Timeshare: A Journey into the Unknown

By Shaun Donovan

Timeshare a journey into the unknown is a very frank account of the ten years Shaun Donovan spent working as a sales representative and a manager in the industry, both in the Canary Islands and on the island of Cyprus. During that time he closed over three million pounds worth of personal sales, along with training hundreds of new recruits to become timeshare professionals.

With over 3,000 tours to his name and around 700 sales under his belt, Shaun has made many friendships in the business, not only with his fellow colleagues, but also with many of his clients, who kept coming back year after year to see him, (often to spend more money), after he had introduced them to the wonderful world of luxurious holidays.

In the book he also describes in detail how he broke all the ethics of his profession, by mixing business with pleasure, and running off with his client! Read how their Shirley Valentine romance eventually turns into a living nightmare, as everything goes tragically wrong for them and their world of dreams is systematically torn apart.

Apart from all the heartache and despair, there are also some wonderful holidays, which Shaun and his family enjoyed together, along with loads of great travel stories, which include two unbelievable bus journeys across America and Australia, a ferry-hop around all seven Canary Islands and two unforgettable cruises to the Greek Islands and Egypt.

Shauns manuscript is a compelling catalogue of anecdotes, which has all the ingredients of love, hate and compassion, violence, drugs and embezzlement -along with one of the best insights into the world of timeshare ever produced.

Combine all this with the unparalleled passion of one man, who truly believes that his product is the best thing since sliced bread and youve got yourself a story which may possibly change the way you think about one of the most lucrative and volatile industries in the world today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467890281

Shaun Donovan

Shaun Donovan was born in Cardiff, South Wales, on 9th August 1959. The son of a carpenter, he joined his father in the building trade after leaving school at the tender age of fifteen, but Shaun was soon disillusioned with the industry, and so he changed careers, working first as an office clerk, before moving into the lucrative world of sales and marketing. Being a keen motor-cyclist and also an avid travel enthusiast, Shaun spent numerous holidays riding his bike around Europe and North Africa, spanning a distance of 10,000 miles, and visiting 13 countries, along with several islands between 1981 and 1983. In 1984, Shaun married Caryl, and a few years later they became the parents of three children, Liam, Carl and Hayley. However, after being made redundant in 1991 due to the recession, and with little hope of re-employment in the near future, their marriage collapsed the following year. In 1998 Shaun moved to the Canary Islands to live and work, and two years later he took his three children around the whole of America, and across into Canada, utilising the Greyhound Bus system to cover a total of 12,000 miles. Apart from giving them the holiday of a lifetime, Shaun also kept the promise he had made to them two years earlier, by treating them to a wonderful week in Disneyworld. In 2001 Shaun met Sally on the island of Tenerife, and in 2007 they took off on another great Greyhound Bus ride, only this time around the whole of Australia. Three years later Shaun returned home to Wales, and the following year him and his daughter, Hayley, set-off on a 60,000km (40,000 miles) jaunt around Asia, Africa and India. Shaun is currently working on his next travel extravaganza, which includes visiting a dozen countries in South America, before traversing the length of Central America -and then ending-up somewhere in Mexico?

Book preview

Contents

Other Titles In This Series

Battle Of The Greyhounds

Battle Of The Greyhounds

About The Author

A Note From The Author

Fighting For Life

Preface

YEAR ONE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

PART TEN

PART ELEVEN

PART TWELVE

PART THIRTEEN

PART FOURTEEN

PART FIFTEEN

PART SIXTEEN

PART SEVENTEEN

PART EIGHTEEN

PART NINETEEN

PART TWENTY

YEAR TWO

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

YEAR THREE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

A Second Note From

The Authour

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

PART TEN

PART ELEVEN

YEAR FOUR

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

YEAR FIVE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

YEAR SIX

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

YEAR SEVEN

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

PART EIGHT

PART NINE

YEAR EIGHT

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

PART SIX

PART SEVEN

YEAR NINE

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

YEAR TEN

PART ONE

PART TWO

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to Sally.

Didn’t we almost have it all . . .

Other Titles In This Series

Battle of the Greyhounds, Part I America

Battle of the Greyhounds, Part II Australia

Battle Of The Greyhounds

Part I-America by Greyhound Bus

From scorching deserts to snow-capped mountains, through forest fires and gangland war-zones, Shaun Donovan rides the Greyhound Bus to the four corners of America . . . . and beyond.

Having survived an unbelievable white water rafting trip in Colorado, a death-defying sky-dive in Las Vegas and an unforgettable swim with sharks in Florida, Shaun journeys on, scuba-diving for shipwrecks and coral reefs in the Florida Keys, before riding several roller-coasters for pleasure as he travels the continent.

Lucky escapes, a pilgrimage and a dream fulfilled as his twelve thousand-mile trek through forty-eight states, Canada and the Bahamas are completed and a promise to his children is finally kept.

An epic voyage of discovery, combining thrills and excitement, disappointment and despair, as each normal days ride is turned into the adventure of a lifetime.

To see both the American and the Australian journey’s in full colour pictures, just go to Shaun’s web-site www.taffys-travels.com.

On the web-site there are also links on future titles, along with a broader outlying synopsis and book previews of both journeys.

Battle Of The Greyhounds

Part II-Australia

After successfully completing his 12,000 mile bus ride around America, Shaun Donovan now embarks on his latest and greatest challenge—to circumnavigate the coastline of Australia. Apart from using the Greyhound Bus Company to cover most of his 20,000 km journey, Shaun also rides the famous ‘Indian Pacific’ and ‘Ghan’ trains from west to east and south to north of this vast continent.

In a compelling story of determination, desperation and in some cases deprivation, read how Shaun and his fiancée, Sally are roasted alive in sizzling heat and stifling humidity, get drowned-out in tropical storms and flash-flooding and survive an onslaught of electrifying lightning bolts, devastating cyclones and bone-shaking earthquakes before their journey is finally at an end.

