On the back of a hurricane
That started turning
When you were young
8:00am.
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Swedish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Swedish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life...
When did it change from "Spanish lullaby"? I'm sure it said 'Spanish' yesterday. I'll have to listen to it again in nine minutes.
8:09am.
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Swedish lullaby
Ruddy heck, it was 'Swedish' all along. That was a gargantuan error almost on a par with the construction of the Millenium Dome. Although to be fair, at least the Dome was reincarnated as the highly successful O2 Arena, hosting such events as WWE RAW and the Led Zeppelin reunion. I, on the other hand, cannot repeal this continental cock-up. Even more surprsingly, Menorca also thought it said "Spanish", and he's Swedish himself. The plot thickens...
Reincarnation: The O2 Arena, which is not the Dome
8:45am. Breakfast was more enjoyable than yesterday's efforts (I actually sat down this time), and I'm in the foyer between the restaurant, reception and Bar-Lounge hybrid. The foyer is an interesting place, kind of similar to the smoking bench outside the Halls of Residence at Swansea. People mingle freely here, drifting in and out of their own accord, and unlike the Swansea bench, there is a No Smoking policy in operation throughout the hotel (Jack McConnell's influence is spreading, and I like it). This morning, Cordoba is trying to lift spirits after the cancelled Magaluf trip, not to mention his own recent food posioning woes, by leading his own choir in a stirring rendition of the Queen classic, 'I Want to Break Free'.
"I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You're so self satisfied
I dont need you
I've got to break free."
It's just as well they're not dressing up like Queen did in the video. Who'd genuinely want to see Cordoba, Benidorm, Vigo and Alicante dressed like this anyway?
"But life still goes on
I cant get used to living without; living without;
Living without you by my side
I dont want to live alone."
Cordoba then leads his choir in an impromptu rendition of "Row Row Row Your Boat", the kind of song which will truly never die.
"Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream."
Classics like that are worth 10 Basshunter tracks if you ask me (not that I have it on my MP3 or anything), and Cordoba is gaining respect for his touching version of the song. He stops singing, the gathered crowd in awe and anticipation. His next line is delivered tongue-in-cheek.
"I've got 'You Raise Me Up'."
Seriously, why don't Westlife just be honest and call it 'Danny Boy with different words'? That would spare so such confusion instantly.
09:15am. Oh yeah, we've got a project to be doing, haven't we? The Gentrification Group has decided to split in two today, with four of us heading off to the central Majorquin town of Inca. Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia and Malaga will seize the day (not literally) by heading North on a brilliant high-speed rail service, the kind we could only dream of in Britain, to investigate housing trends in Majorca's fastest growing urban area. Meanwhile, Sevilla, Zaragoza and myself will return to Palma, except this time we'll be surfing the net like we've never surfed it before. Times is of the essence, so our fleeting stop at an internet cafe will allow us no opporunity to visit the likes of Hotmail, Bebo and Facebook. Well, unless I do it when the other two aren't looking. Nah, who am I kidding? They'll be on Hotmail too, given half a chance.
Sir Menzies Campbell: Regularly checks his Facebook account (seriously)
09:45am. We take a stroll down to the beach at C'an Pastilla. Sevilla has brought a laptop with him on the field trip, and will do everything in his power to utilise its Wi-Fi capabilities this morning, thus saving us an early trip to the internet cafes of Palma. With Zaragoza's help, he's just located a streetside cafe with Wi-Fi connectivity, and is about to log on to some local housing websites. But can he successfully connect to the World Wide Web whilst perched on a wall on the Mediterranean Sea? Drumroll please...
*Drumroll......*
"I can't see because of the glare of the sun."
Yes and No, then. We've logged on and we're ready to rock and roll, but unfortunately, we can't see a ruddy thing. Zaragoza suggests turning the laptop 180 degrees, but it's all in vain, and Sevilla reluctantly admits defeat. Palma it is, then. How often do people come to Majorca and complain that it's TOO sunny to do what they want? I reckon this is a first for C'an Pastilla.
10:45am. On the edge of the central town of Inca, the Peri-Urban group are continuing their investigation with more efficiency than an FBK Kaunas corner kick. The likes of Bilbao, Santa Cruz and Pineda de Mar are attempting to uncover the recent development of the outskirsts of Palma, and other towns on the island, while determining some of the key processes involved. They're sat at another trusty streetside cafe, preparing their research for the day ahead, when an old man with a walking stick in a red jumper (I mean the man, not the walking stick) strides over and shakes Pineda's hand. Who the heck is this man, and what is his agenda?
Why, it's Quan the Sex Predator!
Quan makes a beeline for Pineda de Mar, shaking her by the hand and ferverently introducing himself. Pamplona looks on, midly disturbed. He's not going to touch me, she's thinking. There's no way he's going to tou...
Too late. Quan the Sex Predator is a man on a mission, and seems to be intent on touching every female member of the peri-Urban group one way or another. Santa Cruz has the legitimate excuse of being the camera-woman for the project, but Quan soon spots Huelva alone. This is his big chance to make an impact. He looks round, just to check that no-one else is spying on him (and frankly, the women of Majorca can't keep their eyes off Quan)...
...before making his move, and posing for an official picture.
The peri-Urban group makes their excuses and get back to their work, while Quan the Sex Predator takes a seat at a nearby table. He doesn't take his eyes off them, though. Surely there are laws against this kind of thing: no matter what country you're in, following women around and staring at them is generally viewed as 'a bit rapey'. But they'll be fine. Quan will get bored of this and head home soon. Won't he?
