that I don’t know what came over me, I am in denial. I stare in desperation at the friend, like a pleading beggar with leprosy. I reach out with both hands, imploringly, as if to grasp her before coming out with the immortal line, ‘No wait, you don’t understand, all I want is…’
She takes a step back, to withdraw from the environs of this madman in front of her. Whatever pestilence he is carrying it might be contagious. And, in as swift a fashion as her friend, she scarpers in the same direction. I am left there, astounded. Feeling like everyone in the club is staring at me, thinking ‘Dude, what a loser!’
Raj is as mortified as I am. He’s feeling for me, I know he is, and that makes it better.
‘Buddy, what the hell was that?’ he asks.
‘I haven’t a clue, you ever seen anything like that? I thought Californians were supposed to be cool and friendly. The Beach Boys had it all wrong!’
It’s at this moment, sharing in the hilarity of the situation that Vanessa arrives. I feel a clawing in the nape of my neck. It’s quite nice, actually. Like being groped by Flo Jo. It doesn’t compute at first and Raj notes the concern on my face. I turn to face the person behind the nails. Standing there is this paragon of beauty. She stands tall and has mischief in her eye. I feel like I know her. Suddenly I realise where I have seen her before, it’s the blonde from the lift. She stares me square in the face, her nails still doing their work. Her eyes taking in the look of pleasure on my face, which is the result of her caressing.
‘Hi, I wanted to tell you that I like your thang!’ she smiles, sweetly.
‘My thang?’ I’m clueless.
She laughs at my anglicised pronunciation of thang. Her smile is kind and alluring.
‘Yeah, I like the way you’re dressed.’ She glances around her at the other men, her eyes registering them all but focusing on no one in particul
ar. She draws in a deep breath and returns to me, ‘You’re British!’
‘Yes, that’s right, we, I, am.’
‘You’re cute. You look like Christian Bale.’
I turn the colour of a sundried tomato. Batman, eh?! I start babbling. My eyes are looking everywhere but into hers.
‘Really, I think you’re being too kind. I mean…’
‘My name’s Vanessa, what’s yours, Christian?’
‘Er, Max. You know Vanessa you’re…’
Before I can get out my compliment, the phone in her pocket starts to emit a rather annoying ring tone. It’s one of those old-school Nokia type rings. The Americans are way behind us in the telecoms world. She reaches out to me with her free hand, in that ‘please excuse me’ kind of gesture and raises her eyebrows in a somewhat theatrical fashion. She’s trying to convey to me to go nowhere and that she won’t be long. Then suddenly…
‘Yeah Jeanie, listen I’ve just met this really cute English guy. Uh-huh. He looks just like that actor.’ There’s a pause. ‘Yeah I know!’ What does she know? ‘Jeanie… Jeanie wait a sec!’
She turns and faces me again, she’s not listening to the whiney voice on the end of the phone. Instead she is looking into my eyes, where an intensity has caught fire. She gives a broad smile, a grin like the Cheshire cat. My God, Americans do have lovely teeth.
‘Max?’
‘Yes Vanessa.’
‘Kiss me, Max!’
Well, it’s the last thing I’m expecting. It must be the last thing Raj is expecting as well, because I hear him choke slightly on a mouthful of caipirinha. He hadn’t succumbed to buying one of the $25 a pop drinks, he had convinced a petite Chinese girl he was chatting with to let him take a sip of hers. Even she couldn’t believe her eyes. She had turned to look away from Raj and instead stare at Vanessa, and from Vanessa to me, to see what I would do. Vanessa had clearly said something that was not the done thing. The Chinese girl is wearing a look on her face that is something between shock and disgust. A reproachful scowl because Vanessa had let down her sex. Clearly, inviting a man to kiss you is not something any self-respecting Californian girl should ever do.
Single White Failure Page 17
