Her name was Rio

The other day I had lunch with Jose and Julian at a pub in town. I must have had quite a few lunches with them.

I suppose I must have been in my late teens when for a while, pretty much every week, Jose (Julian’s dad) would pick me up from my mum’s on the way to picking up Julian from his, on the way to going to a nightclub called the Warehouse in Leeds....for Sunday lunch.

They served food upstairs. Jose knew the owner, an American bloke I seem to remember. Having scoffed our burgers, Julian and I would go downstairs to watch the band, usually a fruity disco group called Best Friends. “Put it in the slot”, they would sing. There were also the Space Invader, Galaxian and later on Asteroid machines. Usually we’d end up amongst the last people there after the act had left the stage, Jose carousing with the beautiful people upstairs, me shooting lines of grunting luminous crabs, Julian watching.

There was the Sunday when we didn’t stop in Leeds but went to Milton Keynes to see UB40, Squeeze and the Police amongst others; Jose left us there and went on to London with his pal, picking us up on the way back later. Muddy, Milton Keynes Bowl.

We went to some massive discos in Spain circa 1981. “Operation Suntan” started as a 30 hour bus trip from Leeds to Barcelona to meet Jose. We stayed in Spain for a couple of weeks during which time we climbed into Salvador Dali’s garden and were the only trunked people on a nudist beach, (whenever I think of that I cannot get the sight of the naked German windsurfing bloke out of my mind). Then we headed off to France, driving fast along the motorways the bright sunshine bouncing off the blue sea, the car full of the sound of Duran Duran, Jose sharing a private joke with his girlfriend; the twenty four year old model, Julian and I wondering.

More recently Julian and I visited Jose at his home near Barcelona so we could attend the Spanish Grand Prix. Rosa, Jose’s friend from school would cook a lovely meal for us before we’d go out in the evening get drunk and play with the road signs. (Actually I’m talking about myself there, I blame those continental measures).

Jose, the Catalan septuagenarian, is still cool, always smart, always tanned, smelling cosmopolitan and expensive. He tells me he can’t be bothered to chat up girls anymore but I don’t believe it.