Up The Perfect Mediterranean

Sunday 16th March 2008

2009-04-05T01:11:00.039+01:00

You love this town
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.

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.........?

Saturday 15th March 2008

2009-03-05T00:34:00.073Z

We're burning down the highway skyline
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......

Friday 14th March 2008

2008-05-19T01:37:00.050+01:00

Once more, and I can see it all again
Like I was young
Strong in heart and dreams
Once more I’m staking all that’s real
Where the waters washed us clear

7:30am. The room is always so dark in the morning, despite the Mediterranean sunshine piercing the sky outside. I guess they gave us good curtains at the Hot Linda. My Runrig ringtone has woken me up but, as great a band as they are (how many people can honestly claim they haven't danced to Loch Lomond at the end of a party somewhere?), the tune is not enough to keep me awake, and I doze back alseep. Oh dear. I guess I'll have to try again in nine minutes.

7:39am. And another nine...

7:48am. And another nine...

7:56am. Wow, I seem to be on an X77 bus on Waterloo Street. We're going out onto the Kingston Bridge as I speak. But wait a minute, why are we going round in circles? That's the fourth time I've passed the Hilton already.

7:57am. Oh...sorry about that. Bit of a hallucination. I stumble out of bed and pull the curtains open, and instantly rays of light fill the room, turning night into day (almost like that bit at the end of an eclipse when Sir Patrick Moore says, "And totality has concluded"). Ibiza stirs from his slumber, looking rather confused by the transpiring sunshine invasion, but now is not the time for bemusement. In 33 minutes the Hot Linda will stop serving breakfast (or so they claim), so now is the time to seize the moment; seize the day; seize the croissant. But whatever you do, don't seize a watery sausage. It'll end in food poisoning.

Totality: Sir Patrick Moore

8:20am. The time has raced on, leaving me with only 10 minutes to grab some breakfast downstairs. Menorca and Ibiza aren't even bothering with it - they weren't a fan of yesterday's offerings, and would prefer to meet up with their group and look for food in C'an Pastilla. Fair enough, guys. But if you're starved out of your lungs in Sa Pobla and forced to buy a €5 baked potato from an ungentrified coffee shop, don't say I didn't warn you. I'm sorry, that scenario is really quite unlikely.

Downstairs, everyone is running out of time. People are dashing about like Wesley Snipes runs from a tax inspector, and the vast majority of the food has been grabbed. But never fear, the croissants are here. I take four from the bowl, two for now, two for later, and look for a seat. Hmmmm, now I think about it, are there any seats left? The restaurant is being filled by pensioners and families, leaving us students feeling slightly marginalised on the periphery (much like the gentrified working class we'll be interviewing today).

In a split second decision, I decide to stand for my breakfast, thus avoiding the need to ask Officer Dibble about a table. It's not really a wise choice. I end up attracting more attention than if I'd just sat down, and drinking a glass of orange juice whilst holding three croissants (I've already eaten the first one), two biscuits, a slice of toast and a roll proves mighty difficult. I don't bother with the watery sausages, obviously.

8:30am. In reception, a buzz of activity surrounds the noticeboard over to my left. Upon closer inspection, it seems that a poster on the wall is advertising a special Geography field trip after dinner this evening. I'm not sure what it has to do with our fieldwork, so I'll let the poster do the talking, so to speak.

Yes. Magaluf. Finally.

I've been hearing stories about this place for years, but after all this time, I've finally got the chance to go there and experience it for myself. Sure, it'll cost €25, but I've hardly spent a cent (rhyme) since arriving here, and you only live once, don't you? Well, unless you subscribe to Glenn Hoddle's reincarnation preachings, but they're a bit controversial, and time-consumimg, to discuss here.

I look at the poster, shake my head with a knowing smirk and sign my name at the bottom. I shouldn't really be going on such a wild jaunt, especially when there's so much work still to do. But part of me can't wait to 'live it up' in one of the party capitals of the Med. That sounded worringly like Kevin and Perry.

Living it large: Kevin and Perry

9:15am. The gentrification group is ready to go, and we depart the Hot Linda in clear and sunny conditions. This is, to all intents and purposes, where the field trip really begins. Up until now we've been going on bus tours, filling time and complaining about the food, but now our investigation into the gentrification (or lack thereof) of Palma's Old Town will dominate our thoughts and actions.

For the next four days our research will focus on the historic centre of the city, to the North and East of the grand old Cathedral, and there are far worse places to spend a long weekend. Of course, we'd rather be on the beach, but as Fuerteventura pointed out yesterday, the coastline of Majorca has been immorally altered by tourist bosses. To even set foot on one of their beaches, let alone have fun on it, would be an affront to common decency. I think.

(I should point out that from this point on, all the respective groups are splitting up and going about their daily business independently. So if any stories crop up from outwith the Gentrification Group, I'll be slotting them in to this account in real-time. It doesn't mean I'm in five places at once, as cool as that would be.)

Right, what bus are we aiming for...ah, here's the timetable. We've got the choice of the 15 or 30, and both will take us straight to the centre of Palma. Oh, here comes a Number 15 as we speak - we'll jump aboard this one. Assuming the driver stops...

um...driver...

Driver?

DRIVER!!!!!!!!

The cheeky git drives off, leaving over a dozen students stranded on the gentrificantion-less streets of C'an Pastilla. Well thanks a bunch, mate. Just ignore us. At least on the X77 they're rude to you first.

9:30am. After relocating to another bus stop, our search for a suitable coach proves more successful, and we zip through the streets on our way to Palma. It's standing room only on these morning buses, but they appear to be regular, clean and efficient. When the driver lets you on. The fare is a mere €1.10 to go anywhere in Palma which, compared to Stagecoach's extorionate prices in Ayrshire, is quite remarkable.

Barcelona and Valencia are talking with Malaga and Santa Cruz about the booking procedures for the impending Magaluf 'field trip', and Malaga is winding Santa Cruz up slightly.

"You had to book it by this morning."

"What? You're kidding! NOOOO!!!"

He's toying with her, from the looks of things. When he finally 'fesses up', Santa Cruz is none too happy about it, remarking that the Magaluf trip is an integral part of this week's festivities. To appease the situation, Barcelona launches a dicussion on who would win a fair fight between the Geography lecturers on the field trip. This debate was started by Madrid yesterday, who insisted that Tenerife would win hands down, and Barcelona and Malaga seem to be agreed. Malaga in particular has noted the tension between Tenerife and Las Palmas in lectures, and suggests that a physical duel would be the best way to solve things. He thinks they would both be up for it, as well.

10:00am. We have absolutely no idea where we are, but the other groups seem to be alighting from the bus, so we might as well do similar. We start walking in the direction of some old buildings, hoping to find some examples of gentrification, but instead stumble across an advert for an upcoming wrestling event in Palma. Sounds nice, I could be tempted to go to that...oh, wait, it's on the 13th of July. By then I'll be back in Prestwick, trying to avoid neds in The Oval and jumping over puddles on Carlaverock Road. But I'm sure the wrestling fans of Mallorca will have a great time anyway. Sniff.

10:15am. It's just the seven of us now:myself, Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla, Zaragoza, Malaga. We're wandering through the Old Town and looking for some sort of inspiration to kick us off. The idea beforehand was that we would jet into Majorca, find an anti-gentrification resistance group, then just interview them. But of course, the world doesn't always work that way.