Add to this a lethal concoction of shark, stingray, and snake attacks they stumble upon during their trip and mix it up with crocodile, box jelly-fish, blue-ringed octopus and deadly stone-fish encounters and you’ve got yourself one hell of a story-line to tell.

Like his American voyage of discovery, many things were learned and achieved, but there was also despair as his dreams of scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef and visiting Ayres Rock were shattered due to weather conditions and personal circumstances, both of which he swears will be done on his return to one of the most diverse and exciting continents on the planet.

To see both the American and the Australian journey’s in full colour pictures, just go to Shaun’s web-site www.taffys-travels.com.

On the web-site there are also links on future titles, along with a broader outlying synopsis and book previews of both journeys.

About The Author

Shaun Donovan was born in Cardiff, South Wales, on 9th August 1959. The son of a carpenter, he joined his father in the building trade after leaving school at the age of 15, but was soon disillusioned and so he changed careers, working first as an office clerk, before moving into the lucrative world of sales and marketing.

Being a keen motor-cyclist and also a travel enthusiast, Shaun spent numerous holidays riding his bike around Europe and North Africa, spanning a distance of 10,000 miles, and visiting 13 countries and several islands between 1981 and 1983.

In 1984, he married and became the father of three children, but after being made redundant in 1991 due to the recession, and with little hope of re-employment in the near future his marriage collapsed the following year.

Whilst on the dole, Shaun read the best-selling paperback ‘Jupiter’s Travels´ by Ted Simon, and decided to transpose the book into a movie called ‘Freedom Run’. He spent a week with Ted at his home in California, where after lengthy discussions, they decided on promoting the idea to film and television companies on both sides of the Atlantic.

Because of the cost involved the BBC suggested doing a six-part documentary series for television instead, entitled Steps of Jupiter—20 years on in which Shaun would re-create the journey himself and Ted would meet him at strategic points along the way. Unfortunately sponsorship was not forthcoming and so inevitably the project had to be shelved.

In 1998 Shaun moved to Tenerife and in 2000 he took his three children, Liam, Carl, and Hayley around the whole of America, and across into Canada on a Greyhound Bus. Apart from giving them the holiday of a lifetime, he also kept the promise he had made to them two years earlier.

In 2001 Shaun met Sally on the island and in 2007 they took off on another great Greyhound Bus ride—only this time around Australia. Three years later Shaun returned home to Wales and the following year him and his daughter, Hayley, set-off on a 60,000km jaunt around Asia and Africa.

A Note From The Author

All of the characters portrayed in the forthcoming chapters—and every one of the stories revealed in this book is true to the best of my knowledge and even though the events I have written about, (which took place during my first ten years abroad), make entertaining reading, I respect the fact that certain people may wish to remain anonymous for their own personal reasons and therefore I have decided to change most of the actual names of the persons included in my story.

Should anyone who shared any part of this decade with me recognise a story which relates to them personally—or indeed read any of my tales which includes personal friends or colleagues of theirs in the script, then I sincerely hope that they will enjoy re-capping on the event(s) as much as I enjoyed writing about them and agree that they were worthy of insertion in my memoirs. However, should anything I have written in this book cause any distress or hardship to any human being, then please feel free to e-mail me from the ‘contact us’ page on my web-site www.taffys-travels.com and I will be happy to discuss the matter further.

The objective of all of my manuscripts has always been to compile a collection of true, easy readable, interesting and humorous anecdotes, which will inevitably have a means to an end. Whether traversing this planet from one side of it to the other—or simply travelling through the journey of life itself, we all have our own stories to tell, of which some of them will be truly amazing, whereas others maybe utterly heart-rendering! However, I humbly believe that being able to share them all with thousands of other people may not only help in brightening someone else’s day, but also assist in alleviating the pain of sad memories for any author—after all—a trouble shared is a trouble halved, or so they say.

Fighting For Life

As Sally drove down the motorway I could feel my chest becoming tighter by the second and I was now reaching for every breath that I took.

Are you okay love? Sally asked gently, her eyes firmly focussed on the dark road ahead as she increased the cars’ speed even more, in order to get me to the hospital as fast as she could.

Not really, I whispered, holding my chest with my right hand and contorting my face like some gurning champion, as the pressure increased and my ribs felt as if they were going to burst at any given moment. Turning off the highway at the next junction, Sally flew up the slip road like there was no tomorrow, braking only to take a sharp left across the bridge and then a hairpin right into the emergency department entrance, before bringing the car to a screeching halt outside the main doors.

While I slithered my way out of the car, Sally burst into the reception area to try and get some help, for she was afraid that I would collapse if I tried to walk! I must admit that that thought was also running through my mind as I tentatively placed one foot in front of the other and hobbled my way around the bonnet of our vehicle, the top half of my torso leaning precariously forward, like a crippled old man in his nineties, as my mind focussed on the ground in front of me and my eyes surveyed every step I took, for fear of tripping over something and falling to the ground.

Two men in green-coloured aprons came rushing over to me and I put my arms around their necks in order to stabilise myself, as they virtually carried me into the waiting room, before plonking me down in a wheelchair, where I sat patiently waiting whilst Sally sorted-out the medical insurance with the receptionist and filled in the relative forms for acceptance. Unfortunately, both Sally and I barely speak a word of Spanish, and so the process is slow—much too slow as far as I am concerned, as I start gasping out loud in an attempt to make my point to anyone who might be listening?

A doctor is now at hand and I am unceremoniously ushered into a cubicle, where Sally helps me clamber onto a trolley-type bed, while my learned friend has a quick read of my medical notes. As I turn over in order to lie down on my back, a sharp pain shoots across my chest and I immediately scramble back into an upright position in an attempt to alleviate the agonising sting which has just caused me to squeal like a pig.

Sally says that she will be outside in the waiting room if I need her, before quietly slipping away, leaving the experts to do their job—which unfortunately begins with a flurry of rather personal and somewhat intimidating questions—although the doctors’ English is good!

