MIGHTY APHRODITE

Travel review for the Daily Mirror about the InterContinental Hotel, Aphrodite Hills Resort, Cyprus.

Read how the article appeared in the Daily Mirror here


Rob McGibbon goes to Cyprus in search of respite from the rigours of first time fatherhood in his 40s.

Recent statistics have revealed that more couples are becoming parents in their 40s than ever before. Well, if that’s true, I can also confirm the following: there are more first-time parents in their 40s than at any time in history who are in dire need of a holiday.

My first child – Joseph – is now 20 months old and although I could bore you until your dotage with tales of the transformative joys of his arrival in my life, I can also admit that he has left my wife, Emma, and I somewhat done in.

It’s not that he is especially hard work. In fact he’s a great sleeper and, amazingly, can even happily play on his own for stretches of time. It’s just that after all those years of unbridled freedom, a baby suddenly locks you into an inescapable, relentless routine that is in itself quite draining.

Ok, I know we’ve only got one kid and I am a total lightweight, but I have rarely needed a holiday so much. And to think, I’m probably only doing about 30% of the baby graft. Must be my age.

In our self-indulgent, time-rich childless years, we rarely left it long between breaks and when we ventured abroad, it wasn’t so must to rest as to explore. Hence, we often opted for slightly off-track trips that you could sum up as “rustic”. You know the sort - a hideaway Italian villa, or a remote chalet in the Swiss Alps. A bit of self-catering and roughing it was all part of our holiday “journey”.

In a life that now inevitably involves less sleep and more noise, the word “rustic” has taken on a new meaning to me. It now equals aggravation, discomfort and misery. Positioning myself beneath a rusting showerhead that disperses tepid water with the power of a baby’s dribble, or trying to sleep in a lumpy old bed with disgusting pillows you wouldn’t put your feet on in normal life, doesn’t have the same allure.

No. If I’m going away on our first family holiday I need luxury. I need things done for me, like washing up, bed making and breakfast. I need mod cons, air con and staff. Lots of staff. In short, I need a five star hotel and so does my “it has to be authentic or what’s the point in travelling” wife.

I associate the InterContinental Hotel group with high-end business hotels and refined stuffiness, rather than places to stay with an energetic toddler who is perfecting the art of throwing anything in his oh-so-cute squidgy little hands. But the InterConti’s Aphrodite Hills Resort in Cyprus is a family-friendly five star gem that caters for whacked-out parents and their noisy offspring with gracious aplomb. It opened its arms like a long-lost rich aunt intent on spoiling us.

The resort is 10 miles east of Paphos on the west of the island and sits on a plateau surrounded by parched, quarry-like hills over-looking the Mediterranean. It opened in 2005, hence everything is newly built with no delusions of rusticity.

The joy of being in a hotel within a gated estate is that it makes you stay still. Everything is laid on and within easy reach, but if you get bored of being horizontal there is plenty to do. The resort has a tennis academy, a horse riding school, a nature trail and a championship golf course. I had a lesson with the club’s affable Essex-born pro’ Danny Heard who instantly pinpointed the 30-year-old flaw in my back swing. He illustrated the instant cure by comparing my action in super slow motion video with another golfing has-been – Tiger Woods. Wow, the time I could have saved looking for balls if I’d known this in the 1980s.

Aphrodite Hills is nicely geared up for children. It has a kids club, night-time babysitting options and a crèche for babies. We intended to drop Joseph off there – for about a week - but never used it because he was happy galloping across the fairways on a bunker rake shouting “neigh, neigh” or chilling with us in the pool in his UV-suit with matching Foreign Legion hat. How things change. My childhood holidays were all about getting burnt and peeling quickly so you could crack on with getting a tan to last.

After a few days of quality sleep and guilt-laden sunbathing in a mini heat-wave (37C), we hired a car and set off to explore the island. You suddenly discover here that driving involves the strange experience of going from A-to-B without having to grit your teeth or thump the steering wheel.

I have been to Cyprus several times and know it to be a friendly and interesting country with plenty to prod the slumbering grey matter, so we zipped along empty roads from one archaeological site to the next.

Our favourites was Kourion, a Greco-Roman amphitheatre built in the 2nd century BC with some stunning mosaic floor tiling. Topps Tiles do similar stuff in big strips. In Paphos itself, a vast network of catacombs called the Tombs of the Kings were evocative. It wasn’t especially uplifting watching Joseph climb into those ancient graves, but the alternative was keeping him in a sweltering pushchair and allowing his screams to wake the dead.

The icons and frescoes in the endless number of Byzantine churches across Cyprus are also sights to treasure. We loved the monastery of Agios Neofytos and particularly its Enkleistra cave in the mountainside, which was carved out by a hermit for his home. You’ll never complain about the size of your bathroom again.

