Even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over
And it's been all over you
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
7:30am. Alicante had a late night last night. Very late. When he eventually showed up at the Hot Linda, the night was almost at a close, and it was all he could do to clamber up the stairs and crawl into bed. In the darkness the room looked like a bit of a mess, but then, it always does. What a great night, though, and the Agriculture group called it right by inviting everyone to Arena for a classic knees-up, Spain-style. What wonders behold him as he rises from his slumber and edges towards the window?
He pulls the curtains.
"VALLADOLID!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE F**K!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!"
Valladolid stirs, briefly startled by the (manly) shriek from the balcony. He fumbles about for a second, trying to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. Where is he, anyway? Oh that's right, he's in Room 325, and in less than an hour Tenerife will be driving him to sa Pobla for the day's research. He'd better get some clothes on and...
...where are his clothes?
"YOU'RE NEVER DRINKING AGAIN!!!!!!!"
Valladolid is as stunned as Alicante, who opens the balcony door to reveal the entire clothing collection of 325, strewn across the balcony of 324. It's a visual pollutant, topped only by the sight of Alicante's descent into hangover-fuelled rage. No doubt about it, folks - Alicante is degenerating into that most infamous of modes. That mode which can only be described as: Raging Ginger Mode.
This is Alicante, of Room 325 in the Hot Linda. But when he drinks an Irn Bru, he turns into...Raging Ginger!
7:59am. Over in 323, Ibiza is cradled in the feotal position. He hasn't moved in almost six hours. I, meanwhile, am hanging precariously on the edge of the bed, with yesterday's clothes still on, including my shoes. The room is a complete and utter mess. And I'm about to be woken by my alarm.
Can anyone explain?
I shared your truth today
So far away the rains
And the ocean
Huh? What's going on? I look round in a daze, to find myself halfway down the bed, above the covers. I don't remember how I got here. And why have I got a remote control in my hand?
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Sweetest lullaby
Oh ruddy heck, it's Menorca's alarm again. And why is saying 'Sweetest Lullaby'? I was sure it was 'Spanish' or, failing that, 'Swedish'. Menorca wakes from his slumber, only to switch the sweet-Scando-Spanish lullaby off and go back to sleep. Ibiza, though, has sat up straight. I'm assuming he's awake, although on this field trip I'm beginning to take the attitude that nothing can be taken for granted.
"Morning Craig. Did you sleep like that all night?"
He's definitely awake. Unless he's sleep-talking.
"I, um...I dunno. I think so. What about you? I could ask the same question?"
"Yeah I think so. Hey, you were supposed to keep BBC3 on!"
He's joking. Again, I can't confirm that, but I think he is.
Paul McKenna: Can probably cure sleep-talking
8:15am. In the midst of this confusion, of course, is Marbella. He's just woken up on someone's floor, and is wondering how in the frig he got there. There's no-one else in the room, meaning that everyone has either gone for breakfast or been cyrogenically frozen and transported to another time zone. And he's ruling nothing out at the moment.
He would try ringing one of his roommates, but his phone ran out of battery last night and he hasn't been able to locate his charger all week: lord knows where it's gone. His only option is to wander out of the balcony of whatever room he's in, look right, look left and look right again (this is like one of those road safety videos) until he spots someone he recognises. And as it turns out, it won't take long.
"MARBELLA!!! GET YOUR A**E IN HERE!!! I WANT SOME ANSWERS!!!"
Oh lord. It's Alicante, and he's in Raging Ginger Mode like never before. Marbella has seen some hard tackles at footy training (pardon the expression), but this tops the lot. The condemned Marbella clambers wearily over the balcony (making sure to have his back to the wall, after my health and safety faux pas on Thursday night), and is ready to face the music. Valladolid is bordering on the hysterical. Alicante is hungover, but for reasons known only to themselves, Valladolid and Marbella are still drunk.
"Why are all our clothes on their balcony Marbella?"
"Alicante, I haven't got a clue...I don't even remember coming in last night."
"Aye, very convenient..."
"No, I'm telling you, I just woke up in Benidorm's room and I don't know how I got there."
"Oh really? Well why were you in there all night, eh?"
Marbella pauses, hesitant to respond. He's not currently in a sexual relationship with Benidorm, Vigo or Cordoba (or all three of them together), so there's no plausible reason for him to knock on their door at 3:30 in the morning. But did he even knock on their door?
Nerina: Currently in a wedded relationship...but not for long.
"Aw man...maybe I did it after all...and jumped over the balcony afterwards."
"Aye, making a quick getaway."
"I'm really sorry Alicante, I honestly don't remember any of this..."
Alicante is still in Raging Ginger Mode, and is refusing to listen to any of Marbella's excuses.
"That's not good enough: THIS IS MY EDUCATION. We've now got to move all our clothes back into the room, they're a complete mess and we've lost our keys as well."
"You lost the KEYS?" Valladolid is shocked by the chain of events that transpired last night. Surely he wasn't responsible for all of this?
"Well it could be worse guys. I mean, I lost my phone charger..."
At that, Marbella scours the inside of the room, before letting out a cry of sheer joy and leaping through the curtains.
"GUYS, I FOUND IT!"
"What, the keys?"
"No, my charger......"
Alicante collapses in despair. Valladolid looks on, bemused by the whole scene. Didn't he have the keys last night, anyway? And why would Marbella jump across to 324 after throwing the clothes on their balcony? Wouldn't that draw attention to his indiscretions, thus destroying the perfect crime? The plot thickens...
8:30am. It's turning into a morning of bemusement. I hover along the corridor to the lift like an Apache helicopter, only a scaled-down version with no rotor blades. And I hope it stays that way. At the stairway, Jerez and Cádiz are returning from breakfast, and have to dart either side of me as I career unsophisticatedly (is that a word?) down the corridor.
"Are you taking drugs?"
Who can tell, Cádiz, who can tell? I've never knowingly taken any illegal substance, although given the scenes of carnage on the Third Floor this morning, some of us could be forgiven for wanting alcohol banned. But as Chris Morris pointed out in Brass Eye, alcohol's not a drug, it's a drink!
Alcohol: Not sufficiently dangerous to be banned, apparently
Up ahead, Ibiza is already halfway down the stairs. He's going to sa Pobla this morning along with Valladolid, Marbella and Salamanca, so it's time to sober up and get ready for the trip. He grabs a handful of items from the breakfast buffet (not the chips, thanks goodness), and heads out to the front door where Tenerife is waiting to greet him. A few moments later, Salamanca arrives. Excellent stuff - now where are the other two?