If it was that simple, America and al Qaeda would have solved their differences over a pint or two, there would be no such thing as chavs and Winehouse would currently be recording an album rather than touring the sewers of London with Doherty. Sometimes, unforseen complications arise. Our complication is that we can't find any resistance groups, so we're going to have to dig deep to find some sort of negative by-product of the rising house prices in Palma, and then do a presentation about it. So with that said, let's go and "get me some gentrification". As 50 Cent would say.

Bush: Should host flat party with al Qaeda

10:30am. Unwittingly, we seem to have found a lovely square packed to the rafters with gentrification. The Placa de Coll is full of buildings with clean exteriors, new paint and other general evidence of spruced-up-ness. Interestingly, the gentrification stops when we investigate the surrounding streets: some are grimier than a dinner party hosted by Lizzie Bardsley from Wife Swap. In a prison, infested with leprosy.

We ponder over the reasons for this: is it because the government only want to showcase the squares, and all money is re-routed there artificially? Is it even the government's work, or was it just carried out by the home-owners? Instead of deciding on a definitive answer, we stop at a coffee shop. I like the way we don't rush into any decisions in this group. It's a sign of our...maturity.

10:45am. That was a very nice street-side cafe, but I can't help thinking that a Subway would go down well. I did a Google search before we left Glasgow, and found two branches on the island, but was unable to locate the precise address of either. One of them was depicted in a J-Peg on the website, but I've no idea what street it's on. I think I'm going to have to be very fortunate and bump into it instead. Not that knowing the address would be much use at the moment. We're lost anyway.

Have you seen this store? Call or text us now!

We take a walk down one of the lanes adjoining the Placa de Coll, which gives Malaga a chance to start chucking around a ping-pong ball he brought with him from Scotland. It's got some bounce on it, and after one throw Zaragoza is charging down the street in a state of panic, leaping into the air in the vain hope of catching it. In front of him is the most inappropriately placed drain you could possibly imagine. Zaragoza screams in desparation, jumping in mid-air and catching the ball at the last gasp! Phew. The ping-pong ball is saved from the humiliation of having to slum it in a sewer. I hope that's the last time Zaragoza and Malaga try that stunt. I'm not sure I could cope with the drama (only semi-sarcastic).

11:00am. Wow, those are interesting bins. Or are they bins? On closer inspection, Barcelona deduces that they form the upper section of a complex refuse system that spreads throughout the city's sewers. "We heard something about this", says Valencia, "the locals chuck all their rubbish down the chute and it runs through the sewers to be collected." That sounds absolutely ingenious. So ingenious that Barcelona wants someone to pose for a picture with them.

I agree to partake of this impromptu photography session, but by the time I head over to the bins/refuse release units, he's halfway down the street with Valencia and the rest. Their attention has been grabbed by a shop on the left hand side, so I scurry on down to see what all the fuss is about. It turns out that Zaragoza and Malaga have stumbled across a metaphorical fountain of knowledge.

Inside is an eccentric Englishman by the name of Rod. Like Rod Stewart, but with more integrity and a less hoarse voice. Rod is an absolute goldmine of information on the local area, explaining to us that the Old Town of Palma was overrun by gypsies 20 years ago, but has since been spectactularly un-gyspified thanks to an increased police presence.

(in comical 1970s cockney voice) "D'ya see how many police there are around here? There are 'UNDREDS!"

Yeah, we're starting to notice a heavy police presence ourselves. If only Sauchiehall Street was this well staffed at nighttime. And daytime, come to think of it.

Inside, Rod Stewart's shop sells books of all shapes and sizes, including autobiographies of dodgy British celebrities like Will Carling and Paul Gasgoigne. A man shuffles about the basement, dusting shelves and replacing books. He looks like an off-duty waiter at first glance, due to his waistcoast/tie uniform, but it turns out he's actually employed as Rod Stewart's assistant. Funny that an assistant in a small independently-run bookshop should require a waiter's uniform, but I suppose it adds some degree of authority to the place.

Back upstairs, Barcelona, Valencia and Madrid are conducting an in-depth interview with Rod Stewart. Rod is convinced that the area is better maintained than when he moved to the island in the 1980s, a time of wild and unsolicited antics. He even goes into detail about a drinking session he had with the late, great George Best in Magaluf. I struggle to picture that but...oh, wait...actually, I can picture that quite easily.

Best: Drank in moderation with Rod

Before bidding us farewell, Rod Stewart takes time to explain the touching land ownership agreement between the Germans and Majorquins:

"They sold 1/3 of the island to the Germans, then refused them planning permission!"

Bizarre. They seem to have some strange attitudes to property purchasing in Majorca, and it appears that the place has been proverbially bitten by the capitalist bug of commodification. Rod concludes with a poignant observation of the thirst for money on the island.

"The only reason the sun still shines...is because they couldn't sell it....."

With that, he waves us goodbye, pointing us in the direction of a local artist by the name of Carlos. Carlos looks confused by the flood of students heading his way, until Rod Stewart pleads for understanding.

"Is your studio open? Let them see it!"

Carlos is suddenly most understanding, and welcomes us in to reveal a fascinating myriad of paintings, drawings and weird Vincent van Gogh parodies. Again, Madrid takes the lead in asking questions, which as just as well, as I wouldn't have a darned clue what to ask him. I'm no good talking to strangers unless I rehearse beforehand.

To summarise, the main points of the interview with Carlos are as follows:

- The transition to the Euro was a "disaster", and was merely an excuse for Spanish businesses to hike up prices.

- House prices are now so expensive in Palma that many young people are being forced to move back in with their parents, sometimes for years on end. Nasty.

- If Majorquins try and accumulate money in their youth, it usually amounts to nothing in the long run, prompting the local phrase, "Bread for Today, Hunger for Tomorrow".

- A large number of locals are moving up the road to Inca, although most foreigners arriving on the island tend to go to Magaluf or Arenal.

- The weird van Gogh hybrid on the wall is actually a mixture of Carlos' face and that of Mr. van Gogh himself. Valencia remarks that it looks somewhat like her Dad, prompting Carlos to joke, "poor little thing!"

He then gives us his full name, for future reference.

"Carlos Moral."

Moral?

"M-O-R-E-L-L."

Oh, Morell! Ah right, I was slightly confused for a minute there. Although if more people had the surname "Moral" then maybe we, as a people, would have more Morals about us. Literally.

Roy Cropper: Moral

11:30am. Wow, that was informative. Malaga looks back up the street and grins wryly - "I only went in to ask him about the Six Nations kick-off times!" I never thought I'd say this, but thank the Lord for rugby. Now we have solid foundations on which to build our investigation. But first, Madrid needs a nickname for Carlos, so we can quickly refer to him in the future.

"How about Carlos the Jackal?", he asks.

Well, he didn't have a lookalike, so I suppose that'll do.

11:45am. Our street wanderings have take us to the edge of the old Cathedral, so we've finally regained our bearings. Adjacent to the Cathedral is a museum, so after a little pondering, the seven of us decide to head on in. It'll cost us €3 a shot, but I suppose we can claim it all back in expenses when we get home. Madrid asks for an information pack from reception, and is promptly handed one. We begin to walk aimlessly round the museum, gazing in starry-eyed wonder at relgious artefact after religious artefact. After religious artefact...