The Troodos mountains and its tiny villages are beautiful – most notably Omodos in the foothills - and we even managed to ghost through parts of the wine region. Cyprus isn’t exactly known for producing great wine but the Kyperounda chardonnay was pretty good.

At night, there is a welcoming ambience in the old parts of Paphos harbour, but we preferred Pissouri, a hill town 15 minutes from the hotel. Its tiny central square has a few buzzy bars and tavernas, most notably Symposium which serves a superb grilled Sea “Buss”. Don’t be put off by its naff photographic menu held together with Sellotape.

After the sightseeing box was duly ticked, we continued to dedicate ourselves to doing as little as possible. It actually took most of my morning energy to get over the buffet breakfast which is always a lavish banquet fit for the gods. Anyone for rice pudding and Turkish Delight to finish? The Retreat Spa has won awards and I can enthusiastically vouch for the “Royal Thai” massage.

The hotel has its own small beach club which was a bit too neat and proper for me with its white parasols, plump sun loungers, bar and changing facilities. I would however recommend an early morning dip by “Aphrodite’s Rock” at Petra Tou Romiou. This is where she appeared out of the foam of the sea, but get there before the tourists on coach tours emerge from the car park foot tunnel. I front-crawled away from a deserted beach only to return to about 40 Russians taking my photo.

Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love and beauty. Well, Cyprus is beautiful and we loved it. The statistics for first time parents in their 40s in need of a non-rustic holiday temporarily decreased by two during our stay. Give it a couple of months and the stats will be back to normal.

FACTBOX


One week's bed and breakfast at the InterContinental Aphrodite Hills during peak times starts from £1,315 for a double room sleeping two adults and a baby. Book online at www.ichotelsgroup.com or contact reservations on 0871 423 4942.

Cyprus Airways has return flights from London to Cyprus from £235pp. For more information call 020 83591333 or visit www.cyprusair.com.

The Cyprus Tourist Organisation has details on all aspects of the island at www.visitcyprus.com.















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Four Quartets, Donmar Warehouse

January 30, 2009

It was remiss of me not to note a particularly inspiring evening recently (15th January).

Fresh from Bob Warren's funeral - with a crackling vintage recording of Tiptoe Through the Tulips, which was played at his commendation, still making me smile - I alighted alone at the Donmar Warehouse for an evening with T.S Eliot. Death and Eliot are comfortable companions.

I was there to hear a reading of Eliot's Four Quartets. Eliot's poetry has been an enduring presence in my life since studying some of his key pieces at A-Level. Four Quartets are timeless, multi-layered masterpieces; lyrically mesmerising, endlessly challenging and, it has to be said, quite beautifully bewildering. Little Gidding is my favourite. A section of it is framed on my desk and a small pencil portrait of Eliot by Wyndham Lewis is white-tacked to the wall.

I have not been to a poetry recital this side of my functioning memory and I have never heard Four Quartets, so this was quite a treat. It was recited by Stephen Dillane as part of the Donmar's Eliot festival. Where else could one find such a festival than at the courageous, broad thinking Donmar? I applaud Michael Grandage's versatility and vision for the Donmar in general and in particular for this programme.

Dillane's recital was skilled and accomplished. To recite all four parts of this lengthy and complex poem is nothing short of remarkable. He gave a beguiling performance, although I have to say it lacked something for me. It is hard to isolate exactly what that something was. He certainly brought the poem to life and it illuminated several parts to me, even though I have read it all many times. I guess one of the obstacles is that I have only ever heard Eliot's recorded reading, or listened to my own internal voice. It is a bit like the experience of watching the film of a book that is special to you. It is impossible for the images to live up to your imagination. How on earth could Dillane reflect or replace the images from a hundred readings? Also, I attach more melancholy to the piece than his portrayal provided and I have always associated it with an older voice. He was quizzical and frivolous in places where I see nothing short of despair. Still, I thoroughly enjoyed his work and respect his achievement.

The evening was closed with a stunning performance of Beethoven's opus 132 by a string quartet of the Soloists of the Philharmonia Orchestra. With fitting drama and atmosphere, they were lit by just a single bulb from an overhead light. I marvelled at the exuberance and obvious joy with which they played and I was especially taken by David Cohen's performance on cello, not least by him performing in stockinged feet with his boots by the spike. Very cool.

So, a reading of Eliot's finest work accompanied by a Beethoven piece to make your bones tingle. Probably one of the best ways to wind down after a funeral.

Only at the Donmar. Bravo.

Jacques Peretti, I Don't Know What Happened, Channel 4

January 23, 2009

For professional reasons, I have recently been plugging into the oeuvre of TV "investigative journalist" Jacques Peretti and I admit I am totally astonished at the projection his documentaries are afforded by Channel 4.