"You slag!"
You muggy c**t!"
Valladolid and Marbella, still drunk up to their eyeballs, are bantering with each other as an infuriated Alicante watches their feeble attempts to clean the mess they think they caused. It's getting really dizzy, having to bend down all the time. On the balcony of 324, the door slides open and Alicante is greeted by a man struggling to keep his sides from splitting. Why, it's the one and only Benidorm.
"Alright gentlemen......what the hell happened?"
"This tube went and threw all our clothes on your balcony."
Benidorm stifles a laugh.
"Oh what're you like Marbella? You were pure living it up last night in Arena."
Marbella gives a look of resigned embarrasment. "Aye, I'm paying the price for it now though."
"Man up! You're supposed to be going to sa Pobla today, anyway. You guys better get off."
Alicante's look of rage has yet to leave his face.
Look of Rage: Alicante (Library Pictures)
"No way, we're staying until this is all cleaned up."
Vigo and Cordoba join proceedings on the balcony. Revenge is a dish best served cold, although the temperature is anything but cold this week.
"Nah it's fine Marbella, we'll do the rest of it. You get off to sa Pobla with Valladolid."
With that, Marbella and Valladolid head back inside, preparing to head downstairs to meet Ibiza and Salamanca. Alicante refuses to quell his own rage. Why should they get off Scot-free, literally, for losing the key and manhandling his clothing in such a reprehensible way? And all the while Benidorm, Vigo and Cordoba are being so nice by offering to help? Well, it really shows you who your friends are, doesn't it?
There is a loud crashing sound. Alicante swivels round to see Marbella falling over an item of underwear, taking a glass of wine with him. The wine spills over the clothing and floor underneath. Alicante can take little more of this.
"OH FOR F....."
My breakfast is pretty much finished, but I can't help but be enticed by that range of croissants on the buffet table. Bilbao reminds me that the Hot Linda has a rule in operation which stipulates that food CANNOT be snatched from the breakfast table and consumed outside the hotel. But then, I've always wanted to rebel against that rule: it has such a stupid logic. It's as if to say I could eat 30 croissants every morning as long as I did it in the restaurant, but as soon as I walk down to the bus stop with the 31st, I'm breaking their moral code of justice. Stuff this for a laugh - I'm taking 3 croissants to tide me over for the next 36 hours. Just hope Bilbao doesn't report me to the authorities.
8:40am. Outside the Hot Linda, Tenerife is preparing to storm up to 325 himself when Valladolid and Marbella appear at the front door, sheepishly. Marbella treads carefully as he descends the half dozen or so steps to the pavement, looking like one of those people who's just been breathalysed and asked to walk in a straight line on Police! Camera! Action! He reaches the bottom, lets out the slightest sigh of relief and gives a respectful nod to Ibiza. Ibiza nods back. They don't want to bring it up in front of Tenerife (literally), but each man knows that the other had a rough night last night.
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Could you walk down these steps in a sober manner please?
9:15am. Meanwhile, back in the world of sobriety...heck, who am I kidding? I'm just as hungover as Valladolid and Marbella, it's just that I wasn't the victim of such a heinous stunt. I explain my indiscretions to Barcelona, in the style of Alan Partridge (we do this a lot), noting that, "I crashed out with my feet hanging off the bed, the room was a complete mess, didn't even wash my hands...Because I'm a bloody bloke!"
Barcelona was also out last night, but seems remarkably fresh-faced this morning. But then, it is his 21st Birthday today.
I would sing the classic 'Happy Birthday Dear Barcelona' to him, but even post-Swansea, there are a few things I'm still self-conscious about, and singing in public is one of them. Maybe Valencia sang it in my place. Barcelona then describes a strange birthday message he received from his mother (during which she is alleged to have spoken "really posh"), before we outline our plan for the day. This morning we will lounge about the pool while "bringing our ideas together", then we shall meet our Adviser Denis Norden, who will point out that,
"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."
This afternoon we will hit the streets of Palma once again. Sevilla has noticed a lot of advertising for an Open-Top bus tour, and Barcelona reckons that a trip on the aforementioned bus will enlighten us on the kind of picture the authorities like to paint of Palma. Will we be led through the gentrified areas, or plump for some old school Old Town? Then tonight, we will head out for Barcelona's birthday bash somewhere in C'an Pastilla, which sounds enticing. There's only one thing missing, though, and that's lunch. So, um...not to drop any hints but...does anyone fancy a Chicken Teriyaki? Go on, you know you do. Go on, go on, go on, go on, go on!
Have a Subway Marathon! You know you want to!
10:00am. Tenerife and the Agriculturalists are nearing sa Pobla. Valladolid can't hold on much longer. He's been sat in the back feeling like death warmed up for almost an hour now, but he knows that if he opens his mouth, Tenerife will smell the instant stench of alcohol. And everyone remembers from Friday's Magaluf cancellation that when Tenerife gets mad, you don't wanna cross him. Rather than a Raging Ginger, he's more like a Raging ex-SAS Man With A Moustache. Well, so Madrid reckons.
Marbella also can't hold on much longer. He's been trying to keep the remnants of last night's San Miguel down for what feels like an eternity, and he knows that if HE opens his mouth...well, we don't want to go there. Let's just say his bill for the week could be rising considerably from the £275 he's already paid.
Back at the Hot Linda, I'm wandering through the premises trying to sober up suffciciently before our intensive morning of lounging around. Cádiz is in reception, pensive about his group's work remit for today.
"Before we get started, we need to try and translate this brochure here, but I don't know the meaning of the word 'camibo'."
I offer some hungover words of inspiration.
"Well you could always try freetranslation.com."
"Yes, we've got access to freetranslation.com, but unfortunately not freeinternet.com."
The man has a point, and promptly slopes off into the Bar-Lounge Hybrid to meet Jerez and Leganés. If we ever got receipts from these pesky internet cafes, then perhaps we could hand them into the Department for a refund upon our return, much like our used bus tickets. It's shoddy customer service, that's what it is. I would always hand out receipts if I worked at Somerfield. But I don't work there. I'm hoping I never have to.
Freetranslation.com - Not actually free, if you use internet cafes
With sa Pobla looming on the horizon, Tenerife fancies sparking up some conversation.
"So are we ready for a long day of research then?"
Valladolid nods his head slowly and methodically. He's trying his darndest not to say anything, but if Tenerife keeps asking him questions, it's going to get very difficult.
"What are you going to be focussing on?"