...After religious artefact...

After 10 minutes, Barcelona turns to Valencia - "Is this a religious museum?"

Ah. Bit of a problem there. As much as I'm a fan of religion, it obviously has its limitations. Just as it should play no part in brainwashing the minds of bomb-wielding burks (alliteration), it also has no relevance whatsoever to gentrification. Well, none that we can think of. Unless the Utopian housing policies of the early 20th Century were designed to flush out the "smelly non-believers" or something. Sorry, I made that theory up. Don't quote me on it.

With a combined total of €21 spent on our accidental pilgrimage, we might as well enjoy the musuem, so we take our time to wander round the endless maze of corridors. I tell you, the echoes in here are truly something to behold.

*2 seconds later*...to behold.

We reminisce on the interviews with Rod Stewart and Carlos the Jackal. We're not sure if all their quotes were 100% relevant to our research, but we reckon we can probably use a few somewhere down the line. And Valencia reckons that Rod Stewart is "crazy". You've probably got a point there, Valencia: people have been saying that since the early '70s.

The Wimbledon Runners-Up Trophy, now taking pride of place in the religious museum

We round a corner in the musuem to reveal a spectacular panorama of Palma's waterfront. It's quite a view from up here, isn't it? But wait a minute, who's that down on the walkway beneath us? He's sat in one of the grooves in the wall with one of his team-mates, writing away as if there's no tomorrow. Can you see him? Why, it's none other than my roommate Menorca!

I would knock on the window, but he'd never hear me down there. And I would text him, but it'll cost 40p. And due to the crazy mobile tariffs abroad, it'll probably cost him 57.83p to receive it. I'm only slightly exaggerating.

12:15pm. We've exited the museum, after a visit that was about as productive as Jade Goody's second stint in the Big Brother house (in hindsight, the only way was downhill for her). But we all thought the museum would be a good idea at the time, so there'll be no redistribution of blame. We stop outside an estate agent, and decide to split up for lunch. Zaragoza and Malaga will Go West (like the song) to the Marina, to gain some information on the arrival of rich foreigners to the island.

Barcelona and Valencia are heading East, back into the Old Town, to see if they can find more gentrification, or failing that, more eccentric English shop-owners. That leaves Sevilla, Madrid and myself to go North, and see if we can uncover any patches of ungentrified land, and uncover the reasons for this uncleanliness. But first, I stop to stare at the local street-art. It's not exploitative - I gave him 20 cents, after all.

Fact of the Day: 'Marina' sounds like 'Nerina'. I just noticed that one.

Nerina: sounds like Marina, not literally

12:30pm. Up in the Plaza Mayor, an array of Geography students can be found chomping away on their respective lunches. Menorca's group are here, continuing their study on Regional Identity. I ask him how the research is going, and he's not too chuffed about it.

"We don't really know what to ask people, apart from, 'Are you proud to be Spanish/Majorquin?'"

It's a fair point. They seem to be lumbered with a rather narrow research topic, and their Project Supervisor - good old Denis Norden - hasn't been much help to them thus far. This trend will continue later in the term, when he gives half his students C Grades for their perfectly good Cities Projects. Hrmph. I'll be very miffed when those grades come in, let me tell you.

Oops, that was almost like a Flash-Forward. I shouldn't really do them.

1:00pm. After leaving the Regional Identity group at the Plaza Mayor, we seem to have got slightly lost again. Madrid, Sevilla and I are walking around like a trio of tools (alliteration), aimlessly looking for gentrification on the streets of Palma. On the way we find a nice little streetside cafe, and order up a selection of the finest dishes/baguettes on offer. I get the feeling this will be a week of baguettes for me, not that I'm really complaining, but I'd be so much more comfortable with a map by my side. This is turning into an action replay of Swansea, where I walked around all week looking as coordinated as John Arne Riise in a Champions League semi-final. I'm sorry, that was malicious.

Anyway, time to check up on Valladolid's group. How's the research been going this morning guys?

Hmmmm...never knew agriculture could be so much fun.

The general consensus among the three of us is that Rod Stewart is invaluable to our investigation. He launched a dozen theories and mini-theories in his short interview, and gave plenty of food for thought for the next four days. Speaking of food, we're increasingly impressed by that phrase uttered by Carlos the Jackal earlier:

'Bread for Today, Hunger for Tomorrow'

We think that could be a key catchphrase to roll out during the presentation. Personally, I think it's so catchy, it could be almost be a slogan for a WWE T-shirt. While Stone Cold Steve Austin is renowned for wearing shirts like 'Austin 3:16' and 'What?', imagine if he brought out this cool number. All the kids on the street would want one!

Austin 3:16 Says I Just Gentrified Your Ass

1:45pm. Walking up the Carrer del Oms, we take a left turn at a shopping precint and head up a flight of steps. What we find surprises us: the clean pavements and buildings of Oms are left behind for an unkempt, graffittied alleyway. Clearly, the local government's policy of maintaining aesthetic beauty doesn't extend past the walls of the Old Town. We've only stepped a few yards outside, and we've found the sort of image that's 1000 miles from your mind when you think of Mallorcan tourist brochures.

Yeuch

On the flip side, these traffic cones are pretty funny.

2:00pm. Our sub-group has almost come full circle, and is now at the top of Oms. Wherever Oms is. Good lord, I need a map. We round the corner to head back down Oms to whichever street we came from, and as my eyes meet the awe-inspiring sight directly in front of me, I almost faint in excitement. Nervously, I stare at the ground again. Did I just see...what I thought I saw? No, it can't be. Surely not! I've come all this way...but it's there in front of me. My hopes. My dreams.

MY SUBWAY!!!!!!!

SUBWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!

(Subway...)

Sevilla chuckles, a laugh of acknowledgment. He knows just how obsessed I am with this place. Madrid, on the other hand, looks slightly perturbed. I dash for the front door, lurch inside and search for the all-important words that will make or break my week. And there they are, white on green, italics:

'Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki'

Who said aetheism was viable? I've flown to the other end of the continent, and yet it's almost like I took the best parts of the GUU with me. And let's be honest, Subway is arguably its only good part. Sadly, I have to restrain myself, as I've already eaten lunch today, and there is no room for a Teriyaki feast. But there will be, one day in the future. You mark my words - before I leave this island, I'll have held a Subway Marathon. Nothing and no-one will stop me in my quest. Subway will prevail over all. And be a nation again.

2:15pm. After being practially dragged from the premises by Madrid and Sevilla, we head back up the Carrier del Oms and turn right, attempting to head North and see what we find. This lack of a map is really hurting us: we're not sure what direction we're heading in, and apart from anything else, it's going to be ruddy difficult to find our way back to Subway if the circumstances demand it. I need a map.

2:30pm. Sevilla and Madrid are crossing the road, so I follow on. It appears to be a dual carriageway, so I stand in the central reservation and admire the Mediterranean sunshine, which is making our fieldwork a lot more pleasant thus far. It's not often like this in Woodlands Road, put it that way. A car rounds the corner and makes a beeline for me, but I just stand still in a state of calm. After all, I'm on the pavement, so he can't come near me.