Do you smoke senor?

Nope, never had a cigarette in my life

"Do you take drugs?

Not a chance

Do you drink a lot?

At weekends I like to enjoy myself

Are you on any prescribed medication?

No!

Have you had any operations or serious illnesses within the last 5 years?

None at all doctor.

At this point my heart begins to palpitate and I can feel its beat becoming faster and faster, as the air is stripped from my lungs once again, making it virtually impossible for me to breath. What happened in the next few minutes is a mystery, as my memory is a blur, but I do remember looking around me and simultaneously shouting-out several times that I couldn’t breathe, as if ordering the staff to hurry-up and do something about it. One of the nurses put her hands on my arms, as if holding me down and asks me gently to calm down, as I was not doing myself any favours, but I wasn’t listening to her requests, as my only concern was breathing properly.

How could they be so insensitive to my needs? I thought to myself and Why don’t they want to help me I whinged, in a barrage of self-pity which always comes when one feels so helpless in life. Unbeknown to me at the time, I had just had my first ever ‘panic attack’, but unfortunately it would not be my last. The doctor then informed me that I was being transferred to the ‘Green Hospital’ in Las Americas and that an ambulance was waiting outside for me. As the orderly’s raced me through the corridors on my portable bed, Sally ran behind them for a short while, before letting us go and shouting that she would meet me at the hospital in ten minutes.

The next thing I know I am being whizzed through the streets of Adeje in the back of an ambulance, while blue lights are flashing all around me and deafening sirens are screaming through the night.

Is this the End? I thought Am I never going to see daylight again?

At that point, I had my second panic attack . . . and that is all I remember.

Preface

The thought of emigrating to a warm, sunny climate has probably passed through the minds of half the adult population in Britain at one time or another. Unfortunately, for the majority of those people who have seriously considered making such a transition in their lives, inevitably their intentions would end up being only a pipe-dream, because commitments at home would always stop them from making that final move. Whether it is because of children, partners, financial or work obligations that wonderful change of pace which they so desperately wanted to experience and enjoy would never emerge, primarily because of their ‘fear of the unknown!’ In 1991 I made the mistake of assuming that my wife and I could start a new life in America, along with three very young children—it was a fatal error that would cost me my marriage! Seven years later I was engaged for a second time and living with my partner and her two children, but our relationship was on a downward spiral and we had already split-up on two previous occasions, so when the opportunity arose for me to take a job in Lanzarote in April 1998, I was sorely tempted to leave the U.K., but at the eleventh hour I chickened-out—likewise because of my ‘fear of the unknown’ and so I duly accepted the fact that I had blown my one and only chance of starting a new and hopefully happy life in the sun.

In August of that same year I unexpectedly received a call from the ‘working abroad’ agency (which I had originally applied to at the beginning of the year), telling me that they now had a vacancy for a timeshare representative on the island of Tenerife. Nearly four months had elapsed since the last offer and as the light at the end of my personal tunnel was now but a spec in the distance, I decided to take the bull by the horns and ‘go for it’. How I was going to tell my partner would still be difficult, for I had been like a father to her son and daughter for the past two years (her words), and no doubt I would miss them—as well as being devastated at having to leave Liam, Carl and Hayley, my three children, who lived with their mum.

Shaun, I need to have a serious talk with you said my fiancé, shortly after the children had gone to bed the following night.

"It’s just not working-out between us love: you are dedicated to your kids, committed to mine and obliged to work six, or even seven days a week, just to make ends meet—so there is no time left in your life for ‘me’, or should I say ‘us’—I just can’t cope anymore with this feeling of loneliness."

I knew only too well what she was saying, and I had to agree with her, but before I could tell her about my plans, she continued on with her speech.

I want you to pack your things and leave tonight, as soon as the children are asleep—and please don’t come back on the weekend to collect your clothes in the wash, otherwise we’ll only end up getting back together again and then in six months time we’ll find ourselves in the same awkward position!

Little did she know that her timing could not have been more appropriate?

Don’t worry love, I promise you that I won’t be back on the weekend.

Well you came back twice before, so why are you so confident this time?

Because on Friday night I am flying out to work and live in Tenerife.

Next came the hard part—having to tell my children! (Liam was now ten; Carl was barely eight and Hayley only six.) After taking two bus rides to their home, I told Caryl (their mother) of my intentions, before asking her if I could have a few private words with the children—alone. Lining them up in front of me in a kind of arc formation, I then asked them to put their right hand out in front of them, to whit I gently placed them on top of one another. I then knelt down on the floor in front of them and clasping my hands firmly around their tiny little fingers, I began the hardest speech of my life.

Now listen to me very carefully; daddy’s got the chance of a job in Spain for a while and so I will be flying out to Tenerife on Friday night. Now if it does not work out as well as I hope it will, then I will be back home in a months’ time—but if it does work out, then you kids are going to see the world, because I will be working for a holiday company.

Will you take us all to Disneyworld dad? asked Liam excitedly.

Not just Disneyworld, but all over America—I promise you son.

Won’t we be able to sleep at Nanny’s on the weekend’s daddy? Hayley whispered solemnly, the tears already welling-up in her beautiful blue eyes.

Not for a while, I choked, grabbing her and giving her a massive hug.

Are we still going to the park on Saturday dad? Carl enquired, not realizing that I meant this Friday, but sounding funny enough to break the ice and make us all laugh—as he has always done in his life, from day one.

Telling my mother was not so hard, as even though she said that she would miss me terribly, she has never been a person to stand in my way and she has always encouraged and supported me in everything I have done in my life. (What would we do without our mum’s?) A few farewell drinks with my family and friends in the local pub on Thursday night and I was ready to go.

