Paul Fitzpatrick: London

The summer of 78 was going to be a big one for my good mate Joe and I.
We’d decided to say goodbye to the traditional package holiday, and in its place, we were going to rent an apartment in Benidorm for 3 weeks so that we could be masters of our own domain.

No more hotel maids unreasonably waking us up at lunchtime, no more controlled meal times and no more sniffy doormen vetting who we were inviting up to our boudoir for cocktails.   

Of course, travelling in style comes at a cost and at the time we were having too much fun to stay in and save, so we came up with a two-step strategy to fund our trip.

Step one was to sell, sell, sell – Joe was a master potter, and I worked in sales, so we sourced some pottery and went through to Edinburgh every Sunday for 3 months to set up a stall at the famous Ingleston Market.

We did okay but in truth we didn’t save as much as we should have.

Basically we were surrounded by too much temptation on the other stalls and our newly-acquired stall-holder discount meant that as well as sell, sell, selling we were also buy, buy, buying!

I remember purchasing a very neat Levis cord jacket and a couple of albums at the market and feeling quite pleased with myself until I realised that I’d spent more than I’d earned that day, which kind of defeated the object of the exercise.

For his part, Joe was a bit more frugal, but he did succumb to various car parts and he did get friendly with a hairdresser from Airdrie who coaxed him into a cut-price perm.

Think Alan Rough, Scotland World Cup squad 1978….

Step two fitted into our lifestyle a lot better.
We would hire a venue and a DJ and host our own Disco/Club nights.

We reckoned three nights would be enough to fund the holiday so we got posters, flyers and tickets printed and started going round pubs to promote our Friday night events.

The first night went pretty well, but the second evening went even better, ticket sales and bar sales were up, and Joe and I were all set to become the new Steve Rubel and Ian Schrager of Studio 54 fame, that was until the venue caretaker invited us to take a walk with him at the end of the evening.

Which we did, to the ladies’ toilets where we witnessed utter carnage – the floor was flooded, the toilets were broken (seats and cisterns) and multiple bottles of vodka & Bacardi were strewn amongst the debris.

Between us Joe and I had kept a keen eye on the mens toilets making sure everything was okay but we never gave a second thought to the ladies – how could those delicate petals make such a mess!

Unsurprisingly the third evening never happened as the venue withdrew the facility, but fortunately we had earned enough to pay for the holiday by that stage.

The holiday itself got off to an ominous start when our flight was delayed by 6 hours.  
Killing time at Glasgow airport we got talking to a couple of lads booked on the same flight, Joe and Mick, who it turned out were also staying in the same apartment block as us.

On first contact they made an odd couple, Mick was extremely quiet to the point of being shy, whereas Joe was the opposite, rambunctious, flamboyant and dare I say a tad camp…. a Knightswood Freddy Mercury.

The strange pairing was partly explained when Mick told us that they were supposed to be a party of four but his pal and Joe’s pal (the only two of the four that knew each other) had pulled out at the last minute. So although they had only met once, Mick & Joe decided to travel anyway as the holiday had been paid for.
 
Before we even boarded the flight, Mick pulled us to one side and confessed that he was nervous about sharing a flat with Joe because he was pretty sure Joe was gay and he would be horrified if people thought he was Joe’s other half.

Full of trepidation he asked if he could sleep on our floor.

As things transpired, Mick needn’t have worried; it was evident on the first night out that Mick’s concerns were unfounded.

Of course, it didn’t matter whether Joe was gay or not, but that didn’t stop us having fun at Mick’s expense, as we told Joe all about Mick’s concerns, and it did give us the opportunity to distinguish between the two Joe’s for the rest of the holiday.

There would now be Joe and Gay Joe!

For his part, Gay Joe thought this was hilarious, embraced his new monocle and camped it up even more.

Halfway through the holiday everything was going swimmingly and we were anticipating the arrival of a couple of mates from Glasgow… wee Billy Smith and big Marth Roberts.

On arrival they tracked us down and presented us with a package, sent by another friend of ours from Clydebank, Joe Kennedy (Joe K).

(Btw, how many Joe’s were born in the late 50s in Glasgow??)

Before opening the package we pondered what it could be.
Joe K knew we were self-catering so perhaps it was some provisions – square sausage and tattie scones perhaps?

As it transpired Smithy and Marth had no idea what was in the parcel they had been asked to courier either.
Joe K had dropped them off at the airport that morning with a simple message – ‘Candygram for Mongo’

The parcel was the size of a shoe box and was well wrapped, when we finally got through the wrapping paper and opened the box there was a load of tissue paper inside which we gingerly removed to reveal……
a giant jobby!

Yes, our mate had given them a fresh turd in a box to courier alongside their crisply ironed Hawaiian shirts, from Glasgow to Benidorm.

After the initial shock, a debate about how this unwanted gift was to be disposed of (and by whom!), was followed by howls of laughter as we started plotting exactly how we would get our own back on the wee shite when we got home.

There were plenty of high-jinks but the holiday turned out to be everything we hoped for… the weather was fantastic, the night-life was lively and despite all the testosterone, alcohol and tribalism we never saw any trouble as there was a genuine feeling of camaraderie in the old town.

One of the highlights was undoubtedly the nightlife and the clubs… the sound-systems and light-shows were miles ahead of anything we were used to.

Of course, 78 was peak Disco era and when a genre gets as big as Disco did, around the time of Saturday Night Fever, it inevitably gets diluted, cannibalised and parodied until you end up with “Disco Duck”.

At the time disco was influencing the whole music scene which also explains “Do ya think I’m Sexy” by Rod Stewart.

In terms of white boys playing funk, I always thought the Stones got it right with “Miss You”, especially the 12″ mix, which is the track that reminds me most of Benidorm 78.

How Bill Wyman never got a writing credit for that bass part, I’ll never know!

*For more 70s shenanigans in Benidorm please read Mark Arbuckle’s excellent – Fear & Loathing in Benidorm