11:15am. Having arrived safely in Palma, we've located a nifty little internet cafe just off the Plaza Mayor. Inside, a flight of unnervingly creaky stairs lead up to a cluster of about a dozen computers, so Sevilla, Zaragoza and I position ourselves on one of the rows, taking a computer each. Even the slightest movement makes an almighty racket in this place: it's like the inverse of a Wednesday night in the Beer Bar with a rugby squad. As we took a computer each, we're getting charged three times as much for the privilege, so we'd better make it worth our while. After a quick check of Bebo...
Hmmmm, not much happening back home. The Majorca Bebo page hasn't been updated, but then, I guess that's because everyone's too busy partaking of the aforementioned field trip, ironically. No reaction yet to last night's 10 Hour Paddy Pop at the QMU: I guess everyone's still asleep from that one. A few people back home are complaining about the level of course work, and even from my base here in the Spanish sunshine, I can fully emthathise with them. Just this past Monday, I was camped in Room 202 of the Geography Department attempting to start a GIS project I had no grasp of, when Cádiz came in and saved the day with a series of handy tips which I essentially plagarised for my own project. Legally. But if Essay Season was tough, then the workload here in Majorca is even tougher.
Our task for this morning is to get the lowdown on housing market trends in Majorca, but so many of the websites are referencing Spain rather than the Balearics. And, as you can see from these JPegs, most of them are mind-numbingly dull.
11:30am. The Peri-Urban group are nervously looking across at Quan the Sex Predator. The danger's gone now, surely. If they just mind their own business, then he'll go away soon and they can get on with the......oh. Oh no.
Quan has unzipped his trousers...
He's putting his hand down them...
And he has a look of increasing ecstasy on his face......
Sevilla and Zaragoza are getting places with their web searches (handily switching from google.es to google.co.uk), but I'm struggling more than Colin Montgomerie at a Major, stumbling from one semi-relevant website to another, picking up mere titbits about Majorquin property prices. I'm approaching the depths of medocrity (having to rely on a message board to bail me out) when I happen upon a piece of web gold.
The headline reads, "Property Prices on Mallorca Still Rocketing", and my work is done for the morning. If only the owner of the cafe would give us receipts, we could claim the money back. But alas, he's too busy watching repeats of the Simpsons on the in-house telly.
Monty: Struggles at Majors
Quan the Sex Predator is getting more excited than Andy Murray at a Trinidad and Tobago game. Santa Cruz and Pamplona, disturbed by this most horrendous of sights, leave to go to the toilets. He won't catch them there, that's for sure. Until, to their horror, he frantically stands up and runs to the toilet, his trousers falling around his ankles as he sprints to the Gents. Or is it even the Gents he's going to?
Santa Cruz and Pamplona are running for their lives, with Quan the Sex Predator blazing a trail through the cafe. Granada leaves his seat and follows Quan with pace and urgency. There's no way he's going to see two of his fellow group members affronted, especially in a town as Peri-Urban as Inca. Granada is going to save the day, if it's the last thing he does!
Down in the Women's toilet, Santa Cruz and Pamplona have locked themselves in. They're clining onto the door for dear life, waiting for Quan the Sex Predator's arrival. And waiting, and waiting, and waiting...
A mobile phone goes off. Pamplona jumps four feet in the air, as Santa Cruz peers at the message. Surely Quan doesn't have the capability to obtain their numbers. Did they switch Bluetooth on?
"It's Granada...he scared him off. We're safe."
Thank frig. Santa Cruz and Pamplona peer out of the toilet, checking that the coast is indeed clear, before heading round the corner and meeting the hero himself, Granada. Whatever he did, it worked, and you can bet your bottom Euro that we won't be hearing from Quan the Sex Predator again......
.........
12:45pm. Sevilla decides to lead us North-East, through the Plaza Mayor to the city's Railway Station, an area we've yet to visit thus far. His theory is that the gentrification will begin to peter out the further away we are from the Old Town and, true to form, the buildings are starting to look a bit more natural. You know, like they're a bit...how do you say...unwashed? There's clearly been a lot of investment in the railway station and the park around it, but the the surface of the paving stones is more uneven than Fir Park, and it's becoming a tad uncomfortable underfoot. And I'm still a little bit lost, in the fourth day of the trip. I need a map.
Sevilla's sure he sees these guys playing on Buchanan Street regularly, but surely not......eh?
Zaragoza is becoming increasingly unhappy with his sunglasses, and indicates his desire to purchase a new pair. But he doesn't want any old pair, oh no - he wants to go to somewhere like the Barras in his search for solar salvation (alliteration). He just can't remember the phrase for when you buy a load of cheap items from a shifty market stall. Oh, what's it called again?
"I really want some rip-off glasses..."
That's not it Zaragoza!
"...Sorry...knock-off glasses..."
Phew, he got there in the end. If he went and got rip-off glasses (probably available to the West of the Plaza Mayor), he'd have no money left for basic food and water purchases. It would be like his own personal credit crunch for the duration of the week.
Rip-off glasses
Knock-off glasses
1:00pm. Having crossed the park, we've found another branch of the ever-reliable supermarket chain Eroski (Russian for Erotic? I still think so). Sevilla and Zaragoza rush in, intent on buying as many rolls and fillings as they can afford, but I prefer to head to the baguette section of the store. I've had no problem with the baguettes on this island since my arrival, and as the saying goes, if the baguette ain't broke, don't fix it. Just eat it instead.