YEAR ONE

September 1st 1998 Until

August 31st 1999

PART ONE

A NEW BEGINNING

As my plane touched down at 4.45am, I said a fond farewell to August in Cardiff and a bright new ‘Hello’ to September in Tenerife. By the time I had collected my luggage and my passport had been stamped it was gone five-thirty, but still the skies were black, which rather surprised me, as back in Cardiff the sun would have been making its appearance by now? However, the air was warm and it was quite peaceful, as I walked over to the taxi rank, dragging my over-sized, bright red holdall behind me, its wheels creaking under the weight of every morsel that I owned in life. If truth be known the holdall was not even mine; my brother, Gary had loaned it to me after watching me pile all of my belongings into a black plastic dustbin liner yesterday afternoon—a task that I had become rather accustomed to since my divorce!

But how will I get the bag back to you? I had asked him in all innocence. Don’t worry, you’ll be back home with it once you’ve had your month’s holiday, he jovially replied. Gary’s sarcastic little quip upset me a little at first, but then it made me even more determined to make this venture work and prove everyone wrong. If anyone can do it, then Shaun can or Well at least I admire him for giving it a go, is what I so wanted my friends and family to be saying to other people, but in my heart of hearts I knew that their statements would be somewhat different!

Oh, he’s off on one of his mad adventures again—he’ll be back with his tail between his legs in a few weeks time or "We all know what he’s like, eccentric to the last; always doing things his way, but he’ll learn—one day".

In true point of fact, they were probably right and I was wrong. When I started learning karate at fourteen, I saw myself as the next Bruce Lee and trained relentlessly to achieve that goal, fighting anyone at every opportunity in the dojo (gym), but I ended up with more injuries than trophies and in the end I had to give it up for fear of doing myself some permanent damage! Then I started riding motor-cycles and saw myself as the next Barry Sheene, racing any biker on the road who would dare to challenge me, but after seven crashes and several operations to rebuild my battered body, I realised once again that I would not be making the grade and so I turned to the gentle art of touring, a much more enjoyable alternative—and one which would inevitably change my life, as it introduced me to the wonderful world of travelling. At the age of twenty-two I had finally found my vocation in life.

However, this was no holiday jaunt; I had come to Tenerife to change my life; to make a fresh start—and most of all to become ‘a success’—and thus prove to all those ‘non-believers’ how clever I can be! (Mind you, just how I was going to do that, I hadn’t a clue at this point in time?) My taxi driver was no different from the ones I had encountered on my last visit here back in 1984, as he drove at the usual hectic pace down the motorway, his speedometer registering over 160kph for best part of the journey! I had shown him the address on my confirmation letter and within fifteen minutes we were pulling up at this rather luxurious resort in an area called Playa Fanabe. I could not pay my fare fast enough, (almost forgetting to ask for my receipt), before virtually running up the handful of steps leading into to the reception area, the shoulder-strap on my holdall now wrapped firmly around my neck and the weight of the bag almost choking me.

My instructions were simply to collect my ‘welcome pack’ from one of the counter-staff, but as I prepared my passport in readiness to check-in and receive my box of ‘goodies’, such as milk, bread, butter, coffee and the like, I was duly handed a brown envelope, containing two aluminium keys, linked to an adjoining key fob and promptly told by my rather frumpy receptionist to take another taxi to the address which had been hand-written on the said envelope! I was not impressed, but could not make a fuss, as my accommodation for the first month was being paid for by my new employers, and so I would have to accept what I was given! At the other end of the reception desk, I could see another guy, who looked a little older than myself, going through the same scenario with another female member of staff, only he seemed more concerned about who was going to pay for the additional taxi?

As he had obviously been eaves-dropping on my conversation, it did not take him long to trundle over and ask me if I cared to share a taxi with him to the ‘Pensions Cassandra Hostel’, which was located in a place called ‘Buzanada’—a town which neither of us had ever heard of before? I had also overheard a part of his conversation to the receptionist earlier-on and I had immediately noticed his Welsh accent, which was somewhat broader than mine, and so I guessed that he was from somewhere out on the west coast of Wales, whereas I was from Cardiff, an eastern city, where the Welsh accent is not so strong—and thus can be understood a lot easier by the English!

I’m from Port Talbot actually—where men are men—and sheep are scared my friend answered jovially, before telling me his full name, but adding that most of his friends simply call him ‘J.D.’ I reciprocated by giving him my name and as our friendly conversation continued-on in the taxi, we soon found out that we had actually come in on the same flight from Cardiff!

The sleepy village of Buzanada seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but then my sense of direction has never been very good and I certainly had not begun to find my bearings on the island yet? As the taxi pulled-up at our hostel and I witnessed my first Canarian sunrise for over fourteen years, J.D. and I could see that the surrounding area was a mass of small building sites, interspersed with dilapidated old cottages, many of which were perched high in the Spanish hills, having been built long before the invasion of tourists!

I don’t know about Buzanada, but this place reminds me more of Beirut, I quipped, taking my over-sized duffle-bag out of the boot of the taxi first, before handing J.D. over his proper suitcase—once he had paid the driver our fare of course. As luck would have it, Pensions Cassandra was virtually brand new and so everything was spotlessly clean inside the place—even though there was no reception area, nor anyone to greet us with a smile.

Upon closer inspection we also discovered that the place had no restaurant, no bar area—and not even a set of toilets where one could relieve oneself should the need arise! However, there was a drinks machine in the hallway, which dispensed cans of Coca Cola, Fanta orange and Limón (as the Spanish say)—and also small bottles of water, so at least we would not die of thirst (although we may die of starvation if there are no shops within walking distance of the place!) The numbers to our respective rooms was written on our plastic key fobs and so, with the full intention of crashing-out for a few hours, I paid my dues to J.D. for the taxi fare, before making my way up the staircase (which had been beautifully tiled I may add) and along the corridor to my room at the end of the first floor. Although it was rather small inside, the place boasted a brand new pine bed, complete with matching wardrobe and a three-drawer bedside cabinet.

