'Margaritaville' - An accidental anthem of home

RIP Jimmy Buffett, i drank a margarita for you even though Bermudians prefer rum xxx

Until he died last week aged 76, Jimmy Buffet was one of the many great musical acts to have passed me by. On Saturday, as I waited for my mum to buy something in a corner shop, my social media feed became awash with tributes to the ‘Margaritaville’ icon. The song's name caught my eye because it shared a name with the tacky bar in the exceptional Amazon Freevee show ‘Jury Duty’ - which I THOROUGHLY recommend you watch - and I immediately began to investigate further. As the ‘NIBBLING ON SPONGE CAKE’ poured out of my tinny phone speaker, I scanned the obituary and confirmed via Wikipedia that HE OWNED THE RESTAURANT CHAIN AND THE SONG CAME FIRST!!!!

Again, this is embarrassing to admit for several reasons. First of all, my line of work and, secondly, country ditties about tequila, like Ingrid Andress’ Grammy snubbed ‘A Waste of Lime’, are always exceptional, and I like to know about these things. Their quality comes from binge drinking possessing something quite amusing and all the negative and positive connotations. The tragic sort, the highs that turn into lows very quickly.

Anyway, looking at the photos of them that graced the internet, people’s words of admiration for Jimmy, what he had meant to them, retrospectives of his career, quips about him sharing a last name with the billionaire business angel Warren and other nonsense, and hearing his most famous offering, the one that leads to a multi-million dollar chain of restaurants, I was struck; this man is the most a very particular brand of Bermudian man in the world. He is the sort of bloke you find in certain bars that tourists can but do not tend to frequent, the kind of places I spent Saturday afternoons watching football on the telly with my dad. The type of man who probably knew my grandparents, who will tell you about a celeb they partied with in the 70s and 80s one summer and then some other tripe about how the place used to be much better, much more open to fun, the kind made impossible by the internet.

this beach is one of my favourite places in the whole wide world

As the song played out, standing outside a corner shop in south London, far away from the whistling tree frogs that soundtrack the Bermudian night sky, I was then awash with sadness that my observation, like how even he had died of skin cancer (men who live on islands do not wear sun cream) meant absolutely nothing to anyone outside my immediate family. It probably means nothing to you, dear reader, who I love very much!

As it’s been worryingly hot in the UK the past few years, whenever it gets like this, a Lana Del Rey-esque ‘Summertime Sadness’ descends, a longing for that 24-mile-long, one-mile-wide spot of paradise, the kind evoked by living in an environment not designed for this swelter, and thinking of that is.

I miss the people and the national acceptance to take it easy, letting the heat a natural break. I miss the air conditioning (a thing I bizarrely see freelance journalists on Twitter say we need to adopt in homes in the UK as we can afford it).

I miss the beach even though I know as soon as I plop myself down on the sand, I get painfully bored. I miss the sea, that glittering blanket of blue clear crystal clear waters, which I learnt is NOT LIKE THE ATLANTIC OR EVEN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA, WHICH ARE VERY, VERY, VERY COLD. I used to be mindful of what a spoiled brat I sounded when I was like, “But I grew up in the sUB-tRoPicS,” whenever people suggested I go into bodies of water not warmed by the Gulf Stream. While I take dips in other oceans now, it’s not the same! It’s just not as good, and with the gift of age, I care less about telling people this is the case! If I sound like a twat, just pretend I’m Fran Lebowitz and know I don’t care!

While this melancholy comes each muggy day, my city life isn’t something I would trade for an island homecoming. No matter how much I hate paying £9.50 for a Dark’n’Stormy (which is literally just a patent-protected recipe of Goslings Black Seal rum and ginger ale, so why on earth do London bartenders put LEMON in I’ll never know), I don’t want to live there….

However, it makes me extra glad I’ve got Jimmy. Instead of returning, I merely channel my inner Bermudian, adopt the slowness and the friendly twinkle, refuse the rush, and let the heat wash over me.

Also, another thing about the song, which I know is by design, but hey, intention in creative endeavours is good, is the steel drums! Unlike the triangle, steel drums are a stereotype, like the shorts, that is true about Bermuda. One of my favourite childhood memories is the man at the LF Wade International Airport arrivals letting rip on one as you landed from Gatwick. Due to cuts, he’s no longer a feature of the experience, but like they still lingers in the background for the tourists. A personal highlight is that while surrounded by cruise ship passengers on day release at a beach bar with my sister, a bloke rattled out ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion.

National pride is possible, you know…