An excerpt from my new book, The Thing Is (Proverse).

“Ugh…”

I opened my eyes and blinked repeatedly to adjust to the morning light and stared at the sagging beams on the bed above me. What was that noise?

“Ugh…”

There is was again, what was going on? The room smelt of sweat, smoke, and petrol.

“Argh…”

The noise was coming from above. It was Alexander. In a Domino effect, his grunting began to awake the rest of my pals who, one by one, sat up rubbing their eyes.

“Are you okay, Alexander?” Alfie asked.

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

Before Alexander could answer I heard his stomach churn and his large head appeared over the side of the top bunk. Without any further warning, he was violently sick, the grey vomit dripping onto the floor forming a lumpy puddle inches away from my face.

“For fuck’s sake,” Eddie said. “Go to the bathroom, Alexander.”

“Ugh…”

Alfie and Jacob began laughing before the room fell quiet for a few seconds.

Alexander was sick again. This time throwing up on the bunk bed ladder, with strings of vomit dangling from the rungs.

“Oh no,” Eddie said.

“What’s up, Eddie?” Jacob asked.

Eddie leant over the side of his bed and was also sick, vomit splattering on the floor.

“Now look what’s happened, Alexander,” he said angrily. “Another one of us has been sick.”

“Sorry, Eddie,” Alexander said. “Ugh, I don’t feel good at all…”

The scene was vile, the room like something from a horror film. This didn’t deter Alexander from wanting to stay in it and after locating a bucket, he unsteadily clambered back into the top bunk and lay down again, closing his eyes.

We left him and headed out for some food and a walk around the town, discussing the previous night out and planning the impending one. When we returned, late in the afternoon, Alexander was in bed but the vomit had disappeared and the room no longer stank. He was reading his magazine.

“How’s it going, Alexander?” I asked.

“Awful. I’ve paid for new sheets and for the room to be cleaned. That’s all my money gone. I won’t be coming out again.”

“Really?”

“To be honest, I never want to go out again anyway so it’s not a problem.”

He stuck to this, spending the rest of the week barely leaving his bed except for trips to the lounge to watch films in the evening. His first lads’ holiday was effectively over after one night.

The remaining six of us were more active, playing tennis or going for walks during the days and heading into town by night. We discovered Beach Club, a busy nightclub that accepted fake IDs and seemed to be the hotspot for GCSE finishers. Here we drank £1 bottles of blue WKD and with Sean Paul, Usher and Mario Winans providing the soundtrack, tried to dance with girls. It was a fun, lively atmosphere but my memories of the venue are tarnished by the resident DJ, a man in his thirties, saying quite possibly the worst thing I have ever heard anyone say. He stopped the Craig David song that was playing and shouted to the crowds.

“This place is absolutely dripping with minge!”

Now, I know that DJs are not always the most refined types and, secured from the bustling dance floor by their little booths, they can get away with a fair bit, but come on? That’s unforgivable.

Another venue which gladly accepted our modest custom was Tall Trees, allegedly Newquay’s oldest nightclub. Tall Trees had a winning marketing gimmick; it shone strobe lights bearing its name onto the sky which could be seen for miles around. Quite how they were funding this was a mystery as, when we got in, the vast, decrepit club was almost empty save for a smattering of folk stood around the periphery of a dance floor which lazily lit up in a rhythm unrelated to the music. It appeared Beach Club was the market leader even though their DJ was a likely candidate for the sex offenders register.

Nonetheless, late in the night, I enjoyed a small slice of romance on the sparse dance floor, sharing a kiss with a curly-haired, bisexual break-dancer. It was one of those typical teen romances where you barely speak for the duration and she left without us having exchanged names. Still, I strutted back to my friends with my mood and confidence elevated, the failed chat-up attempt on the beach a distant memory. Indeed, blinded by this brief encounter, I held Tall Trees in exaggerated high esteem, believing it to be the best nightclub in the world and persuaded my pals to go again the following night.

“Can’t we try somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else that shines lights onto the sky? Yeah, good luck with that, Stuart.”

And so, we returned. This time it was a techno and hard house night and much busier than before; the dance floor was packed, which confused me as the music was dreadful. Take me back to dancing to Run DMC with my bisexual break-dancer. Eddie and Alfie jostled to the bar, getting a round of drinks before bringing them back to the alcove we had located.

With the repetitive thud of the music, it at one another speak and none of us were enjoying ourselves. I felt a touch guilty. Perhaps we should have listened to Stuart and gone to see Tim Westwood at Koala Club after all? A girl in a luminous crop-top danced over to us and sat next to Jacob. She was pulling some strange expressions, curling her mouth into unusual shapes, eyes wide. She addressed the group:

“Anyone got any gurners?”