A firm mattress, complimented with a set of crispy-clean sheets, a pale blue quilt cover and a fluffy pillow was enough to entice me into stripping down to my underpants—and even though I had a separate bathroom, complete with a wash-hand basin, a toilet—and a working shower to cleanse my sweaty bits, I just fell onto the bed, resting my aching body and relaxing those ever-so-tired limbs of mine. Although I had been up all night, barely sleeping for an hour on the plane, I was now over-tired and so I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling and refusing to pull-back the net curtain from my one and only window—no matter how much the sun’s rays were doing their uttermost to penetrate its flimsy defences and invite me into the new day ahead. I was now living in a land of which I knew very little about; I was about to start a new job—of which I knew even less about—and I would be working with a bunch of strangers whom I knew absolutely nothing about!

Also, I had just gone through a break-up with my fiancé, after being together for nearly two and a half years and I had left my beloved children behind in the U.K., not knowing when I would see them again? I had given up a secure job, with a regular income and bonuses and had abandoned my mother, who was now living alone once again; the woman who had supported me through everything I had done in my life! My selfishness knew no bounds, although I knew in my heart that I could rely on my two big brothers to look after my mother in her old age—and I was now dreading the day that one of them would call me to say that she had gone to join my dad in the life hereafter. So why did I feel like the weight of the whole world had suddenly been lifted off my shoulders?

Had I really come all this way just to avoid my responsibilities in life, or did I truly believe that I would return one day to the ‘land of my fathers’ victorious in battle and triumphant in my cause for a better meaning to life? Money is the ‘root of all evil’ they say—and lord knows how many times that commodity—or should I say the ‘lack of it’, had dominated my life to date. Like most working-class people, my parents continually scrimped and scraped their way through life and the stories of my mothers’ cost-cutting schemes, simply to make ends meet are endless. Using the pilot light in the oven to dry her tea-towels is one of them—or walking miles across town and visiting four different supermarkets, just to save a few pennies on groceries is another. However, my favourite story is about my ‘Prince of Wales Checked’ shorts, which I used to wear so proudly to school, because all of the other mothers used to say how ‘posh’ I looked in them.

My mother never had the heart to tell me (until I had grown out of them of course), that she had made them out of one of her old skirts! While most of my friends’ parents had nice cars to drive about in, my dad had a barrow-boys ‘hand-cart’ which he carried his ladders and carpentry tools to work on—and as for having any luxury items such as central heating, or a normal telephone (not a mobile), well forget it, for they would only create additional ‘bills’—a ‘taboo’ word in my mums’ dictionary of survival. As for holidays, well a seven night stay in a Butlins holiday camp, back in 1965 and a weeks’ caravan holiday in Porthcawl a few years later, was the sum total of my childhood vacations—apart from our day-trips to Barry Island and Cold Knap of course, where I would end up spewing all over the bus seats, as my chronic travel-sickness kicked-in within 5 minutes of take-off! I could continue by waffling on about ‘hand-me-downs’ which never fitted and our ‘food-rationing’ times, but as Billy Connolly has already told those kinds of stories in vivid detail, I’ll carry on talking (or should I say ‘day-dreaming’) about where I personally went wrong in life?

Wanting a dream house meant having a high mortgage, I understood that entirely, but how was I to know that due to the UK’s failing economy, the building society’s percentage rate would double within the first year, thus raising my monthly payments from £500 to over £1000,—an amount which I could ill-afford. Then, as the recession deepened, I was suddenly made redundant, with little hope of re-employment in the near future—and no pay-off, as I had only been head-hunted for the job six months earlier! With two toddlers and a pregnant wife to consider, I tried getting a job in the middle-east and also in America, but when all that failed, along with my attempts at writing a documentary series for television (which very nearly reached fruition, I may add), followed by the cancellation of a promised assignment as regional manager for Budget Rent-A-Car, I succumbed to the fact that I would have to remain on the dole—well at least until the economy had picked up again?

After Hayley was born (on Christmas Day 1991), I spent my days playing with the children in the park, or taking them to relatives’ homes, in order to give my wife breathing space, but the recession had turned into a depression for our family and within a year my wife was asking for a divorce. By now the infamous C.S.A. (Child Support Agency) had been set-up and I was told in no uncertain terms that any money I earned over £42 a week would be paid directly to the government—and that my life would not begin again until my daughter was at least ‘eighteen’, in other words in ‘seventeen’ years time! With such a hopeless ultimatum my only recourse was to go back to college as a mature student, to learn all about the ever-growing world of computers and the mass-expansion of the internet.

After three years of studying, I returned to work as a carpet salesman and soon afterwards I met my fiancé-to-be, but raising two families with one income was never going to work and so here I am, lying here, deeply contemplating the universe and thinking about my life to date. My miserable thoughts were now deteriorating to the realms of Monty Python’s ‘four Yorkshire-men’ sketch, and so I decided that it was high time I stopped reminiscing about the past, (for it was now history), gently pull that sweet-smelling sheet over my head—and look forward to what the future would have in store for me when I woke up?

PART TWO

MAKING NEW ‘FRIENDS’

It was barely eleven o’clock when I finally surfaced for the day, and the first thing I was going to do was to make use of that shower, for the humidity level in my room was now on a high and I felt uncomfortably sticky—and a little bit smelly with stale perspiration. After smothering my body with lather, I vigorously scrubbed the unwanted pong from my skin, before washing the soap off under a gentle spray of hot water. I then turned the cold tap on full blast for a few minutes to close the pores in my skin and thus bring my body temperature down to a normal level once again. It was so invigorating and afterwards, as I stood there in my room, my beach towel wrapped firmly around my waist and my body smelling sweetly of my latest lynx deodorant, I knew then that I was ready to take on the world.