He seems a nice enough fellow and clearly sincere, but he is somewhat deluded by the seriousness and revelatory value of his "investigations". At best, they are gossamer thin and reliant on twice-removed sources linked together by a droning monolgue of half-baked, pub-style pontification. Jacques reckons he is cerebrally unraveling his subjects. He is not. As Ally Ross, TV critic of The Sun, brilliantly put it a while back - "Jacques Peretti is the Zen Buddhist of stating the bleeding obvious".

I had to chuckle last night when I saw Jacques and his hairy arms on yet another plane - LA, New York, Bahamas - to track down yet another nobody who sort of knew Dodi Fayed in a nightclub. His "sources" at best are washed up rent-a-quotes who might be worth chatting to if they popped into the Soho edit suite for ten minutes. But the Bahamas for two minutes of nonsense with Johnny Gold? (Actually, I just looked out the window and now realise - if you've got the budget and the suntan lotion, it makes total sense.)

The repetition of the stills photos (Diana on the Jonikal) and archive footage (Dodi getting into a Ford Estate, close up of the cameraman in the reflection of the car window) was nothing short of laughable. But it is Jacques' Mogadon delivery that takes the forehead slapping biscuit. It is as if by talking ever-so-s-l-o-w-l-y with a dense voice will give veracity and weight to his balsa revelations. It d-o-e-s n-o-t, J-a-c-q-u-e-s.

The Artist dipped in for a few minutes and witnessed Jacques' interview in the back of a limo with some nobody who vaguely knew Dodi for a bit. In one sweeping statement, based on nothing, Jacques said that Dodi got through a kilo of cocaine a week which "would take some doing". Before walking straight back out, the Artist observed: "He could do with a kilo of coke to liven him up."

There is a term in the newspaper business for what Jacques does: cuts jobs. Knit together old material, add archive photos to make it look fancy, bung it all under a new headline and hope no one notices. In an hour long TV doc, there is no hiding place and the holes are too glaring to miss. How can a cuts job be worth an hour on Channel 4? And on such well visited subjects as Dodi Fayed, Paul Burrell, Michael Barrymore? Every person Jacques "investigates" can be easily filed under another journalistic term for subjects no longer of interest: "Those we used to love."

There's a fun documentary skit to be done on Jacques. I can even visualise the opening wide shot following the great man going about his "investigative" duties in a cuttings library. A dull, slow voice over begins to tell the story:

"This is Jacques Peretti. Who is he? What drives him? Where did he come from? What issues does he have? etc etc..."

Cut to a row of people on a sofa snoring - ZZZzzzzzzzz.

Britian's Got Talent - Semi Finals Live

May 28, 2008

And, so, to Fountain Studios in Wembley for a seat behind the judges at a live semi-final of Britain's Got Talent. What an extraordinary experience.

I have dipped into the series since a night of undiluted hilarity at the auditions in Hackney, so the thought of some more live action was an easy lure.

A glass of pink champagne backstage got me in the mood for Simon, Piers and Amanda, and, boy, do you need some happy fuel to attend these shows; the crew get you clapping and on your feet constantly like demented performing seals to generate the feel-good vibe. It is an exhausting two hours which leaves you with raw hands and arthritic knees. But it is worth the effort.

Love it or hate it, BGT is one weird whirl of high purity entertainment - good and bad. It makes you cringe, laugh, cheer, boo and cry all in one fatal dose. You sink at the sight of some of the acts - the clueless Indian magician, that troop of a hundred hopeless dancers, the bin bashers, and Christine Hamilton going for it in the finale of You Raise Me Up. But then you are up-lifted by the endearing, untarnished talent of the chorister - you know, the boy with bad white heads. His Tears In Heaven made me water a bit.

You can't help but get caught up in it all when you are there. When the agonising moment came for Cowell to cast the deciding vote between Flava and The Cheeky Monkeys, I found myself shouting out loud.

My head knew it should be Flava - the half-baked dance act with "street" kids who want to make something of themselves - but my heart wanted the two cute little blonde kids who, let's be honest, are too bloody young to be appearing in an event of this scale. Their act makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. In fact, so uncomfortable, that I shouted out their name to help Cowell decide. I was so near to him that I seriously think my shout - and a few others - helped swing it. I was like a parent at a pantomime who had sunk one too many sweet sherries in the interval. Really, I should be ashamed of myself.

Britain's Got Talent Auditions, Hackney Empire

February 06, 2008

It is not often that I wake up chuckling into the pillow through a throat made sore by a night of intense, stomach crunching laughter. It is also not often that I burn the toast because my mind is happily distracted by turning over the events of the previous evening. But, then, I had never been to see the auditions for ITV's 'Britain's Got Talent'.

