Nothing speaks money like an absolute beaut of a young one walking hand in hand with a pot bellied aul fella in chinos. His wisps of blonde hair tossed about in the Monaco breeze, her neat coiffure stayed perfectly in place under a veil of lacquer. He had the usual air of money and power you’d expect in the Principality, yet you got the feeling he’d be one of Pfizer’s best customers. Although any man a decade or so closer to his partner’s age wouldn’t need the help of blue pills. She was a cross between Angelina Jolie and Anna Geary. ‘A minter of a thing’, is how my brother might describe her.
I watched them for a while as I sat in the Port regretting not having reapplied factor 50 earlier in the day. I resembled the lobster Mr. Chino was inevitably going to order with his Sancerre later on. His beautiful companion didn’t look my way as they strolled past – a compassionate gesture on her part, as it would have been so easy to point and laugh at the scalded redhead.
I was surprised to see her let three divine looking heartthrobs shuffle past without so much as a sideways glance. Though hang on, no sooner had I questioned her vision than she did check them out in the most elegant manner imaginable. Take notes, this was pretty admirable and Mr. Chino remained oblivious. She slowed to adjust the strap of her sandal, that didn’t look to be compromised from where I was sitting, but you’ve got to hand it to her for innovation. The heel touch, the head turn, the fictitious adjustment worked in perfect fluidity to ensure that, ever so subtlely, she had their attention. They were a vision akin to three Rob Kearneys strolling like very handsome ducks in a row. Suffice to say that none of them looked in my direction either. Tant pis! (Or not tant pis…) A new constellation of freckles had just burst into life on my cheeks and it wasn’t pleasant viewing.
I scanned the Port for anything else that’d take my mind of the burn while I waited on my return bus to Nice. And there he was! Big gorgeous Giorgios himself – the Greek god of the left wing. The last time I’d met him, I’d turned mute with the nerves and only managed a muffled ‘hello’ as he stood for a photo with me after a Dundee Utd game back in 2013. There was no way I was about to make a stuttering gobshite of myself twice in a row, so up off my arse I got and toddled over to him.
“Sammy, hiya, met you in Parkhead a few years ago, how’s it going?”
“Hello, all good thanks.” He smiled. He was still fecking gorgeous. Mother of God!
His girlfriend was smiling at me and when I apologised for disturbing them, she reassured me with a huge smile “it’s fine. Are you having a nice holiday?” She was equally as lovely as him. A match made in heaven.
How bloody lovely of them both! We chatted about how he’s getting on post Celtic before I bade them farewell and wished them a great holiday. They meandered off into the distance and thankfully, I didn’t lament the encounter as I had the first speechless time met him in Glasgow. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the three Rob Kearneys standing on the walkway to a yacht that had ‘Party Boat’ stickers splashed all over it.
“Come join us,” they called to me.
I will in my eye boys, I thought, I’ve just been chatting to big Sammy! “No thanks,” I replied politely and drifted off on cloud nine to get on the bus that had just come into view snailing down the hill.
And the first people I bumped into on the bus – an aul fella in chinos arm in arms with a pair of skinny girls in hot pants and Louboutins. C’est la vie.