Bigging Up Daisy

We do like to obsess about horrible people, don't we?

This week, the front pages invited me to consider MeatMarketMan, a cannibal nurse who pursued a teenage girl with designs of cooking and casseroling her. I don't even know where this took place, as the lead-in made me too sad to read any further.
And I can't get through the phrases 'Jim'll Fi...' Or 'Animal Ho...' before having to stop because it’s just too depressing. What's with all the awful people?
 
Today, folks, I want to talk about one of the best people in the world. My very good friend Daisy turns 30 today, and I would like to take a few minutes to remind you that not all humans are shit.

Here are just a few reasons why she's one of my all-time favourites:

She’s an achiever. In the run up to her birthday she’s been checking items off her 30 Before 30 list. Things such as running a 10k, painting the shed, getting something pierced. Tangible, noteworthy things. I got equally enthused about life-goals at this juncture and wrote my own list of objectives. Except mine are more like buy more lipsticks; watch The Sopranos; get a globe.

She keeps it real. Her favourite drink is cider. And not fancy Somerset pressed-apple stuff either. Strongbow. And black. Old skool.

She knows the difference between right and wrong. And she’ll stand up for her beliefs. She once had a mad lodger who said a very not-PC word one evening. I winced and was just settling into the awkward horrific silence I expected to ensue, but Daisy didn’t miss a beat. ‘We don’t say that word in this house,’ she said smoothly; mad lodger quickly apologised, and we all moved on. The world is less racist and infinitely better with Daisy in it.

Sometimes she forgets that she's been to Brazil.

She’s resourceful. I’ve witnessed Daisy make toast in a saucepan. Fact.

She dreams big. So far we've made pacts to go on a cruise, visit Budapest and meet at 10pm at the Gare du Nord on my birthday. Never let it be said that Daisy sets the bar low. My personal favourite is that we're going to visit all 10 boroughs of Greater Manchester in a zany 24 hr-challenge this August. And you know what; I have no doubt that we'll succeed.

She once fed me daiquiris until I passed out.

Daisy helps you to be the best you can be. Her encouragement and faith in other people knows no bounds. This year, she’s the reason I’ve done a journalism course and said yes to far too many social invites. Because, you know what, I told myself, that’s what Daisy would do.

Of course, sometimes this backfires a little. Her exuberance can verge on over-zealous. As, for example, when she really wanted me to stand on the top of this gargoyle, because it was a Croatian tradition and she’d had so much fun doing it. It ended up with me shouting, ‘SHUT UP. I’m not climbing on the fucking gargoyle.’ Our first fight. Don’t worry, we got past it. Or, when Daisy really wanted her friend Claire to let the water pummel her face in a European spa. ‘Pummel your face Claire, pummel your face.’ Claire didn’t shout; she just laughed and ignored her.

Once she thought she saw a unicorn in a field.

I've had some of the most fun times of my life with Daisy. Don't believe me? Let me refer you to earlier episodes of this blog:

1. Kendal Calling: in which we festival it up big-style, find ourselves fashioning trolley wheels out of kirby grips and eat a lot of free Alpro products.

2. Croatia: in which we holiday with backpacks on the Dalmatian coast, Daisy falls off a cannon and impersonates Marlene Dietrich in the background of someone's wedding photos, and we get fed spiked Rhum cake.

3. In which we invent Prosecco Thursday, enjoy some live music and learn that a bazooka is also a kind of trombone.
 
So Daisy, happy birthday, yeah? Well done on being awesome. Now let's get shitfaced.
 
Xx

Croatia: Spellbinding. Intoxicating. Hysteria-inducing.

In September, I went on holiday with my friend Daisy. It was a fun trip, so I thought you might like to hear the highlights. I’ve been trying to write the opening paragraph. My notes read as follows:

Punched in neck. Larry Grayson. Wine under fluorescent strip-lighting. Leaky shampoo.

Hmm. I’m suddenly concerned that the trip might have been more traumatic than I recall. Especially given that all this happened before the plane took off.

The plan had been simple. Take backpacks to show everyone how young and intrepid we are. Get to the airport nice and early to smugly enjoy over-priced pre-holiday we-deserve-this drinks.

The reality had not quite lived up to this. During their affectionate farewell at the train station, Daisy’s boyfriend somehow punched her in the neck. The check-in man had inexplicably felt the need to say, ‘Shut that door,’ a reference both Daisy and I were mortified to be old enough to recognise. The ridiculous queues at both Security and the Terminal 2 bar were so upsetting we ended up knocking back vile white wine under the oppressive glare of canteen lighting at the airport equivalent of a truck-stop. And the less said about the toiletry explosion in my luggage the better.

Not the most auspicious of beginnings to our adventure. Positively rocky, you might say. Don’t worry; it picks up later on.

We started with a few days on Korčula, a beautifully picturesque island off the Dalmatian coast, followed by a 3-night sojourn in Dubrovnik. Let’s start with Korčula. First, the history. Marco Polo might have come from there. Well, he definitely visited once, and there is a family named Polo who have lived there for years. And apparently, that's proof enough.

And now the culture. Korčula Old Town is a mini-Dubrovnik. We wandered the narrow streets, marvelling at the stunning buildings of butter-coloured stone. We swam in the clear calm waters of the Adriatic. One evening, we climbed up an erstwhile wartime lookout tower that now serves great cocktails. Oh, and then Daisy fell off a commemorative cannon.

The next day we got caught in an almighty downpour over lunch. Naturally, we did what any self-respecting Brits would do, pretended it wasn’t raining and carried on eating. It’s a shame we didn’t notice our guidebook swimming in a nearby puddle. The pristine guidebook Daisy had been lent by a kindly old professor colleague. I can only imagine his pained wince when she returned it to him.

And then on to Dubrovnik. Ah, Dubrovnik. If you haven’t been, go. It’s great. There is seafood. There were peacocks. Ice-creams are apparently bigger there than anywhere else. In the evenings, live music plays in the square, inspiring couples to spontaneously begin dancing. One night we were taking a turn around the port and were delighted to hear some kind of male-voice choir taking advantage of the acoustics inside an old stone bastion to sing Croatian folk songs. We rounded the corner to find the a capella group was made up of youths in hoodies, bewitching an audience of middle-aged tourists. A magical moment.

And that’s the thing. Croatia was full of incredible enchanting moments. We were sipping prosecco one afternoon at a bar ingeniously carved into the rocky walls of the city, taking in the sunset and watching dolphins plashing in the sea below. Daisy was so overwhelmed she proposed to me. Well someone should, she said. It feels like the thing to do.

It was an idyllic week, albeit one that occasionally seemed to be masquerading as a farcical comedy of errors. I leave you with the final episode of our adventure. We called on the owner of our rented apartment to return the key. A mysterious character, she seemed to spend her days chain-smoking, incessantly laundering towels and buying up Smurfs 2 merchandise for her grandchildren. Unexpectedly, she invited us in to try a cake she had made.

Ooh, what kind? asked Daisy, politely. You will see, she muttered darkly. And see we did. It was rum cake. Or Rhum Cake, as I prefer to imagine it spelled in Croatian. And more rum than cake, if you ask me. British to the end, Daisy and I both studiously powered our way through the rum-soaked confection that resembled flammable custard more than anything else. And then happily tripped off to catch the bus to the airport, slightly drunk and inadvertently interrupting someone’s wedding photographs on the way. Sounds about right.