Although my orders were to report to the main office at 9am on Sunday morning, (which according to my instructions, is situated directly below the resort we arrived at this morning), I wanted to suss-out the area I would be working in beforehand, but just how I was going to get there, well lord only knows? As I stepped out into the bright sunlight and wandered around the perimeter of our hostel, I confirmed my suspicions from this morning; that the place had no swimming pool, to have a nice cool dip in, no hot tub (Jacuzzi) to boil my body in—and worst of all, no pool-bar to slurp a cold beer at! Things were getting worse by the minute! The morning silence was broken by the sound of a dog barking in the distance, followed almost immediately by another bark, only different from the last one, but coming from the same direction?

The barking continued between the two dogs for several minutes, disturbing the peace and tranquillity of the sleepy town of Buzanada and I soon realised that this was the dawn chorus which would undoubtedly wake me up and welcome me into each new morning from now on—great! As I returned to the small and dusty car park at the front of the building, I could hear an engine running—and as there was only one car in the parking lot, I ran quickly across the yard and without giving it a second thought, dived, head-first at the windscreen, my whole body spread-eagled across the bonnet of the car—just as the driver was taking off, causing him to screech-on the brakes in horror, before flinging open his door and jumping out of the car.

Are you fucking crazy, or what, hollered my new ‘friend’ (I use the term ‘friend’ loosely of course) Sorry mate, but there was no way I could let you drive out of here, leaving me all alone in this godforsaken place! I said apologetically, not knowing whether he was about to thump me or not?

My luck was in, as he was a decent guy, but more importantly, he was English—and that meant that I had someone I could communicate with! J.D., I had assumed was still asleep and as this was obviously a Spanish village, I had half-expected to meet only natives of the island this morning, who would not be able to understand a single word I was saying? (Having a language barrier to get over turned-out to be a huge stumbling block as time progressed in Tenerife, for I never did become fluent in Spanish, only ever learning enough words to get my face slapped! This is shameful I know and I hate to admit it, but for my sins I can now tell you that I have been taking lessons for the past year as I write this paragraph on 15th August 2008).

Don’t ever do that to me again my friend—you scared me shitless, added ‘Ray’, in a broad Cockney accent—after we had introduced ourselves properly—and he had finally managed to calm his nerves down with a cigarette! Ray was also one of the new ‘trainees’ (as we were called) and he was on his way into town (before I had rather rudely interrupted him earlier of course), and so without further ado we took off together in his white, three-door Renault Peugeot, a car which he had hired yesterday and which he claimed was a heap of f*     *     *ing crap—with no f*     *     *ing guts whatsoever. (Ray had a way with words, most of them of the ‘vulgar/profane’ variety—as I would find out in no uncertain terms over the coming months).

On our way into Playa Fanabe, we stopped at a bar called ‘Faces’ (yes, that is its real name), where we indulged ourselves in our first bottle of beer on the island—and then our second—after all, it was now after mid-day and so I was still in keeping with my golden rule of ‘never taking a drink before noon’. Sitting on the veranda together and telling each other our tales of woe, about why we had decided to escape from the clutches of ‘Mother England’ (or in my case, Mother Wales), we could feel a strong bond growing between us, a kind of camaraderie, the likes of which I had never experienced before, but one which I would become more accustomed to with each new acquaintance I met. When I told Ray that I had come over to Tenerife with just under £400, (which is slightly less than the minimum requirement to survive—according to my notes from the recruitment agency), he was aghast, saying that he had brought over ten grand with him and that he intended having a fucking great time while he was here. Unfortunately, I was here to work, so having a fucking great time was the very last thing on my mind right now, but I was not going to be anti-social, and so we had one final beer, before making our way to the offices, to see what we had both let ourselves in for?

To our surprise, the place was desolate, for unbeknown to us at the time, Saturday was the day when all the reps’ were out knocking doors and introducing themselves to the new clients, who had arrived on the island the day before. However, we did get to speak to our contact, who is a lovely lady called Jean. Being in her early thirties, slim and quite attractive, was like dangling a red flag in front of a bull in Ray’s case and therefore it did not take him long to make his first sexual innuendo towards her—which she immediately rebuffed, albeit nicely, but enough to let him know that he would not be getting into her knickers, no matter how hard he tried! Jean gave us a pack each, containing the rules and regulations of the club, along with a batch of ‘do’s’ and ‘don’ts’, to read and digest, which she said we could take back to our rooms to study this evening—as the first part of our school homework, which we would apparently be getting a lot more of as soon as our training programme was underway!

Jean then asked us if we needed a lift into work tomorrow, as there would be a mini-bus laid on to transport all of her ‘babies’ (as Jean affectionately called her new recruits) to and from the Pensions Cassandra for the month that we were allowed to stay there. (What happens to the students at that point in time, well one could only hazard a guess, but I will worry about that issue as and when the time arrives?) Going straight back to our digs to prepare ourselves for the next day ahead, Ray and I had full intentions of playing bookworms for the night, but as we pulled up outside the hostel, J.D. was just emerging from his room and after a quick introduction to Ray, we suddenly found ourselves in one of the local bars, having another Dorada (lager)—only this time paying half the price of what we had been charged in town!

And so yet another valuable lesson had been learned, one which I would have no choice but to adhere to—and that was ‘saving money’! With no refrigerators in our rooms to keep anything fresh, we also had no choice but to eat out as well, which I initially thought would drain my miniscule budget quite rapidly, but I was pleasantly surprised at how cheap food was in the local bars as well—even if half of the stuff on offer looked decidedly yuck! You see I have always had a tendency to eat with my eyes, but as time progressed I would also be very surprised at how my taste buds would alter and how things that I had hated in the UK, would become a part of my staple diet—such as olives for instance, a fruit I despised with a passion in Wales, yet came to love in Tenerife. I was also ready to try out lots of new foods which I had never eaten before, such as squid and octopus, lizard and frogs-legs. Discovering new tapas (local Spanish dishes, normally the size of a typical side-order) became a hobby of mine and ‘carne con papas’ (meat and potatoes) accompanied most of my meals, as I have always been a carnivore and a lover of spuds—and always will be. The famous Spanish ‘paella’ also became a favourite dish of mine, preferring the meat version, but nearly always ending up with the ‘mixed’ (fish and meat) option, because whoever was with me at the time would invariably be a fish lover and as paella can only be ordered for a minimum of two persons, I would leave them to pick at the fish at their leisure, while I concentrated all of my efforts on nabbing as many of the juicy, meaty bits as I could muster. (Although I have to admit that I also loved ripping apart and munching into the king prawns, several of which usually adorned the huge dishes of yellow rice, fried mushrooms and multi-coloured peppers, which make up the bulk of paella).