Oh frig. How do you answer that with a Yes or No? This is like the inverse of 'Take Your Pick', with Des O'Connor.
"We're going to be interviewing wholesalers in the town about the state of agriculture in sa Pobla, so we can try and compare it to the south of the Island."
Salamanca jumps in with a priceless intervention. Marbella looks at her as if to say, "thanks a million", but obviously he can't tell her that now. Wrong time, wrong place et al.
Answer the following question in as few words as possible!
10:40am. I'm back up in the Third Floor corridor, but why is there movement in my room? Ibiza is long gone from C'an Pastilla, and Menorca is downstairs liasing with the Regional identity group. Don't tell me someone's moving all my clothes onto another balcony?
I slam the door open (can you slam a door open?) to find the maid hurriedly cleaning the room from top of bottom. Cheers for that, actually. The place was a ruddy mess when I got in last night, but before I could clean it I fell victim of that most ancient of illnesses: passing out through extreme alcohol usage. Right, this is all going to plan so I might as well leave and go downst...
*CRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSH!!!!!!!!!!!*
Holy Chinaskis! What the frig? I turn round and a scene of carnage greets me. The maid, in her desperation to claim the world record for the quickest room cleaning ever, has dropped the entire bag on the floor, causing bottles to smash into multiple pieces!
Now I'm a forgiving person, I like to think - it's possibly just because of my weakness in these situations - but I won't hold it against her or anything. She screwed up, but then, if I ever get get a job I'll probably mess up left, right and centre. I can just see me behind the kiosk at Somerfield, smashing £13.49 bottles of Baileys into a thousand pieces. Yes, vividly actually. But the problem isn't that she dropped the bottles. The problem is her frankly insane response.
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
She's laughing! She just came into my room, smashed a load of bottles on my floor and instead of apologising, she's just burst out laughing. And I'm not talking a fake canned laugh, like on Joey. She actually finds this utterly hilarious. Why don't I just crack open a DVD of Balls of Steel and we can have a right good laugh at someone getting sprayed with, I dunno, an air freshener or something equally hilarious?
Oh, wait, Valladolid did that to Córdoba on Friday night. Look how he ended up.
11:00am. Speaking of Valladolid, his group have finally been released from the clutches of Tenerife, who has driven back to C'an Pastilla. That was a close shave, that one. On his way, Tenerife informed them that the only transport back South will be the train later that afternoon.
"I won't be coming back to pick you up."
Jings, did he detect the booze after all? The four of them are walking the streets of sa Pobla, as Marbella, Valladolid and Ibiza desperately attempt to sober up. The hangover's really starting to kick in for Valladolid and Marbella, but Valladolid has an idea to lift spirits. Sorry, I've just realised that sounds like I'm making a terrible pun on last light's alcohol.
Valladolid, ladies and gentlemen, is about to start dancing!!!
Dancing to stay in the competition, it's Valladolid!
He looks like he's doing a parody of legendary wrestler Ric Flair. Styling and profiling down the streets of sa Pobla like the enigma he is, Valladolid wows the locals with his slick moves and flawless execution.
WHOOOOOOO!!!
WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
And just what do the judges make of that?
They're loving it, so they are. To keep Valladolid in the competition, dial 09011 12 34 56. He really needs your votes tonight. They all really need the votes tonight, so they can own that stage, literally.
Dermot, this isn't the end! But I'm so glad I lost to Valladolid, he's going to go from strength to strength!!!
12:30pm. Our lounging around session is going pretty well, especially after Cádiz gave us a loan of the laptop which he himself was loaning from Vitoria-Gasteiz. As a natural Spanish speaker, Vitoria also proves invaluable in translating some key statistics for us on the rural -> urban movements of Majorquians in recent years. I return from the reception having logged onto the World Wide Web and obtained more statistics for us to mull over by the poolside. I took a picture of one of the PDFs as well. I remark to Barcelona that I take a lot of pictures of PDFs "for personal enjoyment". He remarks that this sounds quite dirty, but there is a serious educational purpose behind my actions.
1:00pm. Having pulled together our pool of research thus far (beside the pool, appropriately), it's clear that much of our work is already done. We have established that the Palma's city centre has been notably gentrified over the last few years, with large swathes of the Old Town regenerated or pimped up. We know that in recent months, the push to gentrify has had a mixed success rate, with scores of empty premises dotted around the Old Town. Whether this is because of the problems in the Spanish Mainland's housing market drifting over here (basically, the cack has hit the fan) or something more deeply rooted, we don't know. But we still need to space out the qualitative data with some good old fashioned quantitative statistics. And apart from anything else, we need to compare the Old Town to the western half of the city centre, for the sake of context if nothing else.
"I've been wanting to go on the Open Top Bus Tour since we got here", notes Barcelona, "how about some of us go on that and the others walk round the street?"
"That's a great idea", agrees Madrid, "we could walk round the route of the bus tour and follow you guys to get a feel for the place on street level."
On the edge of the pool, Elche is preparing to take a dive. It's another scorcher of a day in 'tha Med', at least 22 or 23 degrees, so the pool can't be that cold. Apparently it's heated, as well. Why not take a trip into the deep end, eh?
Five seconds later, Elche crawls out of the aforementioned deep end cursing his judgment - "How cold is THAT?!?!?" Apparently it's not heated enough, so he won't be trying that again today. In the commotion, he appears to have splashed a load of water over a group of indigenous tourists. They don't look too happy. Elche makes his departures, leaving the floor open for Pamplona and Santa Cruz. Just don't splash the tourists, please. Last time we annoyed other guests in the hotel, we lost our trip to Magaluf...
1:15pm. Tarragona has left Menorca and the other Regional Identifiers for the afternoon, and is in the Carrier del Oms with Alcorcón. The two of them are minding their own business when they spot a commotion across the street: two local women are becoming embroiled in some sort of physical confrontation with a female tourist, who then starts grabbing her bag and shrieking. The two women gain control of the bag, running as fast as they can around the corner. Which isn't very fast, to be honest.
Completing the scene of chaos is a man who probably weighs more than the two thiefs combined, charging after the corrupt pair. You never usually see this thing happening on a normal afternoon in Glasgow (unless you take a walk down to Howard Street), so to see tourists treated like this in a city like Palma is shocking to say the least. Tarragona and Alcorcón will never find out if the guy caught them or not. They sure hope he has, for the tourists' sake.
1:30pm. A man in a purple jumper stumbles out the doorway and round the poolside. It's Denis Norden everybody!