Along the way, I seem to have lost Sevilla and Zaragoza. I need a map. Even one of the store would help. It's a slightly unnerving experience, but the silver living in the metaphorical cloud is that I can reflect on the events so far this week. I had speculated yesterday that the field trip had yet to spring into life, and it's now become apparent that I spoke too soon. Last night's explosive events, with the cancellation of the Magaluf jaunt and the inevitable Spanish inqusition (literally) of questioning and second-guessing that followed, weren't very pleasant for any of us. The group projects are coming along ok, and thankfully talk hasn't turned to Tuesday's presentations yet (*insert fear*), but I was hoping for a a bit more of the 'high jinx' that we were all all expecting. Maybe that'll start tonight in the Arena Nightclub shindig currently being organised by Valladolid and Marbella.
Oh yeah, speaking of the group projects, I ran into Menorca in the Plaza Mayor earlier, and he said his Regional Identity group are struggling more than ever. He says he handed a questionnaire to a man in the street this morning, and when he asked him to list his place of birth, the guy ticked "Majorca" AND "Rest of Spain". His mother must have had some momentum on the birth, that's all I can say.
1:15pm. Having relocated Sevilla and Zaragoza across the road (after a harrowing incident when I was trapped between two trains on the monorail system, kind of like that bit in Westerns where they're strapped to the rail-line but less graphic), we have a sit-down lunch in the park. The Fir Park paving surface is still causing problems, but it's another beautiful day in Majorca. All of a sudden, Sevilla has an epiphany. Well, not an epiphany. More of an inverse memory lapse.
"I left my USB in the internet cafe!"
SHENGUS! All our work from this morning is on there, other than the sketchy notes that we jotted down. Losing the USB stick would not only lumber Sevilla with a significant financial deficit (UK Banks-style), it would leave our project in as much trouble as Paul le Guen left Rangers in. Except we can't just re-call Barry Ferguson, fix all our problems and trash Manchester this time. And we're not drunk enough to believe we can.
"If we go back there now it'll probably still be in the computer. Who goes to an internet cafe to nick other people's USB sticks?"
Zaragoza has a point, so we hurriedly finish our nomadic lunch and rush across the road back towards the Old Town. We can't remember the way back though. I need a map. In the panic, I misjudge the traffic flow and jump out from behind a car, anticipating a clear run at the pavement. In a flash, Zaragoza jumps across my path, forming a barrier between myself and the oncoming car which I have spectactularly failed to notice. I curse the road system of Palma which, while appaling, was probably not to blame for my near-concussion experience. My complete lack of intuition, awareness of my surroundings and failure to understand that some countries drive on the right was probably more culpable.
It's cool to drive on the right. Until someone gets hurt.
2:15pm. Back at th'internet cafe, we're making good progress with our research. We bumped into Elche outside the Estacion de Palma, who guided us to the tourist office and provided us with the map that we'd been waiting four days for.
[Insert *Hallelujah* jingle. Well not the X Factor version. That completely missed the point of the song, in retrospect.]
In my search for information on the Spanish housing situation, I've detected a lot of fear about the current economic climate, which is threatening to stifle the life out of the situation. The Balerics, though, appear to be escaping the downtown, unlike the Spanish mainland, mainly due to the influx of millionaires and money to Majorca (alliteration). I'm sure when the world's banking system collapses in September, that will change somewhat.
I do one more Google search for "Spanish housing market". Let's just scroll down and see what we have here...
"PDF File: The cuff, the Colonel and the condoms."
Ahem...I'd better hurriedly close down this window, If Sevilla sees this he'll think I'm looking up some sort of BDSM site, whatever that is. I'm not sure how such a sordid document wound up in a search on Spanish property markets, but I'm not opening the file to find out. And anyway, what is the link is between cuffs, Colonels and condoms?
(Although I once met a woman that could probably combine the qualities of all three.)
2:30pm. We're on our way down to the Harbour for our now daily ritual of 'trying to find a reason to go to the Harbour then decicing it's actually not worth it'. On our way down the boulevard, Sevilla stops and turns to Zaragoza and myself with a face of both shock and embarrasment.
"S**t! We forgot the USB again!!!"
Oh lord no. You must be kidding me. You mean we've got to go in there...again? The owner's going to think we're doing a 'Quan the Sex Predator' and following him! This is a calamity on a par with Celtic's attempt to hold a lead in Denmark. In our sheer humiliation, we decide not to bother interviwing anyone at the Harbour (we decide that every day, to be fair) and dive into the little Irish Pub on the corner. And just who do we find in there but Valladolid and Benidorm? They're catching up on the Six Nations action as Scotland travel to Italy for the battle to avoid the dreaded Wooden Spoon, and they're more than happy to pull up some seats and invite us over. There are a few short minutes to go, and Scotland are losing after a penalty from the diminuitive Number 15, Marcato.
"How's today been going?", I ask Benidorm.
"Not very well McLovin, we've not made much progress with the project and Scotland are about to lose to Italy. What about you?"
"We left our USB stick in an internet cafe, then went back to get it and forgot it again."
"And I thought I was having a bad day..."
On the big screen, there is a flurry of activity as the Scots and Italians battle for possession. Out of the ensuing mess, a penalty is awarded to Scotland, and duly converted by Paterson. it's ours to throw away now.