Ray and I never got to read our literature that evening (surprise, surprise) and as for J.D., well, as our working week would not begin until tomorrow morning, he point-blank refused to even look at any paper-work! I should also point out at this stage that ‘apprentice’ reps’ would also be paid £100 per week for the first four weeks—the official training period and that after a rep had made his (or her) first sale they would have the cost of their (one way) flight ticket to Tenerife reimbursed by the company. Upon returning to the hostel, the three of us said our goodnights, before walking-off to our respective rooms to crash-out for the night. My only rest day prior to starting work was now at an end and tomorrow I would begin my new career in the lucrative world of timeshare sales, albeit in a classroom, rather than out on the resorts of course.

Talking about resorts, Jean had also told us that after the morning meeting, which would finish at around 10am, all of the new rep’s (twelve of us in total), would be transported over to the company’s flag-ship resort in another place which none of us had ever heard of before, called the ‘Golf Del Sur’, which apparently is somewhere out near the airport! As the name implies, it is primarily where the golfing fraternity of Europe chooses to go for their holidays, especially in the winter-time, when temperatures are still hovering around the seventy degree mark. According to Jean this resort was ‘the dog’s bollocks’, (her quote—not mine) and apparently the penthouse suites are ‘simply to die for’—I couldn’t wait.

PART THREE

OUR ‘FLAGSHIP’ RESORT

Today it would be an entirely different story down on the sales deck. The place was heaving with male and female bodies, all rushing in and out of the various offices which were dotted around the building. As sales trainees, we new guys weren’t allowed inside the main sales area and so Ray, J.D. and I had to sit outside in the open-air courtyard, patiently waiting for our instructions. Although J.D. and I had hitched a lift to the office in Ray’s car, I had spotted a load of other students piling into the mini-bus outside the hostel at around eight-thirty this morning and these guys and gals were now sat in small groups at various tables, (just like us three were sitting together—safety in numbers and all that!)

Jean was soon on the scene to welcome her new ‘babies’ into the fold and after she had gone through the usual preliminaries of handing out more (laborious) forms and had confirmed that she had ticked everyone’s name off against her master check-list, she then asked us all to cram into this small office, which was located in-between two large staircases, (both of which lead up and out onto the main street). We were then told to wait patiently for one of the managers to come and talk to us? After about fifteen minutes of chatting amongst ourselves a tall guy, probably in his early thirties, good looking, but with a rapidly receding hair-line (which he was obviously trying desperately to hide, by combing several long strands of hair sideways across his scalp) introduced himself to us all as ‘Sam’, before explaining how we were hopefully going to help him with his problem!

"This week we have an excessive amount of German clients staying at the resort and as we have only two German reps’ working here in Tenerife, we want you new recruits to speak to them on the company’s behalf—and don’t worry about any language problems, because all the ones you will be talking to speak pretty good English. However, before you are given the leads, I want to introduce you to the German manager, who will tell you how to handle them, as krauts can be funny bastards to deal with!"

We all looked at one-another gone-off, for not only did we know nothing at all about the club, but half of our tribe had never even spoken to Germans before? Luckily, I had made friends with two German couples, when I was on holiday in Portugal several years ago, so I knew not to talk about politics to them—and especially not to mention the war (Fawlty), for the opinions of the younger generation are vastly different to those of their parent’s age and discussions can become rather heated as soon as a disagreement occurs!

However, what dishevelled me more than the fear of facing our European friends was this manager’s blatant use of bad language in front of his pupils, coupled with his total disregard of any respect for his clientele! As Sam exited the room he was replaced by an older chap, somewhat larger in stature, (including a pot belly), who was smoking a rather large cigar and brandishing a greased-back quiff on top of his head that would have put most Elvis impressionists to shame! Now it was his turn to speak!

Good Morgan; my name is Eric Von Shneider and I am ze German manager. I vant to tell you vot to zay to my countrymen ven you see zem. Zey feel very superior to you British people, so zay vil give you unt hard time. You must be very strong vis zees guys and not let zem bully you. You vil also have to dress shmart, as zey vil not expect to see you in shorts and ze flowered shirts, zo some of you vil have to go home and change after zis meeting. Alzo you can get aggressive vis zees people, but you must never mention ze vor, (war) uzer vise zey vil go mad and zey may even strike you—do I make myself clear? (Or words to that effect?)

Feeling somewhat intimidated by this guys’ speech and not really knowing what to say, the majority of us just gave a silent nod in agreement, but the atmosphere was so thick, that you could have cut it with a knife.

What a load of crap; come on gang, this guy is pulling your leg, said a familiar voice from the back of the room—it was J.D. There was total silence in the place as the German guy stared daggers at J.D. for a few seconds and I am sure that we all thought that this guy was about to start bawling at him, but instead he just suddenly erupted into fits of laughter.

Why did you have to spoil it big mouth; I had the rest of them going then—you’re obviously going to be the trouble-maker of the bunch, I can see that.

The guy then admitted to us all that it was just a wind up, purely for some harmless fun, he assured us, but to my mind it was a test; to find out how gullible we were perhaps? Or maybe to see who would be clever enough to suss them out first? Whatever the reason, this little ‘tester’ had put me on my guard; to be ready for whatever else they may have is store for us? Our guy from ‘over the Berlin Wall’ would now be addressed as ‘Edgar’ and later-on he confessed to us that he was actually the older brother of Sam. (Both of the guys heralded from London, by the way!) With the frivolities now at an end, Ray, J.D. and I jumped into Ray’s car, before following the mini-bus all the way to that flag-ship resort on ‘The Golf’ (which is the affectionate name given to the Golf Del Sur). From the outside, the building would not have looked out of place in Tunisia, or Turkey, with its white walls, rounded turrets and unmistakably Moorish architecture.