I am on the pavement, amn't I?

Oh, my mistake - I'm in the middle of the road, and impeding his progress. Why in the frig is it designed to look like a pavement if it's actually a car lane? The driver doesn't look happy, but I'm not about to apologise for almost getting killed by a dodgy road system. I tell you, I'm almost longing for Woodlands Road now. It's all very straightforward there (apart from that weird bit at the top of Charing Cross).

2:45pm. Our second important find of the day. The three of us have just landed up in a square to the North of the Old Town, oblivious to our whereabouts, when Sevilla spots an indoor market to our left. Shall we take a look? Why not, says Madrid, and we walk in to find the Spanish equivalent of Buchanan Galleries. Only this time with fish. Floor after floor of retail unit is interconnected by a maze of escalators and lifts, in a surreal hybrid of the pre-Victorian market place and the postmodern Shopping Centre. Not that Spain ever lived in the Victorian age, but you get the point. I need a map.

David Gest gives his views on Gentrification (that one's been done before)

This is all very interesting, I think to myself, but what's the link to gentrification? The answer is duly provided when Madrid gazes up at one of the signs dominating the ceiling, emblazoned with the words, "Adjundement (sp) de Palma".

"Government of Palma", cries Madrid, "This has been set up by the local authorities to appease the people affected by gentrification!"

Genius. Madrid has worked it out in as much time as England take to throw away a cricket match: the government acknowledges the adverse effects of rising house prices in Palma, and is attempting to combat this by building - and subsidising - the local food market. Thank goodness for that unexpected discovery, and for Madrid's intuition. Day's work done, wham, bam, thank you mam. Not literally.

3:00pm. We meet up with Barcelona, Valencia, Zaragoza and Malaga at the Plaza Mayor, and go over the first day's findings. While we don't yet have a full explanation for gentrification in Palma, or its effects, we're beginning to piece together the foundations of what drives housing trends in the city. I call a colleague in Glasgow to enquire about the local weather conditions etc., but his answering machine is on. That's strange, he should be in Subway now. Maybe he's in the bit near the fireplace with no signal. I decide to leave a quick message indicating my joy at the discovery of a Spanish Subway store.

10 minutes later he rings back, and we have a brief (and expensive) chat about the contrasting lifestyles of Glasgow and Palma. The weather is good in Scotland, apparently, but not half as good as here in Mallorca. It's refreshing to hear a voice from home, as the intensity of a field trip can often make you forget there's another world outside.

10 Hour Cheesy is on tonight at the QMU, and I just wish I could be there. No, honestly. Half the people at Cheesy probably wish they were in Magaluf tonight, but c'est la vie. My colleague isn't going to Cheesy, as he's working tonight (hrmph, where are his priorities?) but he informs me that he'll let me know if anything happens. Good. Something always happens there, even if it's just the Ghostbusters song playing or someone spilling half a pitcher of Tennents.

3:30pm. Our final task of the day is to search for the Library. Thankfully, it's not the Glasgow Uni Library we're looking for (I don't think any of us could take another day in there), but the local library in the Old Town. Barcelona is leading us towards a grand old building on the corner, insistent that it contains the information on house prices that we crave. Well, crave's probably the wrong word. 'Require' would be better.

Glasgow Uni Library: Had enough

On the way, we pass Bilbao and his group, who are also winding up the fieldwork for the day. Bilbao is proudly wearing a Celtic T-shirt, but as all football fans will know, it's Rangers who are doing the European travelling this year. And as a Scot, I'm very proud of them/bored by their defensive tactics/thrilled by their chase for the Quadruple/wishing they would cross the half-way line just once.

Round at the "Library", the front door appears to be locked, but Barcelona finds a security guard and asks for directions. "Round the corner", says the guard. The seven of us shuffle round the aforementioned corner. Where the heck is the door? We seem to be heading further and further from the centre of the old building, when finally we find a policeman, of all people. Rod Stewart was right, there are an obscene number of constabularies walking the streets here. The policeman listens to Barcelona's question, then points him in the right direction...back the way we came!

Valencia is confused by this point, and she's not the only one. Barcelona leads us back round the way we came, to the same front door we were stood at 5 minutes ago. He grabs another security guard, a different one from the first time, and asks them the same question. "Excuse me, do you know where the library is?"

"Oh - library is closed for siesta."

You're having a laugh, aren't you? Where's the road home? We're distraught. I need a map.

4:00pm. With the library shut, our only real option is to head back to C'an Pastilla and "consolidate on our findings". Well, that's what Denis Norden and the others tell us to do, but in all likelihood we'll just lie around on the balconies and watch foreign TV channels. But first, we need to decide how to get back. Barcelona and Sevilla are for walking, a suggestion I find absolutely heinous. It's over 6 miles from the Cathedral to the Hot Linda, and the sun is beating down on us with more intensity than an Old Firm injury-time brawl.

Zaragoza and Malaga are agreed, but since we can't find the bus stop anyway, the executive decision is made to start walking east and see how far we get. Thankfully, due to the promenade on our right hand side, we now know which direction we're facing. I still need a map.

Brawls: Artur Boruc

4:15pm. We're walking East with as much speed as we can possibly muster. It's been quite a long day already, and we know that the work will continue tonight when we go over our findings. And after that, Magaluf beckons/looms. The one thing I'm craving more than anything is a good night's sleep, but the trip to Magaluf has ruled out that possibility with the stroke of a pen. I can barely imagine how I'm going to feel tomorrow morning.

4:30pm. Sevilla's eye is caught by a billboard over by the roundabout to our left. The face in the advert looks remarkably familiar, almost like it could be...why, it must be Karl Kennedy from Neighbours!

Well, no it isn't, but it's a mighty fine lookalike. Before I know it, we've walked past it, so there's no opportunity to take the obligatory photograph to show you the resemblance. But after we found Susan Kennedy in the Departure Lounge at Glasgow Airport, I told you we'd find Karl! Now I think about it, it was almost inevitable. I just hope the two lookalikes don't have a similarly messy love life in reality.

Karl Kennedy: Advertising Spanish products?

4:45pm. Boy oh boy, this walk is energy-sapping. I'm down to my last croissant now, although I still have a supply of biscuits from breakfast (alliteration) in my rucksack. Zaragoza is slowing somewhat in the heat, so I wait for him and promptly start a conversation about women. Well, it's about time, and his views on the subject are always interesting, to say the least. Zaragoza advises me to take control of my own destiny, similar to the way William Wallace defied Longshanks and won the Battle of Stirling Bridge, only this time without the use of swords and blue face-paint.

I've got it pretty well mapped out in my head how I want to approach the situation, but Zaragoza is wary of me making logistical errors along the way. There's obviously a time and a place for asking a girl out, or telling them I like them, and some methods are preferable to others. Zaragoza is keen to stress that the right method is selected, otherwise the whole thing will backfire as dramatically as Gordon Brown's decision to drop the 10p tax rate. And that's no way to build a stable relationship.

Backfire: Brown

At this point, Madrid joins proceedings. He offers his own succint advice for solving my dilemna. For legal reasons, I can't print that advice here.