2:45pm. We've thrown it away, of course. The ball broke to Marcato, who had the sheer cheek/presence to score a magnificent Drop Goal and condemn Scotland to defeat. The Irish Pub owner starts laughing at Benidorm, who has been screaming his heart out in support of Scotland for 80 painful minutes, and now wants the Spanish ground to swallow him up. The full time whistle can't come soon enough, and if Italy score two more points Scotland will indeed have the honour of 'winning' the Wooden Spoon. The whistle goes. Benidorm storms to the bar in fury and buys another round with Valladolid. We say our goodbyes and slope out the pub, depressed and insecure. it's a good job I don't actually like rugby: I'm not sure I could get over this shame if I did.
Russell Brand: Had to swallow pride
3:30pm. Speaking of swallowing pride, we're back in the internet cafe. Again. This is more embarrasing than the ratings for Davina McCall's chat show, but we've got to get the USB stick back, otherwise all our work will be lost. Sevilla slopes in and asks the owner to go back up the stairs (for the THIRD time) and retrive the stricken data stick, to which the owner duly obliges. In an attempt to deflect attention from our technological trauma, I try and strike up a conversation with the owner about the phoneboxes located next to the front desk.
"I was wondering how much it costs to phone the UK from one of these phones?"
"......."
"Um, how much...per minute...for one of these phones?" *points at phone*
"......Que?"
"How much......"*deep breath*"do you know how much MONEY one of these phones costs for ONE...MINUTE?"
"Eh, not understand......"
Sevilla escorts me from the premises as Zaragoza looks on, despairingly. I feel like that guy in Lost in Translation, although I'm not sure that was the point of the film. As we saunter back through the Old Town, Sevilla remarks that I was "really confusing" the owner, although I'm not sure I could have made it any clearer. But having said that, if a Spanish person came in to Somerfield asking me how much a local taxi costs - IN SPANISH - I'm not sure I could explain it very well. But that's another comparison for another day. I don't work in Somerfield yet. I'm hoping I never have to.
(*I've just realised I printed back-to-back pictures of Russell Brand and Andrew Sachs that weren't connected to each other. And I wasn't even trying. *)
4:00pm. We board the bus back to C'an Pastilla, I manage to get myself in another pickle, not literally. The driver informs me that the fare will cost 1.10€, but as I start looking for old change, he gets restless and starts sighing, much like some of the cranky drivers back home. Once we get further up the bus, Sevilla lambasts me for holding up the queue looking for spare cents, again claiming that I "really confused" the driver. But it's a classic Catch 22 situation, whatever Catch 22 is. If I'm the driver, wouldn't I want spare 20 and 10 cent pieces to hand over when people me 2€ for a 1.10€ fare? Again, another comparison for another day. I don't work in Somerfield yet. I'm hoping I never have to.
5:00pm. Back in the Hot Linda, one of the receptionists really looks like Alec Gilroy from Coronation Street, and the group currently currently studying Ex-Pats are mingling in the foyer. La Laguna and Castellón are discussing the day's events with Gran Canaria, who asks if the group are leading from the front in researching the trends of British people relocating to Majorca. Their response is brilliantly quick-qitted.
"We're the leader of the pack...the Ex-Pack!!!"
*ba-doom ching*
Alec Gilroy: Administrative duties
6:00pm. Up in Room 323, Ibiza is still attempting to hear the News 24 jingle in its entirety. Unfortunately he's just missed it, so he goes out to the balcony for a "chill", as some cool people would probably say. It gives me a chance to reflect on the trip so far, and after much deliberation, I decide that it's going pretty well. If anything, the only problem is that I expected so much out of this week, as the bar was set so ludicrously high at Swansea. It's been really good fun and everything but, I dunno...it needs some more drama. Even, dare I say, some 'escapades'. It needs me to tick another box in my life and finally do a presentation, although I don't think I'll have the guts to do it. Then and only then could it be regarded as a classic week in my mind.
I wander out to the balcony, where Ibiza is leaning over the balcony talking to Senors Valladolid, Marbella and Alicante. Which is when I remember that Marbella is getting "everyone" to come to Arena tonight. I decide that there will probably be some 'escapades' before the night's out, one way or the other......
*FLASHBACK*
Thursday 4th October 2007
The lights were down, the dancefloor was full, and 'Gimme More' by Britney Spears was playing. It could only be Viper, Autumn 2007. I had arrived there on the back of an Ashton Lane pub crawl with Sevilla, Valencia and Barcelona, although most of them have drifted home by now, to be replaced by Valladolid, Benidorm, Vigo and Marbella. In my infinite wisdom, I had bided my time buying a round of drinks for people. I've made it clear in the past that I hate the rounds system, and tonight had been a perfect example of the problems it causes. On more than one occasion I had offered individual one-off payments to Sevilla, only to be rebuffed and told, "it's fine, it's what friends do". Which is fair enough, in principle. Until I was shepherded to the bar by Benidorm and ordered to order (interesting phrase) 10 double vodka and cokes. And some other drink I'd never heard of. Now bear in mind, single drinks in Viper are usually £1 each, but I'm usually in there on a Monday, and I couldn't remember what the policy was for Thursday nights. I was aware, however, that the round could be slightly more than £10. Slightly.
"That's £31.10."
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?
(What?)