Professor Norden is reasonably impressed with our progress but, like us, is keen to keen to stress that job is nowhere near done. Sevilla notes that the other Gentrification group this morning informed us of a grey folder packed full of statistics on the issues of population and migration on and around the island. A grey folder that belongs to none other than Denis Norden.
"Why do you need this grey folder? What's in it, the holy grail?"
Very witty Denis, but with all respect, quit witholding information. He eventually agrees to hand over the folder, but only once he retrieves it from the other Gentrifiers like Jerez and Gijón. Who've just left for the day. Super, smashing, great. Norden then promises to take a group of us to the University of the Balearic Islands, or UIB for short (the Spanish pseudonym, obviously), to see if his contacts in the respective Geography department can shed any light on this statistical vacuum. He promises to speak to one of his colleagues in particular, a man by the name of Jesus Gonzalez. And if Jesus can't save us, then we might as well give up and end it all.
2:15pm. We've landed up at the Estacion de Palma (having bumped into Granada and Huelva, obviously), and we're gravitating west into the Carrier del Oms. Is my dream about to come true at long last? We talked earlier about what we were going to do for lunch, and I suggested a certain option, but who's to say that everyone else will be up for it?
Barcelona looks at me with a face of resigned fate.
"Will we go into Subway then?"
YES!!!!!!!!! After waiting all week, it's that time at last, folks. Are you ready for the Spanish Subway Marathon?
Zaragoza, Sevilla and Malaga have darted off to a rival hostelry, but it's their loss. Valencia, Barcelona and Madrid stay for a classic Subway Marathon, continental-style. Well, I say Marathon, but we can't stay actually stay for the full 60+ minutes today, as time is of the essence. But there's still enough time for me to order up a footlong Chicken Teriyaki with the requistive Coke. On the wall is a massive list of Subs, complete with Spanish specialities, but I think I'll stick with the Sub I know rather than the Sub I don't. It gets me thinking why we Scots don't have a similar local delicacy at our Subway stores. Would it ever work? Could it ever work? And it could ever prove as popular as the 6" Meatball on Hearty Italian bread?
A Sub's a Sub for a' that
Meanwhile, a few streets away Fuenlabrada is walking towards the harbour with his colleagues San Sebastian and Estepona when a couple of local women approach him, holding palms in their hand. The women give a compelling sales pitch (revolving mainly around the phrase "Buy these palms - Palm Sunday - please!"), but Fuenlabrada has neither the time nor inclination to get embroiled in a Spanish version of the Ayr Flower Show. Even San Sebastian, who gives the chilled-out impression that he'd try anything once, has no time for this palm scam (assonance).
"No, please! Look..."
The robbing bitches take San Sebastian's wallet and turn it upside down!!! Fuenlabrada forcefully steps in and restrains the women, allowing San Sebastian and Estapona to make a seamless escape from peril. The robbing bitches scarper away, down into the Carrier del Oms, as fast as their immoral legs can take them. Which isn't very fast, to be honest. San Sebastian, still looking as chilled-out as ever, notes the presence of a large man chasing the two attempted thieves.
"Good luck to the guy."
What a heinous incident for such innocent tourists to have to contend with. But where's this going to end?
2:45pm. After our slap-up Sub (alliteration) we prepare to leave, with Barcelona, Valencia and Madrid meeting up again with Zaragoza, Sevilla and Malaga. I put the remaining change from my Subway transaction in my bumbag, as Zaragoza notes the stretchiness of the elastic. Ok, so it's not the most flawless anti-theft device I've ever seen, but how's a prospective robber going to know how flimsy the elastic is? They'll surely look at me, see the bumbag and think to themselves, "I'm not going near him". As a symbolic deterrent it's ingenious. I think.
"Right we're going to find the Open Top Bus, but you and Madrid can follow the route then we'll meet up again at the Plaza Mayor at 4."
And with that, Barcelona and the others head off into the Carrier del Oms. It's a nice looking street, and it'll take them to the Open Top route so it's a handy shortcut. But who on Earth are these women walking towards them with such panic in their eyes?
Oh no. It's happening again.
"Hello, please buy palms - Palm Sunday!"
The Robbing Bitches make straight for Barcelona's wallet, ripping it from his hands and turning it upside down before you can say 'Pancake Day'. They're going for the 50€ notes, damn it!
Valencia lets out a frenzied shriek.
"Barcelona - NO! They're..."
Barcelona is already onto them, wrestling control of the wallet and expertly guiding the 50€ note back into its rightful home. A rather large man rounds the corner, making a beeline for the Robbing Bitches as Sevilla, Zaragoza and Malaga stand in shock at the surreal nature of what they're witnessing.
Barcelona's coup de gras is still to come, though. In the melee surrounding him, he was actually handed one of the palms by a Robbing Bitch. Perhaps it's time to return it to its rightful owner, eh?
"ANDARE!!!"
With that final insult, Barcelona hurls the palm into the face of a Robbing Bitch, who recoils in disgust as her fellow Robbing Bitches grab her and drag her from the scene. The large man ups his pace, stopping briefly to explain the situation to Malaga and Sevilla.
"There are muggers in the city. I'm so sorry you were part of that. They shouldn't be doing this!"
Fact of the Day: In Latvia, Palm Sunday is called "Pussy Willow Sunday," and children are often woken that morning with ritualistic swats of a willow branch. People also catch and spank each other with the branches.
Round the corner, Senor Madrid and I are completely unaware of the chaos and crime raging across the city. But with the Lord as my witness, we're about to find out.
"Hello, do you want these Palms? It's Palm Sunday! Palms! Look!"
I pause, wary of my words. It's a lovely looking bunch of palms there, that's for sure, but what the heck do I know about palms? They could be off the black market for all I know.
"How much are they? 1€? 2€?"
Madrid looks intrigued by the scene unfolding before him. Maybe he should procure a palm or three for his lady wife, as a souvenir from the trip. I'm slightly more concerned, however, by the way in which the woman is grabbing my wallet and turning it upside down before my very eyes!
OI! Do you know where that wallet's been? I've been up mountains and waded through turgid moorland with that trusty wallet in my pocket, so if you think you're going to...
Hold on. I'm questioning myself now. Is this really an attempted theft? They're going about their business so slowly, it almost wouldn't look like a criminal act to innocent bystanders. And why are they trying to open the zip with the loose change in it? If they were serious muggers wouldn't they be going for my stash of 10€ and 20€ notes?
I try and calm my fears, helping the woman locate any 20 and 10 cent coins in my wallet. Well it's Palm Sunday, isn't it? A day in which Christians around the world rejoice and remember Jesus' arrival in Jerusalem ahead of the Last Supper.