5:00pm. We've reached a junction in the road and, after one solid hour of walking from Palma, we've finally found a bus stop. In spite of this, Barcelona, Valencia, Sevilla and Madrid are still intent on walking all the way home. Incredible. I guess they must be made of sterner stuff, as I'm wilting in the heat back here. At the bus stop, Zaragoza and Malaga are perusing the bus times, and they claim there'll be a No.30 due in the next five minutes. This is increasingly tempting, but it means the group will have to split up, Take That-style, before reuniting at the other end and being even more successful in our endeavours, Take That-style. As long as we don't nick Nerina Pallot's songs this time.

Here comes the bus. Aah, it's all happening so quickly! Barcelona et al are giving me the ultimatium of walking with them or taking the bus to C'an Pastilla with Zaragoza and Malaga.

Hmmmm. Zaragoza and Malaga are talking. About...an issue. I feel jealous.

I think I'll walk.

5:15pm. The pace is quick, I'm running out of supplies and the sun is beating down with more heat than seems logistically possible. I'm not sure I made the right decision. But Barcelona and Sevilla are attempting to keep the spirits up by laughing at any funny oddities they pass on the footpath. Barcelona, in particular, takes the time to laugh heartily at one guy's pitiful attempts to skateboard, labelling him a "ponce". Not to his face, obviously - that would be primitive.

Meanwhile, at the Hot Linda, Fuerteventura is stood at the front entrance surveying the scene. He imposed a strict rule yesterday - no Hire Cars are to be brought back to the hotel - and he's glad to see that rule being followed by the students. Order is being kept, and that's just the way it should be. It would be catastrophic if the students allowed themselves to be distracted by such commodities as cars.

Then, a dot on the horizon attracts his attention. It's a classy looking motor, that's for sure. But who's driving it? One of the locals perhaps? A staff member at the Hot Linda, perhaps Officer Dibble or one of his colleagues? Fuerteventura stares intently as the car turns into the Hot Linda car park, revving its engine before grinding to a halt. Surely not, thinks Fuerteventura. He removes his sunglasses in shock to find a well-known face climbing out of the car. It's one of his students, Cadiz!

"Alright Fuerteventura?"

Cadiz and his team-mates Jerez, Leganés and Gijón walk past Fuerteventura proud as punch, leaving him to gaze open-mouthed at the car facing him. Did they just breach authority, right in front of him? Well they'll have his wrath to deal with. Hell will be unleashed...just after he's stopped staring at that car. Wow, that's a nice number, he's thinking...wonder if it does 0-60 in 3.5...Tenerife would be so jealous...

5:30pm. Must...have...food...Must...have...a seat...

This is getting uncomfortable now. We're still ages from the Hot Linda, and we've got to round the perimter of the airport first. Planes screech overhead, diving onto the runway at Palma Airport and quite frankly, making an almighty din as they land. We're in amongst thick undergrowth, with no conceivable way out of this unsightly mess of weed and grass.

Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.

Valencia turns round to ask me if I'm ok, and just like when I fell off the Limestone Pavement at Swansea 12 months earlier, I pretend I'm fine. But speaking of Swansea, what are those clumps of rock on the shoreline ahead? Are they what we think they are? If these don't raise spirits, then absolutely nothing will. Valencia's eyes light up, and Barcelona sports a knowing grin...

...It's the long awaited-return of the Dangerleaps!!!

*A dangerleap (Copyright Llandudno & Co, April 2007) must be wider than two feet from take-off to landing, over a sheer drop of more than four feet. Before undertaking a dangerleap, you should contact your GP and solicitor, or seek adequate travel insurance from the Post Office. Dangerleaps are available for download on all illegal file-sharing hosts, and can be ordered via a stamped addressed envelope to some address in the Home Counties. No substitutions, exchanges or refunds. Terms and conditions apply. Go to http://www.dangerleaps.org/ for more information.

It's like the Limestone Pavement all over again. I almost feel like singing the Glen Campbell classic "Like A Limestone Pavement" again, in tribute to these extraordinary feats of nature. Valencia and Sevilla dive under a fence and race down into one of the larger gaps in the rock (almost like a Mega- or Terra-Dangerleap), desparate to pose for a photo. Strangely, it also looks like they're posing for the front cover of one of those celebrity Fitness DVDs, although I'm not quite sure why.

Somewhere in here, we also try and create a parody of the YMCA hand signals with our own shadows. It doesn't work, much to our chagrin (and personal disappointment).

It's Fun To Stay At The Hot Linda?

We're almost home and dry now, but we just need to know one more thing. What force of nature carved these Dangerleaps? Was it Glaciation? Fluvi-Glaciation? Heck, Geopolitcal Glaciation? it could be anything, as our group is more focussed on Human Geography than the Physical side of things. Then, as if by magic, an old man rounds the corner, hears our cries for help and promptly provides the answer we've been looking for.

"Those were the rocks they carved the Cathedral from."

WOW!!! You absolute genius, Sir. Right place, right time, right guy. I tell you, if he went on the Spanish version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, he'd have Fastest Finger First sown up in milliseconds.

7:10pm. Getting ready for the nightly meeting, pretty much all is well with the world. Many of the groups are a bit knackered, but spirits are pretty high and it's been a good day of field work. Zaragoza and Malaga return, smirking as they do, feeling no such knackeredness themselves. Perhaps the bus was a good idea after all. I think I panicced (sp?) when given the earlier ultimatium - it was like 'Fight or Flight', except in this case, it was 'Bus or Walk'.

Lanzarote, the leader of this year's field class, has been giving his usual speech about continuing our good work, getting up early tomorrow, remembering all our essential equipment etc. All very basic stuff, thus far. But then, he hands over to Tenerife. And hell, not literally, freezes over. Bear in mind that Tenerife is arguably the most popular member of staff at this point, but he's about to turn into the bad guy, before our own disbelieving eyes.

"I've got something very important to say, and unfortunately it's not good news. Some of the behaviour late last night was, to say the least, absolutely appalling..."

Eh? Surely not. I slept like a hibernating chinchilla last night, I didn't hear a darned thing.

"...We've had reports from reception that the French students on the 2nd Floor were disturbed last night by some of our students - OUR STUDENTS - rampaging along the hallway, and knocking on their doors. At 4am in the morning! How immature can you get? I'd grown out of that sort of stuff by Primary 4! How do you think that makes us feel, as members of staff, to be told that our students are behaving in such an irresponsible way, and upsetting members of the public?

"We told you before this trip that you would be representing the University of Glasgow, and yet some of you have seen fit to abuse that position. So make no mistake about it, if you bring the University into disrepute like this again, then you will be hauled up in front of the University's Senate. And you'll have to answer to the Principal. How do you think he'll feel if he hears about this incident?"

I dunno, probably not as ashamed as he felt when he accepted a 12% pay rise.

"And another thing. I've heard about a trip that's supposed to be happening tonight...to Magaluf. How irresponsible do you think that is? You're supposed to be getting up at 8am in the morning, having breakfast and going out into the field. How is that going to be remotely possible if you're staggering in from Magaluf at 5am? It's not, is it? You're going to be endangering not only yourselves, but those around you. So let me say this now - there is no trip to Magaluf tonight. As of this moment, it's not happening anymore."