I turned to Benidorm with a look of exasperation, as if to say, "sort this mess out". Conversely, Benidorm looked back at me as if to say, "it's your mess in the first place." I rummaged around my wallet looking for any spare money, to find the measly sum of two £10 notes and a 10p piece. Fearing an immiment bouncer beating (alliteration), I turned to Valladolid.
"Have you got a tenner?"
Valladolid looked at me as if I'd just single-handedly relegated Dunfermline Athletic.
"That's all I've got."
He pulled out a solitary £10 note and slapped it on the bar (can you slap a note on something?), as I ferverently apologised and promised to pay him back the next week. I duly did. He didn't remember handing me the tenner in the first place, of course, but it was returned on-time and on budget. Unlike the new Forth Bridge, no doubt.
New Forth Bridge: Will it meet budgetary requirements?
Benidorm's next move was resolute, if nothing else. He dragged me towards a group of girls he knew (Benidorm appears to know everyone in Viper, and Couture, and everywhere else), and introduced me as 'McLovin', my bizarre new nickname as of the previous week. The girls, understandably, were a tad perturbed. The last thing they're wanting on a Thursday night is to see a rugby player drag a McLovin lookalike round a nightclub, the word 'attractive' doesn't exactly spring to mind. Undeterred, Benidorm demanded that I give one of the girls a kiss - I'm presuming he was acting on some sort of orders to flush revellers out of the club one by one - so I duly kissed the girl, on the cheek. Benidorm was incensed.
"McLovin, that was awful. Man up!"
To be fair, what could I do in the situation? You don't put Rushden and Diamonds in the Premiership overnight; they have to work their way through the lower leagues. And maybe one day they will, lord willing. But tonight was not the night for me to go round pretending I was John Travolta thirty years ago. I don't have a cadillac. I don't even have a hatchback.
"McLovin, you've got to dance."
I started dancing a bit. Benidorm reprimanded me for 'not dancing enough'.
"Dance more, you look like an idiot doing that."
I danced in a more charismatic and animated way than before.
"You don't dance like that McLovin, you look like a freak!"
With that Benidorm disappeared into the night. If I was aware I had entered the premilinary qualifying rounds for Strictly Come Dancing, I'd have at least brought my posh wedding shoes. And a lot more than £31.
This night was going to bad to worse. I approached the heaving dancefloor with a mixture of intrepidation and adventure. Hopefully there would be someone there I knew: someone to save the day, if you will...
IT'S MERTHYR TYDFIL!!!
I'd hardly seen Merthyr since the exams in May, and was understandably thrilled to bump into her on such an occasion. Her flatmate was there, and we got talking about the Swansea Blog (I don't know quite how you 'get talking' in Viper, with the music at that volume), when it became apparent that Merthyr's flatmate didn't have a Welsh place-name like all the stars of the Blog.
"Can you give me a name for the Blog now?"
I attempted to reach into my brain, scouring my knowledge of the 'Land of my Fathers'. What town hadn't I used? Was there an obvious one escaping me? I just couldn't think of one, in an act of desperation I got out my mobile phone and started typing some letters. You know...Welsh letters. This is what i came up with.
'Felindffddllobf'
I showed the new name to Felindffddllobf and Merthyr. Felindffddllobf seemed thrilled at this honour, if you could call it that, and promptly began to dance the night away. In the process she wound up in the arms of a random bloke patrolling the dancefloor, looking for "them ladies" no doubt. Pensively, and rather naively, I asked Merthyr if Felindffddllobf would be alright.
"Oh yeah she'll be fine Craig, don't worry."
Clearly I need to read up on the psychology of nightclubs a little more. If only I'd met Benidorm earlier, he would have showed me how to 'man up' back in Freshers Week...
Why do you always find something weird in Viper?
We spilled onto the street outside Viper, after I attracted a few funny looks from the bouncers (Merthyr Tydfil remarked that "they really don't like you in there" and, on reflection, they don't). There was one small problem remaining, though. As I was still living in Prestwick at this point, I had no accommodation for the night. I tended to stay at Valladolid's on Geography nights out, but I hadn't got round to asking him before he was ejected from the premises for some sort of unruly behaviour. I could beg to stay at Merthyr's, but...well, that would look a bit weird on a whole host of levels. Too many to go into. So I said my goodbyes to Merthyr and Felindffddllobf, setting off down the Great Western Road for Valladolid's flat.
Upon my arrival, it quickly became clear that, although people were home, the lights weren't on (thus twisting the old phrase on its head). I tried phoning Valladolid, to no reply. It wasn't worth trying to get through the postbox - even I've never been that thin. So I rang Valladolid's flatmate, who I shall name Yonkers after his hometown in America. Yonkers took a while to pick up the phone, but when he finally answered he sounded happy to talk to me. Until I got inside.
"Look Craig, we love having you round here. But you HAVE TO ASK."
"I know Yonkers, I'm really sorry, I don't know what happened, I was going to..."
"No no no no no - you HAVE TO ASK."
"...yup..."
"It's basic politeness."
I was getting verbally bitchslapped like an RBS Banker at a Whitehall hearing, and there was no way out of it. But Yonkers had a solution to this dilemna, one that would please all parties. He sat me down on the chair in his room.
"Now I'm going to let you get out of here, and you can go and sleep in the lounge..."
*Phew*
"But first, you have to watch this."
*Oh no, it's not...that website? The one that everyone talks about? NOOOOOO...*
"This is an American show called the Colbert Report."