In front of the main entrance stood a large domed walkway leading up to a set of automatic glass doors and several taxi drivers were waiting patiently on the cobble-styled driveway, ready to pick up their clients and whisk them all over the island. (The most popular destination for today would be the Sunday market at Los Cristianos, although none of us knew this at the time of course.) As we made our way inside, we were greeted by a tall, smartly dressed security guard, who smiled at us, and said Buenos Dias, which meant nothing to most of us at the time, but we soon learnt that this was a simple Good morning greeting and one which we would all say a thousand times in the years that followed. The massive reception area was magnificent and like nothing I had ever seen before, its crowning glory being a huge marble staircase, which greeted you the moment you stepped inside the building.

Leading down into the underground levels of the complex, the highly polished steps were adorned with magnificent pillars on both sides and the bottom of the staircase opened-up into a huge arc, giving it that extra touch of elegance. Up above the staircase a set of beautifully carved archways, (the likes of which would not have looked out of place in an Arabian Palace), finished-off this master-piece of opulence and unadulterated beauty. By now we were in the care of our ‘training manager’, who had met us at the top of the stairs, in readiness to show us around the rest of the complex, before taking us below decks and into our training room. Although his name was ‘Rod’, we soon nick-named him ‘Bruce’, because he had been graced with this rather elongated chin, which reminded us all of that great TV personality and all-time favourite game-show host, Mr. Forsyth (you know, the one that always says at the beginning of his show Nice to see you, to see you, nice!)

This guy also had a great sense of humour, just like our celebrity friend, and so we all took an instant liking to him. As we walked through a set of double doors located beyond the main reception area, we stepped out onto this huge veranda, the one side of it overshadowed by a beautifully polished wooden gazebo. Underneath this, in the centre, stood an ornate fountain with several slatted benches and half a dozen octagonal tables set in a circle around it. On the other side there were a number of huge bamboo sofas, with matching armchairs, all of them adorned with thick, cream-coloured cushions and encircling several oval-shaped coffee tables. The chairs were surrounded by a myriad of tropical plants and shrubs, all neatly potted in great big brown urns. Making our way up onto a raised patio area, which was encircled by dozens of colonial-styled pillars, before walking right to the far end of it, we were all stunned at what we saw!

Ours eyes beheld the magnificent beauty of Tenerife’s southern coastline, it’s cool, Atlantic waters stretching out around us as far as the eye could see and above our heads the sun blazed, amidst the clearest of skies on this wonderful September morning. After several gasps and one or two questions from the other students, Rod then led us down to level two on the ‘sea-front’ part of the resort. (The main entrance faces-out onto the road-side, of which you are actually entering the building on level four, would you believe?) Walking along the main corridor, past several apartments, Rod suddenly stopped at a doorway, slotting a key into the lock and opening the door, before inviting us all to enter the apartment. He then waited patiently for our reactions. Wow, Cor, Gee whiz, Blimey, (and the odd Fuck-me), was heard coming from the lounge-cum-dining area, which had been decorated to the highest standard, with very expensive Italian furniture.

To compliment this, the walls had been decorated with half-a-dozen hand-painted, canvas sketches, and two gorgeous full-length curtains hung on both sets of patio-doors. In one corner of the room stood a huge, fully-fitted kitchen—which would have had Fanny Craddock wetting her knickers, so to speak—had she still been alive to see it? Within seconds, more gasps were coming from the two bedrooms, as the new reps opened the central wardrobe doors, revealing massive en-suite bathrooms adjoining each bedroom. Applause was definitely in order. From the large, double balcony, we had the same magnificent views, over-looking the ocean as we had enjoyed on the terrace, only now we were hovering right over the pool-side area, where we could see a group of people swimming freely in the large, open-air ‘sea-water’ pool. There were also scores of small children and toddlers playing happily in the kiddies (fresh-water) pool.

Sun-worshippers adorned a hundred sun-beds which surrounded both pools and another fifty burned-out bodies lay baking on a sun-deck area perched high above them. Below the sun-deck, four teenager’s battled-it-out on two pool tables and opposite these guys, sat a dozen or so adults, all enjoying the delights of a full English breakfast at the pool bar. Rod then took us to an equally unbelievable apartment, with all the attributes of the last one, only this one also boasted a huge conservatory, complete with tinted glass windows and a massive terrace encompassing a built-in barbeque area—fantastic. He also pointed out three ‘penthouse suites’, which all had outdoor Jacuzzis on their roofs and a four-bedroom ‘presidential suite’, which was apparently twice the size of the apartments he had shown us today. (In time to come I would spend a week of unsurpassed luxury in that one—tell you more about that later). By now we were all standing in a circle on the patio-area and wondering what would come next?

Now that you’ve all seen it—I’ll teach you how to sell it, Rod announced.

PART FOUR

BACK TO SCHOOL

Our classroom was actually a cordoned-off segment of a much larger room—a place which would be transformed into a fabulous sales showroom in time to come—but for today it was ours. Sitting in a circle around a large conference-styled table, the twelve of us were then asked to stand up individually and introduce ourselves to the rest of the class. We were a mixed bunch of students, the majority of us heralding from the UK, but I do recall a young, blonde Scandinavian lady, who was quite attractive, but her cropped hair-style and the kind of clothes that she wore made her look a bit on the butch side. At this point I feel that it is time to admit to everyone that almost everything written in this book is taken from memory—with the help of a few thousand photographs of course! Of the other nine students, (me, Ray and J.D. excluded), I can barely remember six of them—and I certainly do not recall any of their names!

However, I do recall a very educated, middle-aged gentleman, who