"I hate having to say all this, I really do. And I know that the vast majority of you have behaved well in this field trip, and will continue to do so. But it needs to be underlined, NOW, that certain things are going on at the moment that are just unacceptable, and if you want to remain a part of this field trip, and complete the Honours Course...then you're going to have to abide by these rules. And that's that"

Tenerife walks off with a pained look of regret on his face. He's right - he really didn't want to take the bullet. But I guess someone had to. The room is in stunned silence. I guess we go for dinner. With the staff members who want us off the island, apparently.

7:30pm. In the restaurant, everyone is still trying to recover from being given the proverbial rocket by Tenerife. I remark to Bilbao that it was, in all honesty, one of the greatest speeches I had ever heard in person. Tenerife is clearly a good bloke, but is also full of charisma, so its a real shame he had to utilise it in such acromonious circumstances.

Murcia, Menorca and Bilbao are completely unaware of any illegal door-knocking transpiring last night, so to think that this disturbance took place - and was carried out by members of the Geography group - is mind-boggling. Didn't we go through all this last year at Swansea with the Floor 4 Party? And had we not all learnt our lesson? There are lines you clearly don't cross, and last night's actions are beginning to make the Floor 4 Party look like a coffee morning. And I don't even drink coffee.

Roy Carroll: Crossed the line

8:00pm. In the midst of this door-knocking chaos, the trip to Magaluf is off. I'm starting to come to terms with that bombshell now, and to be honest, part of me is secretly relieved. Tenerife made some valid points there, mid-rant, and if the trip had gone ahead we would have had less than 3 hours of sleep tonight. The field work tomorrow would have been tortuous to say the least. And this way, I've saved 25€ that can instead be spent on an infinite supply of San Miguels for the room. But still...would have been intriguing.

The thing that confuses me most is that Lanzarote, the leader of the trip, didn't do the speech, leaving it instead to Tenerife. It really should have been his responsibility to impart this information, but maybe he didn't feel like he had it in him. As Menorca points out, he's a nice guy. The problem was, he left it to Tenerife, who is also nice, but has a more powerful voice. And an ex-SAS moustache.

Shattered and exhausted, I leave the table to rejoin Group O, the gentrification crew. Benidorm spots me, and after a brief conversation, attention turns to my waist (a rare occasion indeed).

"McLovin, what is that thing you're wearing?"

"Oh, this - this is my bumbag. It's for security reasons, in case my wallet gets nicked."

Benidorm bursts into laughter.

"How is that safer? If anything, that'll attract robbers. Here, let me see that thing."

He grabs the aforementioned bumbag and immediately pulls at the elastic belt. The pouch at the front shows little resistance, and within a couple of seconds he manages to pull it about four feet from my body. Benidorm and Vigo collapse in hysterics. I walk away, fairly humiliated. Clearly, this bumbag isn't as safe and secure as I had anticipated. that's what I get for going to Poundland on Ayr High Street for my security gadgets.

8:30pm. Through in the Bar-Lounge hybrid, Nuno Gomes is cleaning pint glasses with a shellshocked look on his face. Like the rest of us, he's been rattled by that Tenerife promo, which is threatening to overshadow the day (and if we're not careful, the entire trip). The lecturers have spoken, and the chances of us going to Magaluf now are about as likely as Rangers entering the opposition's penalty box in a European game. That was malicious.

Rangers: Focus on defence

Valencia scours the room, searching for Barcelona. We're supposed to be having another meeting to discuss our Gentrification project which, despite the Magaluf setback and French door-knocking controversy, is still well on track. I ask Sevilla how the Magaluf trip could possibly have been cancelled when it was organised by outside forces in the first place.

"Well, I guess they just put their foot down and said, 'we're running this field class, so you're not going'."

The scene is currently one of mild dejection. Bilbao slopes in, looking for the key to Sevilla and Barcelona's room (he sleeps in that room, he's not a burglar or anything). He needs to change out of his Celtic top, and acquire vital equipment for the night's meeting with his Peri-Urban group. And do his UFC-style stretching. Sevilla, however, is unaware of the key's whereabouts.

It could be anywhere! (This isn't actually Sevilla's room)

"I think Barcelona had it last, maybe he's in there now."

Bilbao heads up to Room 320, fully expectant. Five minutes later he returns, fairly dejected.

"There's no answer."

Valencia scowls - "He'll be asleep. Do you want me to phone him?"

"No, it's fine", says Sevilla, "just knock loudly on the door."

"Or even better", says Bilbao, "Go along to 321 and jump across the balcony. He's bound to hear us knocking on his own window."

With that, Bilbao retreats once more to the Third Floor, now a well-worn path. Ten minutes later, who walks through the doors of the Bar-Lounge hybrid but Barcelona? And he doesn't look very chuffed, either. Or wide awake.

"I was having a good nap there."

Much like a van driver for Reliance Security, Barcelona is unhappy at being woken from his sleep. On the plus side, it gives us the chance to relocate to Room 416, Zaraogza and Malaga's room, and put all our ideas together. While listening to some classic Paramore, thanks to Zaraogza's iPod.

Paramore: Raised Spirits

9:00pm. Tonight's summit with Denis Norden has thankfully been brought forward to avoid a repeat of the scenes last night, where we all practically fell asleep mid-meeting. Norden walks in with a smile on his face, clearly oblivious to the pain we feel at the axing of Magaluf. What, was he not coming along as well? You do surprise me, Denis.

The meeting itself goes fairly well, Norden accepting our ideas and supporting our research methodology for the day. He's a little more non-committal when it comes to tomorrow's field work, but then, we've come to expect this response by now.

"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."

Ever reliable, Norden stumbles off into the night. You're a star, Norden. Kind of.

10:00pm. I've returned to Room 323 for a couple of San Miguels with Menorca and Ibiza, who have had fairly mixed results on the field (not literally, it's a Geography phrase of sorts). It's on nights like this that I get slightly confused by the complicated lifestyle I'm leading. When I left 416, Sevilla was asking Malaga if "we're heading out tonight". I almost replied, "No, I think we're staying in", but had to stop myself. By "we", Sevilla obviously meant the Gentrifiers of Group O, a group he stays very close to continuously, but for me, "we" could mean anyone.

It could mean Barcelona and Valencia, Zaragoza and Malaga, Menorca and Ibiza, Valladolid, Marbella, Benidorm, La Coruna and others. It struck me that I'm not actually tied down to one social group in Geography, instead choosing to drift around and spend a bit of time with each one. That has its obvious advantages - you get to know more people, there's more diversity, it's always interesting catching up with people etc. But there are also drawbacks to this rotational system.

For example, when I leave Group O and head down the corridor, I'm essentially leaving them behind as a social entity. Similarly, I could go along to 325 and chat with Valladolid, Marbella, Vigo et al, but the minute I make my departure, I'm marooned again. It's all a little disorientating, and combined with the Mathematicians I spend time with in Glasgow, it often leaves me torn between two (or three) different groups of people. Just witness the confused figure I often cut in the Food Factory, trying to work out how to leave one group and talk to another, for further proof. It's all a tad befuddling (sp), and it means I have to constantly shift gears and work out what to say to people, rather than having one stable group of friends like the norm. Or is it the norm? What exactly is the norm nowadays? And are we all becoming victims of the social Postmodernist lifestyle? Find out next week, on BBC Two!