*Thank frig for that.*
Yonkers proceeded to show me the hit satirical US show presented by Stephen Colbert, and within half an hour I would become its newest fan. I was technically kept captive that night, but unlike those animals kept in conditions of squalour in malattended zoos, you won't be hearing a TV appeal on my behalf. Primarily because those animals don't get to watch Stephen Colbert promote his new book, "I AM AMERICA: AND SO CAN YOU!" Still raises a smile today, that one......
*END OF FLASHBACK*
8:00pm. Dinner is finished (it was more a detention than a dinner, if you listen to Valladolid and Benidorm) and we're all back in the Bar-Lounge Hybrid, trying to get some semblance of work done before the Spanish sunset lures us all into Arena like a giant orange magnet, comprising San Miguel. Barcelona and Valencia are slightly stressed by the aesthetics of the whole thing - it's a warm room, full of people and not the best place to concentrate. They would go back to Barcelona's room to study, but Bilbao is in there right now doing Muay Thai stretches. They decide against it.
"Had you ever met each other before Swansea?"
I already know the answer to my hideously rhetorical question, but I'm trying to reinsert some joy to the evening, which is fast becoming as passionless as an SNP rally in Somerset.
"No."
"Wow, so you met each other the same week you met me......we were all in that group of four together."
"......Yeah."
Wow, that worked a treat. I do this all the time - when I'm fumbling about for things to say, I try and bring the conversation back to me in a way that somehow involves the person I'm talking to. It's basically unearned arrogance, but it would be really neat if I pulled it off all the time. I don't.
9:00pm. I make a brief phonecall to Prestwick to get the lowdown on all things Scotch, as Donald Trump would say. Ayr United were in action today, and if you don't want to know the score, log off now.
Ayr United 0 - 2 Ross County
Darnit. That's us in the midst of yet another relegation battle then. My parents seem quite concerned that I'm talking in a quiet voice, although in such an echoey corridor, you really do have to keep your voice down. That's why you never see Brian Blessed on field classes.
Blessed: Would attract complaints from French students downstairs
9:30pm. Everyone seems really stressed. I amble along the corridor of Floor 3, looking for people to talk to. There sounds like a hub of activity in Room 324, so I knock on the door. Inside, the entire Agriculture group are huddled round each other trying to combine their research from today in a meaningful and tangible way. And they look really stressed out. I leave, succintly.
Over on the balcony of 322, Murcia is staring out into the Majorquin sky. I try and spark up a conversation with him. He looks really stressed.
Is it just me, or is it time we all hit Arena? Not literally?
Romans: Hit an Arena
10:00pm. Ibiza, Menorca and I are now drinking San Miguels like we've never drunk them before. Menorca will be having an early night tonight, but he might as well have a couple before going to bed. Ibiza and I, though, are part of the Geography takeover of Arena, and are starting as we mean to go on. Menorca and Ibiza don't seem to be stressing out like everyone else is, and it's a mighty relief to me. Ibiza always seems easy-going in these situations, and even if Menorca is complaining he does it in a relaxed way. You can't buy that ice-cool demeanour anywhere, although if you could, I'm sure serial crook Sir Allen Stanford would snap it up as part of his latest scam. Allegedly.
Scam: Sir Allen Stanford
Out on the balcony, the sun is setting on another gripping but exhausting day. I spot Barcelona on the veranda (sp?) of Room 320, and we indluge in some small talk regarding the Gentrification research. But let's be honest, they didn't bring us all the way out here so we could investigate Gentrification, did they? They brought us out here for some entertainment. And I have some questions to ask Senor Barcelona.
"How often do you see Gibraltar on MSN?"
"Um, I dunno, every couple of weeks..why?"
"Oh, no reason...I'm just wondering if I've been blocked or something."
"Well why would she do that?"
"Precisely. The mind plays tricks, that's all......but every couple of weeks - man, I'm on there quite a lot and I haven't seen her in yonks."
At this point, Barcelona is dwarved by a shadow on the balcony. A shadow which slowly reveals itself to the shadow of doom. The shadow of fear. The shadow of death. The shadow of Getafe.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
"Right I'm going inside now, I'll see you tomorrow Barcelona."
Please don't tell me Getafe was eavesdropping on all that. Get Getafe off the balcony. Getafe scares me.
Fact of the Day: Arena sounds like Nerina. Just in case no-one knew that.
Nerina: name sounds like 'Arena'
11:30pm. I've been drinking for a while now, and I'm on my fourth bottle of San Miguel. Bottles are obviously smaller in volume than pints, but four bottles is still a fair amount if you get affected by alcohol as easily as I do. Already I'm bouncing around the room like I'm Neil Armstrong, while the adrenaline is starting to fow with increasing pace. Basically the opposite of taking a beta blocker. Ibiza suggests heading off, but I've still got half the bottle to drink. There's only really one option so, as Benidorm would say, it's time to 'man up'. I down the remainder of the bottle, slap it on the table (can you slap a drink on something?) and head downstairs. I just hope I make it back in one piece.
12:00am. We ran into Valladolid, Benidorm, Alicante and Marbella in the foyer, so we are now making for Arena as one merged group, making sure not to intimidate the locals by taking up the whole pavement needlessly. Part of me is paranoid that the bouncers will reject our application for booze: if this was Glasgow, there's every chance that a surly fat man with little hair would murmur that "there's too many ae yees" or "nae trainers allowed". Luckily, this fear is superceded by my increasingly drunken outlook, which dictates that everything, by proxy, is going to be fine. Everyone I know will sort out their differences, and the world will be a better place tomorrow than it was today. And as if by magic, the doors of Arena swing open to welcome us in. Where are the bouncers? Oh that's right, this is C'an Pastilla...there are no bouncers.