Rejoice greatly,
O Daughter of Zion!
Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem!
See, your king comes to you,
righteous and having salvation,
gentle and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
I will take away the chariots from Ephraim
and the war-horses from Jerusalem,
and the battle bow will be broken.
He will proclaim peace to the nations.
His rule will extend from sea to sea
and from the River to the ends of the earth.
—Zechariah 9:9-10
"Craig - I think we're being mugged!"
Say what?
A large man storms round the corner, chasing the Robbing Bitches down towards the Estacion de Palma (let's just hope they don't try and mug Granada and Huelva, who've already been through more than enough with Quan the Sex Predator). What the hell just happened, sir?
"There are muggers in the city. I'm so sorry you were part of that. They shouldn't be doing this!"
The large man turns tail and powerwalks after the Robbing Bitches, who scurry away as fast as their legs will carry them. Which isn't very fast, to be fair. It looks like all my coins and debit card details are intact. I turn to Madrid with a look of shock and desperation. Say something, Madrid.
"Man, I didn't know what was happening until halfway through that."
"I didn't know what was happening till you told me!"
The incident is over before we know it, and we gather our belongings (it's a ruddy good job we have any left) before heading down the Carrier del Oms to relative safety. For the rest of the afternoon I'll be asking myself how in the frig it took Madrid to give a running commentary before I worked out I was being mugged. Am I that slow on the uptake? Or was it just that they were the world's worst muggers? Probably a bit of both, actually.
And you have to say, that is quite something!
3:30pm. Madrid and I gather our thoughts, following the Carrier del Oms down to the route of the Open Top Tour. We are currently oblivious to the incident involving Barcelona, Valencia and the Robbing Bitches, and it's all we can do to regain our composure and, in the words of field class interpreter Gomera, "note down all the Geography we see". We dart into a streetside cafe: Madrid ordering a coffee as I line up a double scoop Chocolate ice cream. In my bag is a bottle of water, hopelessly warm but it'll have to do. I take the cap and pour a little water in it, dabbing it on my forehead. Madrid looks utterly bemused.
"What are you doing?"
"Just calming myself down."
Madrid still looks bemused, but carries on reading his paper regardless. It doesn't help a participant observant to spend his time looking confused by events around him, as Madrid well understands: far better to read your paper with cool sunglasses on, secret services-style.
4:00pm. A text comes in. I peer at the phone, struggling to read the content with the sun's glare enveloping the screen (what is it about using telecommunications in the streets of Spain?) It's Barcelona. Oh jings, we were supposed to meet them at the Plaza Mayor at 4, before the mass muggings (alliteration) took hold of the day?
"Can we make it half 4 this bus is takin ages. Barcelona."
Phew, thank goodness for that. We decide to swing by the harbour (we don't actually go in, of course - we'll never make it in there this week), bypassing the section of the Open Top Tour that goes uphill and enabling us to head straight for the Plaza Mayor, where we witness a lovely sword fight between two local warriors. Sorry, that sounded zenopohobic. They were playing the roles of local warriors, then. We probably have more local warriors in Glasgow than the whole of Spain combined, when you think about it.
5:00pm. We've finally managed to get the whole group together, and we're swapping stories about our walk/bus journey along the Open Top route.It's all very informative for the project and everything, but I'm dying to tell Barcelona, Sevilla et al about with the plight of Madrid and I outside Subway.
"Oh by the way guys, just after you left us, you'll never guess what happened to us..."
"No, we think we can give a pretty good guess..."
Jings, was everyone targeted by these unhinged gits? The scene of desperation as the Robbing Bitches slowly scarpered down Carrier del Oms, their attack thwarted by the rather large man in pursuit and their own ineptitude, reminded me of what it must have felt like to be at Glasgow Airport on the day of the "attack". You wouldn't know whether to burst into tears at the breakdown of global society or laugh at the amateurishness of the bad guys.
Glasgow Airport attack: launched new era of 'rubbish terrorism'
Another disused residential space in the Old Town legitimises the argument that gentrification has pushed prices beyond the bounds of affordability
What the heck is this, 'Alternative Art'?
5:15pm. We're on our way to the bus stop to call an end to this most bizarre of days on the field. We're not sure how much we got done, as we haven't properly compiled our thoughts and results from the day's field work (in the searing heat, and because we're students, none of us can be bothered yet). However, there is one more gem before the day is out. The square we've just stumbled into is the scene for the shooting of some sort of advert, so Valencia meanders over to ask a member of the production crew for details. She returns with a gleeful smile.
"It's Kellogg's!"
Jings, that's quite the find we've uncovered. The world's premier cereal producer has come to Palma's Old Town to get the message across that, whether you're snapping, crackling and popping, or rather, choosing to have a bowl of Coco Pops, they're grrrrrrrrrrrreat!
But hold on a minute. There's one bone of contention in this crunchy and nutty body of evidence. Look at the picture below, which shows a gentrified square in the glare of the cameras of commercial capitalism (alliteration).
And look at the following picture, which shows the side of the square that the cameramen chose to point away from.
Notice a subtle difference or two? Like, one's gentrified and looks swish, while the other looks grottier than a bail hostel run by that uncouth guy from Shameless? The only conclusion to reach from this gentri-disparity is that the authorities in Palma are only interested in gentifying certain streets and certain corners at certain times, and the rest can go screw themselves, even if they're on the other side of the same street. Kellogg's are buying into the disparity as well - just by coming in and agreeing to shoot the gentrified side, they're implicated in this financial conspiracy. Listen to me, I sound like a G20 protestor. But with better hair. And that's saying something.
Uncouth: That guy from Shameless
5:30pm. For Valladolid, Ibiza, Salamanca and Marbella, it's been a long and tiring day. They've finally made it back to Palma via rail, after Tenerife 'dingied' them in sa Pobla, and they're beginning to wilt in the Spanish heat. But all they need to do is find the bus stop for the route back to C'an Pastilla, and they can relax again in the Hot Linda. But they need a clear path so as not to impede their progress, so who are these jokers blocking the way ahead?
"Hello, buy these palms, it's Palm Sunday..."
You're f*****g joking......
6:15pm. Ibiza, Marbella, Valladolid, Menorca and I are all in Room 323, watching Rangers jostle with Dundee United in the CIS Cup Final at Hampden. It's really quite surreal listening to Spanish football commentators speaking at the rate of knots in the mother tongue about the glorious game of soccer, pausing only briefly to shout phrases like "DAVID WEIR!!!" and "WILLO FLOOD!!!"