“Jellsters? What do you mean? A jellyfish?” Jacob asked her, confused.

“Jellyfish? What are you talking about?”

This was a bizarre conversation. After she spelt it out to us, we eventually deduced that she meant ecstasy so sadly for her, the answer was no, we do not have any gurners. After this exchange, it became clearer as to why people were enjoying dancing to this terrible music; looking a little clearer, almost everyone was on gurners. Apart from us. We left shortly afterwards and headed back into town, having a pint in The Sailor’s Arms, a busy late-night pub before splitting into splinter groups and roaming around town, trying to get into bars.

I remember little from the night apart from walking home with Johnno. Midway through the journey, we shared a glance with one another before bursting into laughter. About nothing. We laughed and laughed until we were howling and crying. Nothing funny had happened, it was inexplicable. It was like time had turned back to our primary school days and were having dinner in my backroom, testing my parent’s patience.

The next day I looked through the front section of my JanSport rucksack which had been acting as an unsafe safe. I was upset but not surprised to find that I had less than one pound to last me for the remaining two days. Was Newquay over for me, like Alexander? I didn’t want to spend my remaining days lying in the dormitory which still smelt of vomit. I called home and frantically explained my plight to my dad.

“Andrew, how’s the holiday? Have you visited the Lappa Valley Steam Railway?”

“No, not yet. Um, please can you wire me some money?”

“You don’t have a bank account, Andrew.”

“Oh, what does wire mean? They always say it in films.”

“What’s the address of The Surf Lodge? I’ll post it to you.”

“Thanks.”

I borrowed a tenner from Stuart to get me through and, on the final morning, was delighted when the long-haired Surf Lodge owner informed me that I had post. The envelope had been sent first-class and written on the front of it, in red marker pen was:

URGENT! EMERGENCY! FOR THE ATTENTION OF ANDREW CARTER.

I opened it to find a crisp twenty-pound note. Thank you for that, Dad. I’ll pay you back one day.

For our final hurrah, we drank beer and listened to the old school hip-hop album one last time at the Surf Lodge before walking the now-familiar route along the cliffs into town. It’s lovely on holiday when you feel acquainted and comfortable in your settings and know the lay of the land, although the final night had a touch of melancholy about it. I was going to miss Newquay.

We enjoyed a fitting finale, well, aside from Eddie that is. He’d received a text message from Sarah, a young lady he’d met earlier in the holiday and headed off to meet her and her sister in the Sailor’s Arms. The rest of us returned to Beach Club but shortly after arriving, Jacob heard rumours of a literal beach party which sounded promising.

It was a clement, starlit evening as we strolled the short distance down to the coast to see hundreds of teenagers gathered around glowing campfires with ghetto blasters blaring and guys in flip-flops playing the guitar while the waves gently lapped on the shoreline. This was what I imagined life would be like in California or Thailand, I didn’t know such things happened in our country. I was spellbound.

Jacob and I bought an overpriced four-pack from an astute teenage businessman who’d loaded up from Asda before it shut and sat on the sand, reminiscing about the holiday and speculating about what our futures held.

“Malia next year?”

We got chatting to some girls from Hampshire, who had just arrived in Newquay and gladly assisted when they asked us which clubs we’d recommended. (Take note, hostile girls on the beach on day one.) Indeed, one of the girls and I got along well and to my delight, she said she was moving to Leeds in September. What were the chances? With her pretty face flickering in the glow of the campfire, she wrote her phone number on my arm in mascara and we made loose plans to meet up later in the year. I told her I’d show her around the clubs, which was a touch misleading as there was only one club that let me in in Leeds. Walking home with my pals, I was as happy as can be — a wonderful end to a memorable holiday.

This wasn’t the case for all of us. Back at the hostel, Eddie had returned early, alone and was lying in bed, stewing.

“What happened?” I asked after we’d bustled into our room in the early hours.

“I went to the Sailor’s Arms but Sarah wasn’t there. I had a pint on my own then went to the Beach Club but they didn’t let me in so I came back.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that. It’s only one night though, you’ve enjoyed the rest of the holiday, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“More than Alexander, anyway?”

Alexander suddenly sat up, awake.

“What are you talking about? I’ve had a brilliant holiday. I’ve had a great night out, I’ve watched Training Day three times and I’ve nearly finished my magazine. What more could you ask for?”

Thank you for reading! You can buy The Thing Is here. It’s the price of a pint at the Sailor's Arms on Kindle.