It's pointless printing times now, as I'm a little too drunk to understand the concept of time. Ibiza has purchased a pint of San Miguel for me to consume with as much haste as OJ Simpson leaves one of his crime scenes. I shall return the favour later (I mean I'll get Ibiza a drink, not commit a criminal offence). Lo and behold, the room is full of Honours Geographers, although they're not displaying much in the way of honour, choosing to dance around like fools to the latest Spanish dance music. I'll be joining them in about 24 minutes, too.
Burgos and Roquetas are here, playing the quiz machine, so myself and Granada (who I keep bumping into at the Estacion de Palma bus stop) head over to give them some help. I remember them from the First Year labs, although I didn't speak much to them back then. I didn't speak much to anyone: in fact, I wandered around campus seemingly unable to converse with anyone. It's amazing what a field trip to Wales does to you. And a bit of alcohol, although I maintain that many of my greatest times at Swansea were conducted with 100% sobriety. As I'm maintaining now, under the influence of San Miguel. Quite ironically.
Sabadell is here too, although luckily he's not being homophobic tonight. Santa Cruz and Pamplona seem to be snapping away (e.g. taking pictures) like there's no tomorrow, while La Laguna is having a good old chinwag with Lleida and Santander. But who's missing amidst this ferverent drinking/dancing hybrid? None other than Getafe. And to be honest, that kind of disappoints me. Although Getafe quite obviously scares me, part of me would love to see him on the dancefloor, just to see him cut a few moves, so to speak. I imagine it would be a bit like when Peter Crouch scored all those goals before the World Cup, but with a more deadpan expression.
Robot Dance: Crouch
Right, it's time to take some pictures of signs...
Benidorm grabs the phone out of my hand, with an intense look on his face.
"McLovin, what are you doing?"
"I'm taking the pictures of a...some of these signs because it's the good idea to, be observant in these..."
Benidorm cracks a smile and hands me back my phone.
"McLovin what're you like?"
I don't know. I've got no intuition at the best of times, and now I'm drunk to boot. What am I like?
Is that not Hitler anyway?
I search for Valladolid, and duly find him in the centre of the dancefloor dancing like a goon, so I join him. I said it would be 24 minutes before I did this, although I fear it is somewhat less. Time will tell, quite literally. Valladolid then joins Barcelona atop the pool table for what you could call the classic 'Three Men Raping Another Man' shot. Sounds like the title of that brilliant BBC sailing comedy with Gryff Rhys Jones, Dara O'Briain and Rory McGrath, although thankfully they never went this far.
Meanwhile, back in the relative sanctuary of the Hot Linda, the other Gentirification group are walking the corridor of Floor 3, winding down another classic day of gentrifying. Jerez, Gijón, Leganés and Cádiz are approaching their rooms when they hear someone stumbling down the corridor behind them. Briefly startled, they swing around in a motion of self defence. Is it the French students, coming to wreak revenge after the wreckless actions of Thursday night? No, they've gone back home, so it can't be them. Is it a gatecrasher in the hotel, perhaps some sort of terrorist/jakey incident (I like to think the two groups should be merged and exterminated simultaneously)? Is it...oh no, is it that flipping Kerry Katona?
The shadow in the corridor wobbles forward and reveals himself to be Lanzarote....that's right, the leader of the field class this week. Lanzarote stares up at Jerez and Cádiz with a far-away look in his eyes. Surely this isn't happening, Leganés thinks to himself.
Cádiz asks the question.
"Alright Lanzarote?"
He doesn't get much of a response. Lanzarote continues his slow and painful journey up the corridor, stops at the door, fumbles around for his key, and collides into his room. If you can collide with a room. Jerez is stunned by the sight before him. Were they blanked because of underlying tensions between the lecturers and gentrifiers after Cádiz rented a car yesterday, against departmental policy? Or was Lanzarote just steaming? Was the cancellation of last night's Magaluf trip just an evil ploy to allow Lanzarote to have the entire resort to himself? And will anyone remember this tomorrow?
...We have surprise visitors on the dancefloor: none other than my Gentrification colleagues, Sevilla and Zaragoza. Good to have you with us, guys. Just don't leave your USB lying around this time.
USB Sticks: Often left lying around by Sevilla and Zaragoza, and the UK Government
Logrono immediately makes a beeline for Zaragoza, and begins indulging in some pretend gay kissing. At least I think it was pretend. That's an interesting point actually - at what point does a gay kiss become real? I suppose you'd need to ask someone who'd played a gay role on TV only to later turn gay himself. George Michael would be the closest example.
At this point, Logrono and Zaragoza grab me and pull me onto the dancefloor. Oi, what are you doing? I was just looking because of the entertainment value. And who's taken my phone? No, don't take a...NOOOOOO!!!
With all this homosexual activity on the dancefloor, what would Sabadell say? I drastically fumble my way out of the arms of Logrono and Zaragoza, fleeing across the dancefloor. Barcelona is exuding ridiculous amounts of charisma, as usual. He doesn't even need alcohol. Santa Cruz, who has had quite the day running from Quan the Sex Predator, starts talking to me about the night and the trip. I'm glad I got the chance to speak to her, as I felt like I blanked her earlier on in the trip. I'm still blanking a lot of people, even post-Swansea, and it's down to a little lingering insecurity rather than any resentment I have towards the people in question. The only time I'm guaranteed not to blank people is when I'm drunk, which is where the limitless supplies of San Miguel and Cruzcampo are coming in handy tonight.