¡La pelota entra, y lo que una huelga! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!!!!! ¡Es un objetivo glorioso para Dundee Unió! ¡Noel Hunt! ¡NOEL HUNT! !!!!!!!!
There's a knock at the door, and I answer to find Alicante dressed head-to-toe in Rangers memorabilia. He and Marbella are truly addicted to the Gers, and even out here in Majorca they'll stop at nothing to see their team lift some silverware. Even it means swallowing their pride and putting the clothes-throwing controversies of last night behind them.
Marbella: "Alright Alicante?"
Alicante: "Alright Marbella?"
Me: "How was your day Alicante?"
Alicante: "Well, after I cleared up that mess on the balcony I did a lot of research with my group, so I'm feeling good about the presentation."
Me: "You'll never guess what happened to me today. I'd just finished the Subway Marathon with Madrid when these women came up to us offering palms..."
Ibiza: "That happened to us as well! That's scary!"
Me: "I genuinely didn't know what was happening until Madrid told me I was being mugged. It's a frigging good job they didn't get away with it."
Alicante: "But that's the thing McLovin - how do you stop them? Before you know it they could be away with your wallet and everything."
Valladolid: "You should have strangled them with your bumbag."
Line of the week. Marbella collapses, while Menorca is still laughing on the plane home.
And the award for Line of the Week goes to...Valladolid!!!
6:45pm. Dundee United are on the verge of triumphing in what can only described as the mother of all shocks, when Kris Boyd (who else) spares the Gers' blushes with an extra time equaliser. The game is forced into the lottery of penalties, as Alicante and Marbella edge ever closer to the TV screen. On any normal Cup Final day they'd be in the Rangers end of Hampden (or, if Rangers were knocked out before the Final, lobbing insults at the Celtic end from a nearby Southside pub), but the timetabling of the field trip has left them relying on the Spanish feed of STV's coverage, only minus Andy Walker and Archie MacPherson. Who, for comedic purposes only, are the best aspects of STV's coverage in the first place.
Lee Wilkie steps up. The commentators almost wet themselves in excitement.
"LEE WILKIE!!! LEE WILKIE!!!"
Lee Wilke misses. Tumchie. It's all in Boyd's hands, and as he slots home the penalty, Marbella and Alicante rise to their feet and embrace in a moment of joy. One down, three to go, eh lads?
Valladolid: "Is that you on for the quadruple now?"
Marbella: "Aye."
Woops.
Double woops. Still, full marks for trying, eh guys?
7:45pm. At dinner, Bilbao is making heavy weather of it as he attempts to eat an entire fish procured from the buffet table. It almost looks like he's trying to disembowel the poor (deceased) thing, such is the thorough nature of his cutlery-aided stakeout. I remark that the incident reminds me of that exploitative Channel 4 programme where they exhumed dead bodies and peered at them in a live studio. Except this time, with fish.
"Tonight on Channel 4, it's a double bill of Friends then the first in a new series, as Supernanny Jo Frost teams up with Gok Wan in 'Live Fish Disembowelment'. And that's followed at 10 by Big Brother..."
8:30pm. I pop out to Eroski for some water (our table of four already had some at dinner, but as the Croissant Gestapo charge 4€ per bottle, we chose to share), but I can't help but be distracted by this most bemusing of signs on the roadside. What in the frig is Rape a la Gallega? And who would feel confident enough to order one, given the potential connotations?
For dessert, can I have some rape please?
9:00pm. Back in the Hot Linda, our group has been summoned to Room 416 for a showdown with Denis Norden. Last night's summit didn't even take place: I bumped into Norden on my way to Arena (he sadly didn't join us) where he transmitted his good wishes to the group via me. But tonight, we're hopeful for some more advice from the legendary figure known as Norden. Sevilla greets my arrival in Room 416 with a most unusual question.
"Were you meeting your dealer?"
Sevilla, my dear friend, if I had a dealer out here I'd have made sure that some of the other group members found out about him by now. In fact, they'd probably have told ME. Touche.
Denis Norden stumbles into proceedings. He's not here to deal us drugs (well, not knowingly anyway), but he's here to advise us how to go about our business for tomorrow's field work, the last day of research before we write up the presentattion on Tuesday. Madrid fires right in, asking if a group of us can go to the University to obtain some final statistics on gentrification and general human movements in and around the island.
"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."
Denis, with the greatest of respect, that just ain't good enough. Madrid asks again, utilising his limitless oratory skills to the extent that Norden's only option is to admit defeat. So it's settled then. Barcelona, Madrid and I are going to the UIB to get some answers. Now watch this drive.
Barcelona remains inquisitive: "What kind of statistics are they gonna have for us?"
"That's a bloody good question", replies Norden, who goes on to explain that his contacts at the University - postgrad students, lecturers and researchers - have taken a real interest in the gentrification of Palma since the authorities began renovating the Old Town so drastically a few years ago. One of his contacts, the brilliantly named Jesus Gonzalez, will hopefully be in his office tomorrow morning to answer any of our gentri-queries.
"You could say that I hope to find Jesus", quips Norden.
Zaragoza retorts: "Is Jesus not everywhere? Oh no that's God."
Norden sighs wistfully: "Well, God willing."
God: Everywhere, just like Geography
Valencia, however, is keen to ensure that the other four group members have a role in tomorrow's research.
"We'd like to have a look at that grey folder the other Gentrification group had."
Norden chuckles heartily: "That's a folder too far."
What the frig? But we need that folder! Denis! DENIS!!!
Norden stumbles off into the night, tripping over Malaga's bedside cabinet as he goes. Looks like we're going to have to badger the other Gentrifiers for this ruddy folder tomorrow. Norden's forgotten about the Daily Risk Assessment Forms again, but then, who cares about them?
Barry Ferguson and Allan McGregor give their reaction to being asked to fill in Daily Risk Assessment Forms by George Burley
9:45pm. This is where the day starts to run into some technical difficulties. Having been with Barcelona all day, on his 21st Birthday, you'd think I would have established where his bash was being held tonight. Unfortunately, there has been a slight communications snafu. Barcelona informed me earlier on that "we're all heading to the Shisha Bar after the meeting with Denis Norden", but as I have no idea where this Shisha Bar is, I've got to make sure I leave the hotel with Barcelona et al in order to find it. They said they'd be down in the reception "in about five minutes". Stupidly, I've taken a full 15 minutes to get changed in 323 (ok, maybe I shouldn't have tried to down those two San Miguels), so I'm wandering around reception looking as lost as Wayne Rooney at a MENSA meeting. Let's go outside and try phoning Barcelona.
