The Beautiful People

As a species, we humans are a funny bunch. We come in all shapes, sizes and colours and, when you add our personalities into the mix, the possibilities become infinite.

That’s why we are special and why I love watching people – especially those who consider themselves to be different in some way.

Last Thursday I spent a very enjoyable evening in Puerto Banús, near to Marbella on the south coast of Spain watching the world, and the people, go by.

We were based in Marbella itself and Mrs PM told me that Puerto Banús was a great place to visit – based on what her friends had told her anyway. And I was intrigued based on her description; it was a magnet for famous people and those who were enthralled by the cult of celebrity.

She warned me that our evening’s entertainment might prove to be expensive but I decided to take the hit – as long as my wallet wasn’t utterly cleaned out by the experience. Besides, it was our only chance on the holiday to celebrate Mrs PM’s birthday – so I couldn’t really refuse.

We caught a cab from Marbella to Puerto Banús and Mrs PM was suitably attired in a very attractive black dress. I was told that I had to wear trousers and a shirt, despite the heat and after whinging about the high probability of having sweaty legs and sodden armpits, Mrs PM’s expression of frustration, with the threat of pain, made me cave in and dress as she wanted me too.

On arrival, we found a bar with a westward view and, with the aid of una cerveza grande and a cocktail called a Cosmopolitan, we watched the sunset.

The way Mrs PM had described the place, I expected to see lots of Ferraris and Porsches. There were certainly quite a few yachts in the marina but our location seemed to contradict Mrs PM’s vision of what it would be like. One of her friends had forked out a small fortune to spend a day in a club surrounded by Z list celebrities. When I asked who, she said “People from The Only Way Is Essex”.

“You mean reality TV stars, famous for nothing more than being arseholes on telly? I wouldn’t know any of these dickheads if I tripped over them,” I said.

She agreed and reassured me that I wouldn’t be spending 200 Euros a head to spend all day mingling with these weird attention seekers.

Later we strolled past the yachts and found ourselves outside a famous bar called Sinatra’s, celebrating its 35th year of existence. It was packed with people crowded around the bar area and I noticed that the dress code had changed subtly. The place was packed and many people obscured my path to the barman, not waiting to be served but just standing there with drinks in their hands and a steely determination not to allow anybody to take their place, least of all a person like me.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” I suggested.

“Let’s just have one drink here,” said Mrs PM, sensing my annoyance.

Before I could respond, she had rushed off somewhere and found a waiter who was very keen for us to sit at a table next the bar. Mrs PM dragged me to the table and the waiter brought a bottle of Corona and glass of white wine.

“Why is nobody sitting here? Why are all of those people standing at the bar?” I asked Mrs PM.

“Probably because it costs more to sit down here,” she said.

I felt the pressure on my wallet. I was probably going to pay three times the norm for the privilege of quaffing beer in this exclusive little location in an exclusive little bar. Since this was Mrs PM’s idea and she seemed content, I consigned my reservations and embryonic rant deep into the recess of my mind and decided to watch the people around me and those passing the bar.

And I actually enjoyed the experience and enjoyed categorising the people I saw in groups - and best of all the cost of the drinks was nowhere near as bad as I thought (it was quite reasonable actually).

I considered the people around me and those outside.The way I see it, there are two types of people; beautiful people and ordinary people. Within each of those groups, there are people who think that they belong to the other group.

I am an ordinary person who knows he is ordinary. I was surrounded by beautiful people who know they are beautiful and ordinary people who think they are beautiful.

Normally, a person like me would feel uncomfortable in such an environment so I embraced the role of observer as I watched Ferraris and Porsches drive slowly past the bar.

One guy was dressed in a designer T shirt, designer shorts and designer shoes, with his designer sunglasses hanging in the V of his T shirt, guffawing with his rich buddies as he sipped his designer cocktail and ran his fingers through his elegantly coiffured designer hair, dripping with designer products that I would never consider using. His eyes darted around, seeking a beautiful woman; and there were one or two

In particular my eyes were drawn to a truly gorgeous woman with long black hair and dressed to accentuate every single curve to perfection.

Even better than that were the people who think they are beautiful but are just like me; baboons.

Quite a few other baboons were wandering past the bar and, seeing the clientele, decided that they would fit in perfectly; women with bulges who insisted on wearing tight designer clothes to emphasise their cleavages but forgetting that their waists will give them away;  men with big muscular arms but podgy stomachs that stretch a tight shirt to bursting point. These people live under the impression that they can get away with wearing the latest fashions, intended for people who have perfect physiques.

They can’t because, like me, there physiques are fundamentally flawed.

Ordinary folks who accept their ordinariness wear clothes that make them look smart but not something they are not. I would never wear a tight T shirt or expose my ever expanding midriff. I wear clothes that hide my lumps and bumps because I know that I am not a beautiful person.

I am ordinary and I accept that.

Mind you, some beautiful people are funny to watch. We were on the beach the day before and I saw a man with bulging biceps and flat sculpted stomach, wearing speedos, strutting across the sand and in the sea assuming that everyone had their eyes on him and him alone. He even stood in the sea at just the right depth to show off his (in his eyes) magnificent torso.

“Look at that meathead over there,” I said to Mrs PM laughing.

The sad thing was, as I normally observe, is that there were few, if any, people from the one remaining group; beautiful people who think they are ordinary.

Such people are lovely and humble and do not do themselves justice. I like those people. I also love ordinary people who know that they are ordinary and happy to be just that; just like me; just like the majority of people who are content to chuckle at the rest who are strutting about and posing on the beach and in famous bars “just to be seen”.

Mrs PM and I finished off our enjoyable evening with a lovely, but expensive, meal in a restaurant a little further down the street from the bar.

In my eyes, Mrs PM was lovely that night; I was just a baboon in a mirror, as you can see from this photo.