Speaking of which, when did I switch from San Miguel to Cruzcampo tonight? I don't remember doing that. And did I pay Ibiza the drink I owed him? Oh, why not go to the bar anyway...
Three drinks later, and I'm stumbling around like a mob of kangaroos trying to dance the conga. My movements are unpredictable, my speech is incoherent, and I can hardly stand up straight let alone look a member of staff in the eye. So with those credentials, I'm just about ready to ask for a bottle of Glen's at the kiosk in Somerfield. But I don't work in Somerfield yet. I'm hoping I never have to.
Doo doo doo, come on and do the conga
Ibiza finds me babbling away about something or other (probably Nerina Pallot, or maybe I asked him how last night's 10 Hour Cheesy Pop went), so he decides that it's time to go home to the Hot Linda. He was on his way out anyway, so we might as well leave together. Esteemed colleagues such as Vigo, Alicante and Marbella are still dancing the night away, and will do for the last hour, but I'm sure they'll find their way home fine. No problem. And when they get back to the Hot Linda, things are bound to without a hitch. After all, it's not like anyone's plastered, is it?
I'm a bit drink tonight...sorry, a bit drunk tonight, but I've had a fantastic time, and there's no doubt about it, the field trip is coming to life at long last. Ibiza and I are staggering back to the Hot Linda when we pass Barcelona, obtaining a post-Midnight feast from the local chippy/kebab-thing-that's-actually-just-the-back-of-a-van (it's like being back on Woodlands Road, this). Barcelona asks me if I've had a good night, to which I respond with a ridiculous statement that means everything and nothing at the same time. I'm drunk and I'm trying to solve the world's problems. I just hope that when I wake up tomorrow, they'll stay solved.
"So...look out for Gibraltar on MSN will you?"
What? There's no harm in trying. After all, it's part of my life remit to try. Barcelona remarks that he will, with a slight smirk on his face. Don't tell me my cover's blown. Ah, he'll probably forget this conversation tomorrow anyway. Where are we going Ibiza? I need a map.
[Honesty pays.]
Some minutes later, we're back in Room 323, although I have no idea how we got there. My head is spinning and everything around me looks more entertaining than it was five hours ago. Menorca is still awake and, although he's uber-polite about it, he's probably thinking we look like a shower of drunken morons. Which is fair enough, to be honest. Minus the moron part. Ibiza switches the TV on and puts it on BBC3, but remember, the BBC 3 signal only stays on for a minute or so before switching itself off. Ibiza entrusts me with the task of switching the TV off and on to keep BBC3 going, before falling onto his bed for some reason.
I don't know what's going on. I'm still hanging off the end of the bed, so I'll need to go to the bathroom first and change out of the clothes I've been wearing all day, not to mention tidying this rather messy room, before I...before I...before.........
Valladolid is walking back from Arena with Lleida. His roommate Alicante is still at Arena, and lord only knows where Marbella is. He crawls up the staircase, bids farewell to Lleida and careers into the doorway of 325. That's not working. He searches methodically for his keys, finally locating them after an agonaising wait and falling into his room. In the one-man melee, his keys have fallen on the floor. But that's ok. He'll get them tomorrow.
A few minutes later Marbella returns, desperate to break back into the safety of 325. But remember, there's only one key per room, so he's going to have to waken Valladolid in order to gain access. He knocks loudly at the door. Come on Valladolid - open up! This is make or break time now. He's on the verge of breaking down the door when it finally creaks open, to reveal the faces of......Benidorm, Vigo and Córdoba?
"Alright Marbella? This isn't your room, away you go next door."
"But...Benidorm...I swear to you, this is my number...look at the..."
"No Marbella, you've had too much to drink. Look, we'll take you to the your room, we've got the key here..."
Benidorm promptly escorts a befuddled and humbled Marbella into 324...which isn't his room. This is becoming magician-like. But back in 325, what are Vigo and Córdoba up to anyway? Why is there such a need to esnure Marbella doesn't see what's going on in his own room? Benidorm returns to 325 and nods to Córdoba: "looks like it all went to plan". And what is Córdoba doing?
HE'S THROWING 325'S CLOTHES ON THE DAMN BALCONY!!!!!!
Vigo lets out a satanic laugh as Córdoba chucks the last remnants of Alicante's clothing garments on the baclony of 325. Alicante, of course, is nowhere near the Hot Linda to solve this garment injustice, while Valladolid has now reached his bed, completely unaware of the havoc ensuing around him. Benidorm's last act before leaving is to help Valladolid into bed. Who knows, maybe he even tucked him in to keep him safe, or whatever the theory is. But as he's doing it, he takes the keys for 325 and places them right underneath Valladolid, even going as far as to conceal them under the sheets. Valladolid will wake up tomorrow morning with no idea where his keys are, while Marbella will be on the floor next door. Who knows what Alicante will make of it all?
Oh yes, and did I mention that Valladolid and Marbella, along with my intoxicated roommate Ibiza, are all going to sa Pobla? At 8am? They can get out of 325 no problem at all, don't worry about that. But when they do...they can't get back in again.
Guess that's what happens when you spray air freshener in Cordoba's shower......
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