Rotation: Rafa Benitez

10:30pm. Speaking of disorientated people, there's a knock at the door. Menorca is out smoking on the balcony, and Ibiza is attempting to reclaim the BBC3 signal as we speak, so I scurry to the door to see who's there. It's Fuenlabrada, and he looks a tad surprised to see me.

"Oh, hi, is Getxo in at the moment?"

Who in the Majorquin heck is Getxo?

"Em, I don't think so. Maybe he's further along."

"Oh, right...I'm not drunk by the way, just to let you know...so who's in here then?"

"It's me, Menorca and Ibiza...maybe Getxo's next door. Or he could be in 321 - I'm not really sure who's staying there this week."

Fuenlabrada looks pensive. "Right, I'll have a look along there then. I'm not drunk by the way - I am NOT drunk."

"Right, no problem - see you later."

"I'm really not drunk."

I close the door as Fuenlabrada reminds me, yet again, that he's not drunk. Ibiza asks, "Who was that?" I reply that it was Fuenlabrada, he was at the wrong door but that he wasn't drunk. He definitely wasn't drunk. Which is a relief, to be sure. He later adds me on Facebook, presumably in an attempt to prove that he definitely isn't drunk.

11:00pm. Ibiza has got slightly fed up of BBC3 for now (it's showing an Eastenders repeat when, frankly, once is too much), so the three of us are sat having a chat about the cancellation of the Magaluf trip. We're all disappointed at having the jaunt snatched from our grasp, especially by the reprehensible actions of others. But who could do such a thing? Who would be so thoughtless as to disturb other guests in the hotel by knocking on their doors at 4am? There's only one way to find out, isn't there? A good old bitching session!

I crack open the now-indispensible Majorca Handbook, and scour the 107 faces for the potential culprit(s). It's a pity it's come to this, but it's better doing it this way than asking people to their face. They might take the questioning as suspicion of blame, and then things would really flare up. It wouldn't just be doors getting knocked then.

...I mean heads would get knocked together.

It's obviously not any of the three of us, as we were as asleep as the audience at Lily Allen and Friends. None of my Gentrification group would ever be capable of committing such a heinous act, so they're immediately ruled out. Zaragoza is renowned for his drunken stunts, especially at the Floor 4 Party, but no malice was intended on that occasion. And he maintains to the day that he wasn't the one who released the toxic spray. Menorca's Regional Identity group, similarly, would never have the cold-bloodedness to disrupt the trip in such a way. Ibiza's group, the Agriculturers, are also ruled out pretty quickly. They like their alcohol in that group (Benidorm, in particular, likes nothing more than walking into Viper and "necking a load of JD's"), but they don't like it to the extent that they'd willfully commit breach of the peace in such a calculated manner.

As we're going down the list, crossing names off, rumours also surface of an unsettling incident on Wednesday night, when Cartagena was the subject of some discriminatory abuse as he tried to sleep. Once again, it involved a group running the corridors and knocking on doors, but this time the abuse was homophobic rather than random and dispersed. I'm utterly shocked by this development. Who in their right mind would go around abusing people like that?

We quickly come to the conclusion that the homophobic door-knockers are the same people as the French door-knockers, using our detective skills recently acquired in our field work training. Was it Jerez and Cadiz? Not a chance. Bilbao? Never. He and Murcia condemned the perpretrators at dinnertime. Badajoz? Ovideo? Couldn't see it in a million years. Santa Coloma, he of the charismatic presentations last year? Hell would have to freeze over! Heck, even Denis Norden wouldn't be capable of this!!!

Wait a minute. The other two have stumbled across something. Was it...Sabadell?

Ah yes, it's all starting to make sense now. Sabadell and Logroño are never seen apart, and are part of a large faction I never speak to. They travel in a pack and rarely acknowledge outsiders - in fact, I don't even know what project they're researching this week. But could they be capable of such a crime against common deceny? I'm not sure, but I'm not going to get close enough to find out. From now on, I'll be avoiding them like Prince Philip avoids race relations classes.

Prince Philip: Not cosmopolitan

11:30pm. In a way, that wasn't really pleasant. I'm not used to bitching sessions, and neither are Menorca or Ibiza, but we all felt it was necessary to narrow down the list of suspects in Knockgate. During the discussion, we established that the majority of Geographers on the trip are darned good people, and now we've decided that it was the Alleged Homophobes at fault, we can get on with the field trip rather than viewing everyone with suspicion. Speaking of suspicion, what the heck is that knocking sound? Is it someone next door moving a bed (and if so, why?) Is it one of the French party beneath us, trying to exact a speedy revenge for Knockgate? Is it a ghost?

To divert attention from these creepy capers (alliteration), Ibiza switches BBC3 back on. I'm greeted with the sight of Lily Allen attempting to hold a note. I have only one option, and run for the balcony. On the way out, Menorca gives me a puzzled look.

"I didn't know you hated Lily Allen."

I look at him rather incredulously, then at Ibiza. Ibiza sums up my thoughts brilliantly.

"Neinsich!"

This, it transpires, is Ibiza's German translation of the classic phrase, "No s*!t", and even though it's not a real word, it still sounds like it makes sense. So I continue running out to the balcony.

Neinsich Sherlock!

12:00am. Midnight. That means it's 11pm in Glasgow, so the 10 Hour Cheesy Pop extravaganza will be underway. Murcia stands on next door's balcony, gazing out into the night sky. It's good to have a bit of a breather from time to time, as this trip is starting to stress even the most mellow of us. Eventually Murcia goes back indoors, leaving me alone on a row of empty Third Floor balconies. In the QMU, it won't be empty. It won't be quiet, and it sure as heck won't be still. People will be dancing, drinks will be getting purchased and people will be acquainting themselves with each other. Just hopefully not in full view of innocent bystanders. I decide to call another colleague for details, despite the extortionate foreign call charges (not zenophobic). Surprisingly, it rings out. Is he on the dancefloor at Qudos? Don't tell me they're playing Girls Aloud already.

[If a job needs doing, do it yourself.]

1:00am. Further along the corridor in Room 324, Córboda is slowly but surely recovering after his horrific bout of sausage-induced food poisoning yesterday. He and La Coruna have been working away on their Physical project in a picturesque cove on the coastline (alliteration), and he fancies a quiet night in as his perpetual puking slowly begins to subside. He goes to the bathroom to have a shower, and all seems reasonably well. Then, a shocking incident transpires mid-shower. A mysterious hand reaches round the shower curtain and, completely unbeknownst to Córboda, turns the hot water up to full blast.

Valladolid strikes again! Córboda is in a state of mild panic, and pulls the shower curtain to enable him to catch the culprit, and exact swift revenge. But before he can, he's met with a dose of toxic spray, as Marbella and Alicante spray some horrific air freshener in his direction. it's like the Floor 4 Party all over again. This is nothing but a mugging, and Córboda is flailing about aimlessly, blinded by the rising steam and stench of Airwick freshener. Marbella and Alicante run from Room 324, proud of their work, leaving Valladolid to close the door on a helpless Córboda. And that's where the bitter taste of revenge sinks in.

Córboda reacts with like cat-like agility, springing across the room and slamming the door shut. Valladolid's hand is caught in the door, and as he lets out a pained yelp, Córboda just laughs. It's over in an instant, the joke having backfired with spectacular ferocity. As Valladolid retreats to the relative safety of 325, a broad grin crosses Córboda's face. He's probably thinking to himself, that's the last time you mess with an ill man, Senor Valladolid.