*massive pause: line rings out*
"Your call has been forwarded to the Vodafone voicemail..."
Oh frigging heck. Why's not he picking up? Did they leave without me deliberately? And why am I being so irrational? I'm staggering about the front steps of a hotel on the Med, physically exhausted and getting drunker by the second, giving into the forces of illogical paranoia. I feel like Kerry Katona on a good day.
Hold on. I need to calm the heck down. Where could they have possibly gone? Where is this Shisha Bar they spoke of? Barcelona said it was down by the shoreline: all I need to do is head South then East, and I'll find it eventually. Bear with me. We'll be back after this brief commercial break, as Norden himself used to say.
10:00pm. Alicante and Marbella are putting the events of last night behind them, and are continuing to celebrate Rangers' CIS Cup victory by running through the streets of C'an Pastilla, singing the name of the glorious Glasgow Rangers. Well, in their opinion.
"RANGERS!!! RANGERS!!!"
Marbella has a better idea.
"GLASGOW UNI!!! GLASGOW UNI!!!"
Alicante stops him, briefly weighing up the ramifications of such a move. If they drag Glasgow University's name through the mud with such drunken antics, we'll all be paying the price for the rest of the week. Remember the cancelled trip to Magaluf? Heck, remember the Floor 4 Party? This is what got Barry Ferguson and Allan McGregor into trouble. Before they know it, Marbella and Alicante could be sticking two fingers up at Lanzarote and Tenerife and going to Magaluf: sod the field trip.
"Marbella, I've got a better idea..."
Marbella gathers his thoughts, waiting expectantly for this brainwave from Alicante.
"...STRATHCLYDE UNI!!!"
"YEAH MAN!!! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! YEEEEEEEEEEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
...10:30pm. Still no sign of this flipping Shisha Bar. What kind of name is that, anyway? Shisha? Is that not something to do with marajuana, that shady substance which causes schizoprenia and mental illness (allegedly)? I'm not going there if the only thing on the menu is a large dollop of cannabis.
I decide to return to the Hot Linda to ask someone for directions to the Shisha Bar. I'm still not phoning anyone at the Bash, for reasons known only to my paranoid, drunken self. Menorca and Ibiza are in 323, partaking of their now-customary San Miguel Marathon, so I take another one from the fridge and head off along the corridor. Who can I find who might know the whereabouts of this bar, and get me some Shisha, not literally?
I pass the door to Benidorm's room, so decide to knock loudly. I hear snoring. Stupidly, I knock again, to be greeted with the unfortunate sight of a dazed Benidorm in his boxers.
"I was fast asleep there McLovin, what you wanting?"
"Do you know where the Shisha Bar is?"
"Don't have a clue mate, I'm off to bed. I'm really ill."
Fair enough I suppose. Cordoba was ill on Thursday from those watery sausages (or was it really the sausages?), while Santander is only just recovering from being hospitalised with food posioning. Benidorm hobbles back to bed to continue 'manning down'. I hover around the doorway, just to make sure he gets back to sleep quickly.
"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......"
Gee, six seconds. That must be some sort of personal record.
I knock Barcelona's door. I don't know why, I know he won't be in, but to my surprise Bilbao answers the door. Perhaps he's still doing his Muay Thai stretches or something. Bilbao looks confused when I ask him where the Shisha Bar is, suggesting that "there's no such place in C'an Pastilla", but remarks that Barcelona's bash is at the same place that he visited with Getafe and Móstoles a couple of nights ago. oh no...Getafe? Don't tell me I'll have to knock his door for advice, especially this late in the night. Getafe scares me.
Speaking of which...who's that creeping up behind me?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!
Bilbao greets Getafe with a shake of the hand, as I dive for cover. But there's no getting away from this: if I'm going to get to the Shisha Bar tonight, I have to go through Getafe.
"Um...do you know where the Shisha Bar is?"
"The Shisha Bar? What's that?"
"I don't know if that's the name, em, uh, but..."
"Oh yeah, that place we were at on Friday?"
Bilbao nods approvingly.
"It's down on the shore. Go left past the EROSKI supermarket, then right along the shoreline, and it's about the 3rd or 4th bar on the right."
A door opens opposite us. Las Palmas stands in her doorway with a stern, and yet, regretful, look.
"Guys, you're not supposed to be out here talking in the corridors at night. Remember the walls here are paper-thin, so you might be keeping people awake. Fuerteventura will be doing a check of the corridors in a few minutes, so you'd better go back inside."
We make our apologies and disperse, Getafe and Bilbao heading back into their rooms as I nudge further up the corridor. That was terrifying, and thrilling at the same time. For the briefest of moments, Getafe and I were united as the renegade forces up against the tyranny of authority. This, of course, is Getafe's M.O., but it's not a position I'm used to. This must be what an affair feels like.
Tarrant: Affairs guru
11:00pm. "STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! COME ON!!!!!!"
Marbella and Alicante are on a warpath now, maurauding through the town centre like a herd of Gers. It has all the hallmarks of their compatriots' charge through Manchester after the UEFA Cup Final, only this time there's no desire for structural damage or police injuries. So why, oh why, do they think it's a good idea to climb on top of a car and start jumping from bonnet to bonnet?
"STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! BOUNCEY BOUNCEY BOUNCEY BOUNCEY NA NA NA NA NA NA!!!"
"S**t! I almost went through the windscreen!"
"What are you like Marbella? Oh yeah! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! GET IN THERE!!!!!!!!!!"
12:00am. I'm back on the shoreline now, where I've found a lovely beachside boardwalk (alliteration) past a disused tourist bar. Presumably it'll reopen for the summer season, but like most of the amenities in C'an Pastilla, it lies strangely deserted for now. I fancy taking a look round the corner: I've never been this far round before and I'm a little too drunk to utilise my limited supplies of common sense. It's at this point that the words of the now-indispensable Majorca Handbook come back to haunt me.
"After dark, remain in groups of 4 or more."
Oops. If I get into a situation here with a local ned or terrorist (ETA, basically), I'm absolutely screwed. A minimum of four people would weight in at roughly 40 stones: I'm currently hovering around 9 stones, and have been ever since Swansea took so much weight off me. Physically and psychologically, as it turned out. But the success of Swansea was all about living for the moment, so I might as well keep on walking, round that corner, and round the corner in my life. Let's just see where it takes me.
I've come to a sea wall. Great, what do I do now? Might as well get out that beer I hid in my pocket from the Hot Linda...