Last night, The Artist and I and a friend sat riveted and contorted through what was probably the funniest, most entertaining - and often excruciating - three hours I have had in, erm, a few decades. We ventured to the Hackney Empire under the invitation of Piers Morgan, an old friend who is now, bizzarely, a bona fide TV star on both sides of the Atlantic.

I must be one of the few people in the land not to have seen one minute of BGT. I was abroad throughout its UK arrival last summer, so I came to it cold last night. And what a delightful, emotionally oscillating shock.

Unfortunately, the poor acoustics meant we could hardly hear Morgan or Amanda Holden's comments (maybe was a blessing), but Cowell was just a few feet away and he delivered some gems.

We sat through talking and counting (and crapping) parrots, hopeless magicians, tragic clowns (Cowell: "I am allergic to clowns"), overweight teenage Irish dancers in plastic tiaras and frizz wigs, and a fat mum in a vest dancing like Britney Spears who pitched for the sympathy vote with, "I'm doing this for my kids... one of them is disabled".

Then there was the toe curling embarrassment of "Gunther the Geordie Porn Star" in leopard print briefs practising his pelvic action; Julie, a 41-year-old Southampton Council worker, singing Madonna's Holiday in overly tight glittered Lycra (Cowell: "You're like a drunk on a hen night"); and a Norwegian cleaner living in the UK "for time being" (he's been he eight YEARS) who mimed the effects of being in a storm with a red umbrella.

There were very few genuine acts of talent on what proved to be one of the most fruitless auditions in six weeks of trawling the UK. And Hackney provided the most hostile and cynical of audiences seen by the BGT crew to date. Much has been made in the news recently of the dangers of walking Hackney's streets at night. Well, I can assure you that its foul-mouthed youth are not to be recommended as companions in the theatre either.

A trainee lawyer dancing like Michael Jackson stole the show and easily made it through to the next round, but I won't give away the comic brilliance of his act.

I chatted to Cowell and Morgan backstage afterwards. Both looked a touch exhausted and exasperated with the draining demands of the BGT auditions juggernaut. Cowell said that he was running out of things to say to these people, but I beg to differ. The line of the night was all his and it was this one which had me chuckling again in today's reverie.

It came when a man of 84 called William humbly took to the stage to play Edelweiss on the harmonica. He quietly, but proudly, said he had been playing for 60 years. He then proceeded to silence the baying Empire mob with the dullest, most pedestrian performance in history. There was a very real stench of sympathy and awkwardness. 60 years, for that?

With profound and deadening understatement Cowell looked at him unsmilingly and said: "I think you could do with a little bit more practice."

Priceless.

Gary Lineker, The Masstas, BBC1

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Daft really, to reach out like this, but I have just tuned into one of my favourite events on the sporting calendar - the Masters golf from Augusta - and I am irate enough to react with an angry blog. I had forgotten who is the host these days. Gary bloody Lineker.

Quite simply, he does NOT fit this event.

I felt it in my gut last year. I even reached for the blog back then. There has been much press about Midlands accents of late. Well, I for one don't want one talking me through this golf tournament. Every time he says "Masstas" I want to club him. I can't be alone.

Thankfully, I will be on holiday tomorrow and will miss the Masters this year. The only consolation is that I won't have to watch Lineker at the helm.

Steve Rider get yer bouffant back 'ere.

Louise Theroux in Las Vegas, BBC2

February 05, 2007

Louis Theroux has been away from TV for a while. I’ve not missed him. He kicked off his new series of BBC2 documentaries with a trip to Las Vegas last night and the publicity suckered me in. After a long break from TV, with the whole world and its nutcases at the mercy of his lens, he goes there. Genius producing. Can you imagine the planning meetings that went into that? Series Producer: “Hey, the Hilton are offering us a freebie to Vegas for a few on-screen plugs, let’s go, do the strip see some strippers.” Louis: “Errrm. Yeah. Well. Hmmm. Yeah.”

But, hey, no matter the jam-packed travel library in existence on Vegas - all made possible with contra-deal kick backs - it is so full of madness and characters that any hack with a camcorder and a decent eye for a story should come up with some entertaining footage and interviews. But not Louis. He couldn't interview a Martian and get a story if one tugged on his baggy sweater.

For this show, Louis followed a few hapless gamblers and showed them to be hopeless losers. Gosh, sad gamblers found in Vegas, they lose money. I was staggered. Then Louis played the tables himself - twice. Original, imaginative. In terms of creativity, this show was tantamount to going on a junket to Vegas and staying at the airport to play the first 25 cent slot machine you see, then coming home.

If this loser of a show was the lead doc in the series, I doubt I will gamble any more time on Louis. He has no basic sense of how to ask questions or develop an interview with any depth. And once you are bored of his limp, whimpering delivery, and over-played laid back approach - if indeed you ever liked it - there is nowhere to go. I’ve always felt he was over-rated.