As I walk along the shore
I can feel it all return
I can feel it in my bones
Down the road it takes me
Down here it's peaceful. Nothing is stirring, save for the waves lapping at the shoreline. A line of hazy lights are in the distance: probably the city. Out to sea is complete darkness, and overhead I can see the Moon providing some impromptu lighting for the situation.
Life has never been better than it has these last twelve months, but I still know I'm capable of so much more. I've spent so much of the time going on about how brilliant my existence is, without paying proper attention to the progress that still needs to be made. It's all very well resting on your laurels, but where will your laurels get you in the future? Take the thorny issue of women. No, I don't mean women actually have thorns on them. I've never actually met a woman who I would consider animalistic.
*Although there was once a woman who...anyway...*
Whenever I've had too much to drink this week, I've started going on about a girl I like, Gibraltar. Instead of doing something about it, my usual tactic is to whine and moan to anyone who'll listen about how much I like her, and how she's got a great personality (not a euphamism), and how it's not fair that she doesn't like me the same way, and blah blah blah *repeat to fade*. Right enough, I'll probably send her a long and drunken text in a few months, long after the chance has gone (if the chance was ever there to start with), but ultimately I'm dragging it out longer than is healthy for anyone. Why be so self-pitying? Why keep pursuing the same goals by the same flawed methods, and then turn round and blame everyone but yourself when it goes tits up? Again, not literally. Far from literally.
I'm at one of the greatest Universities in the world, in one of the greatest countries in the world, with an incredible bunch of people by my side. This is a golden opportunity to have the time of my life, while simultaneously achieving everything I ever dreamed of. There's no point wallowing in the depths of despair when, in reality, there's nothing to despair over. There are major flaws in my life, like in everyone's lives, but by the third decade of my life I should be more than capable of overcoming them.
Down by the water's edge
I went walking
If I had the requisite guts for this fight, I would stand up on Wednesday morning and give a presentation to the class on the Gentrification of Palma's Old Town. But I probably won't. Just like at Swansea, I'll hide away in the background, hoping they don't ask me any questions. How much longer can this go on?
"McLovin, man up!"
From across the town I can hear Benidorm's words ringing in my ear. I never had him down as a motivational speaker, but tonight, his words almost sound purpose-built for me.
"Man up!"
Ok ok, I'm manning up. Just let me get back on my feet, I'm crippled by the wind chill out here. Still, nice to spend all that time on my own in C'an Pastilla and still not get assaulted. I thought I might get served some 'Rape a la Gallega' courtesy of some local squad or something.
1:30am. I've headed back inland towards the Hot Linda, and managed to locate Tarrasa and Alcaláde Henares in the foyer. As we gravitate back out towards the street, Tarrasa asks me how my night has been, and when I reply that I lost touch with Barcelona's 21st Bash, she shows sympathy for my plight, offering me a complimentary glass of wine. I remember Alcaláde from First Year Labs, when I was rather socially castrated and practically unable to communicate with her. Luckily, by falling over a car wheel and making a drunken twat of myself, I feel I've been able to show her the real Me. Touching, when you think about it.
"STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!!"
There's a rabble of commotion to the East, and we turn round to see Marbella and Alicante rampaging up the street towards us. Marbella stops to take a photo of Tarrasa and Alcaláde, so I try and get in on the act. Just decide for yourself whose picture was better. I think it's a close-run thing, personally.
I'm preparing to head back into the Hot Linda when, out of nowhere, Alicante grabs me and whisks me off my feet (not romantically), carrying me single-handedly down the street towards the unassuming chippy.
"STRATHCLYDE UNI!!!"
"LET ME DOWN!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
"STRATHCLYDE UNI!!! STRATHCLYDE UNI!!!"
Eventually Alicante chooses to relinquish me, much like that annual bit in 24 when Jack Bauer says, "the only reason you're alive is because I haven't killed you yet." I land up somewhere near the chip shop, where a group of innocent British tourists are just minding their business, having their unhealthy late-night salt binge. Honestly, where's the kebab shop when you need one?
But on close inspection, these 'innocent British tourists' look familiar. They turn round to reveal their true identities, and what do you know, it's the Birthday party!?!?! Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla, Malaga, Zaragoza, Santa Cruz and Pamplona look slightly surprised to see me.
"Where were you?" asks Sevilla.
"Where were YOU?" comes the ever-so-overemphasised retort.
"We were at the Shisha Bar", says Barcelona, "We hung about for a bit but you didn't come down to the reception so we figured you'd just meet us there."
"Hold on - is it actually called the Shisha Bar?"
"Well, no."
What the frig? "I didn't know that!"
"You should have tried ringing us."
"I did!"
Barcelona takes out his mobile phone, quickly noting the '1 missed call' from myself.
"...oh..."
Now we're getting to the bottom of it, but I still haven't established what the '''''Shisha Bar''''' (insert inverted commas) is actually called, when I feel a rush of activity as someone pulls at my trousers. Jings, first time this has ever happened. But it's not how I planned it, or ever invisaged it...
...Zaragoza is pulling my trousers down in the middle of the street!!!
I fall to the ground, desperately pulling my trousers up to an acceptable level. There are women here: this is totally undignified. Barcelona bursts out laughing, but then, it's his birthday, I guess he can have carte blanche today. Santa Cruz giggles at the shame of it all.
"You've been violated."
I sure have, Santa Cruz. I feel like one of those victims on Rio Ferdinand's World Cup Wind-Ups, but this time I haven't been "merced" (whatever that means) - I've been well and truly "scanted", Zaragoza-style.
Well done, you've been scanted!
I crawl back to the Hot Linda with whatever is left of my self-respect, dragging my sorry ass upstairs and stopping outside the door to 323. A triumphant Barcelona is at the door to 320: his birthday over in the most bizarre circumstances.
"That looked really embarrasing Craig."
"I know," I reply falling into my doorway, "I just hope Gibraltar doesn't find out..."
2:00am. It's light out in 325, as Valladolid clambers into bed for the night. He woke up still drunk from Arena, and is only now shaking off his dehabilitating hangover. He flops onto the bed, immediately recoiling in horror as a sharp pain shoots up his back. What the heck is underneath these sheets?
He fumbles about underneath the sheets. Wouldn't it help if he turned the light on? No, that would only rile Alicante again, and awaken a confused Marbella. Valladolid finally grabs hold of the offending article, removing it from its hiding place and revealing it to be...
...a key?
The key for this room?
Now how in the name of the wee man did that get here.........?