1:30am. Time for bed, methinks. It's been a long day, and tomorrow will be even longer - in fact, Benidorm and Marbella are already talking about organising a Geography coup of the local nightclub, Arena.

"McLovin, get everyone told. Arena, tomorrow night!" instructs Marbella.

It'll hopefully make up for the damp squib of the Magaluf call-off. But in the meantime, I really need some sleep. I clamber into bed, hoping that Menorca and Ibiza will follow suit. The problem is, they seem to be engrossed in a programme on BBC3. It's one of those list shows presented by Richard Bacon that seems to be on all the time, entitled 'Top 50 Songs We Love To Hate'. These kind of shows used to be alright for the odd chuckle, but I think they're well past their sell-by date now. Totally lacking in any originality or thought, they just compile a load of clips of successful gimmicks and formats and say, "Wow, remember when this happened? What were we like, eh?" So in other words, ideal material if you're trying to nod off in a cheap hotel.

[I'll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away
Never fade away]

2:30am. Only...I'm not nodding off. The show's been on for at least an hour, and I'm no closer to falling asleep. I hate it when you have nights like that, and there never seems any explanation for it. Unless it's the show that's keeping me awake. Maybe the volume's too loud or something. If it is, then I have the rare and unpleasant distinction of saying that Richard Bacon is keeping me up at night. At least there are no drugs this time.

Bacon: Up All Night

3:00am. Are Menorca and Ibiza still watching this? We're due up in five hours, yet the TV is still blaring out garbage about the merits, or lack thereof, of pop acts such as The Cheeky Girls and Las Ketchup. Menorca is occasionally mumbling sentences which have a vague connection to the show, but that's not to say he's still awake. He might having a dream about The Cheeky Girls. Lord knows, Lembit Opik does the same thing regularly.

[Take me away.]

[To Glasgow.]

Pfffft...typical. They're having a go at the Manic Street Preachers for their classic song, "If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next". When are people going to give this song a break? It's 2008 now, you've had 10 years to get used to the title, and it doesn't detract from the tune's overall quality.

"I feel like the title's trying to preach to me", says some anonymous tube who does the rounds on these nostalgia shows. In fact, I think they're famous for nothing else. This is desparate stuff. I need to try and get to sleep. I place the pillow right over my head, in an attempt to block out the unsightly din from the television set. It's only having a partial effect...

...What's happening in Scotland?

[...What do I wish was happening?]

...What's next on the list? Oh...oh no, you gotta be kidding me...

......Amarillo.

I might have flipping well known. Amarillo, one of the cheeriest and most enjoyable No.1's of recent times, is apparently detestable, because a bunch of people on a TV show say it is. Their reasons for reneging against the Tony Christie/Peter Kay version are even more ludicruous.

"It got to the stage where it was played everywhere."

And your point is? It got played everywhere because people liked it, you absolute buffoon. They liked it more than they'll ever like any of your artistic work, which probably stretches to a nondescript appearance on Extras or something. I mean as one of the real extras on the show, not the celebrities pretending to be extras. They can be quite funny.

[......how would I word it though?]

While I accept that the song was indeed played everywhere, and got to the point of overkill, that's no reason to take it out on poor Tony Christie, or even Peter Kay, who only revived the song for charity purposes. The mere suggestion that the British nation "hates" Amarillo is so wide of the mark that even Rik Waller couldn't reel it back in. And he's a big fella'.

[Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and relevations]

Rik Waller: Big

Pffffft. I'm drifting in and out of half-consciousness, and I kinda wish today would just end. I said everything would spring into life today, and it most certainly did. In the sense that everything went wrong. The Magaluf trip was dreampt up, hyped then destroyed. I've had a few conversations which would best be described as uncomfortable. I don't feel like I'm a complete person, which is quite annoying, as I felt more or less complete during the latter stages of the Swansea adventure. Maybe I was being naive. No, I don't want to admit that. Not now, anyway. I'd rather go to sleep, to be honest. At least the gentrification's going well, so to speak.

[Ah - got it! It's all clear in my head! What I'll say is...no, wait a minute...]

[That might sound weird.]

[I need a map.]

"Next on our exclusive countdown, it's Bob the Builder."

[Lost it again.........]

Thursday 13th March 2008

2008-04-01T20:46:00.042+01:00

So far away
I wish you were here
Before it's too late this could all disappear

7:15am. Dawn in C'an Pastilla, and (pretty much) all is well with the world. I draw the curtains of Room 323 to reveal a panoramic view of the Tramontana Mountains, before standing on the balcony and breathing in the fresh Mediterranean air. A year ago I was sweating more than Pete Burns at a 'Guess The Sex' Competition, as the pressure of the Swansea presentations threatened to overcome me. But now, life is opening up like never before, and I can relax once again in the company of great people. Hopefully this account of the week's events will be less autobiographical than Swansea, and focus instead on the events and the characters that will make up this incredible week. One thing's for sure: with no more field trips on the horizon, it's going to be a long, LONG time before we experience another week like this one.

7:45am. After discovering a goldmine last night at the local supermarket "EROSKI", I fancy taking an early morning stroll down there again. Menorca and Ibiza slowly rise from their respective slumbers; Menorca looks in a puzzled way at his mobile phone, which is playing a bizarre and frankly tuneless ringtone. The song is loosely based on some sort of reggae jingle (if reggae had been recorded by mediocre British men in their late 30s), while the words are sounding more cringeworthy with each listen.

*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Spanish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Spanish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life...

[repeat to fade]

Later on today, Menorca will admit that this ditty is quite possibly the most appalling ringtone known to man.

Down in the streets of C'an Pastilla, nothing is stirring. The local SPAR is still closed, as are a litany of streetside cafes and souvenir shops. I round the corner to Eroski and, to my horror, discover a sheet of corrugated iron blocking the doorway. Shut. Clearly the local siesta is not restricted to the afternoon, but quite what the residents do when they run out of milk in the morning is anyone's guess. I prepare to head back to the Hot Linda empty-handed, when on my left I spot a newsagent/craft shop hybrid. The advice we were given before leaving Glasgow was to avoid the local water like the plague (ironic, since swallowing the aforementioned water would probably lead to a localised plague of sorts), so we've been forced to buy bottled water instead. But you can hardly argue when the shops are selling 5 litres for 80 cents. I bound out of the shop, proud of my purchase, as if I've just won my hundredth cap in international football. But I bet this doesn't make as many headlines.

Proud: Beckham

8:00am. Breakfast at the Hot Linda, and I take my seat with Menorca, Bilbao and Murcia. Rumours are swirling that the staff have imposed a ban on the smuggling of water into the restaurant, which would correlate with the scenes of last night, when students were charged €2.40 for the privelege of sipping from the local streams (metaphorically). Officer Dibble is scanning the restaurant with his radar-like eyes, looking for his chance to pounce. I decide not to bother opening my recently-purchased water bottle, opting instead for a banquet of cereal, milk, croissants, bacon, egg and sausage. The sausage is a bit watery, granted, but I'd say it's pretty darned tasty. The buffet table in the centre of the room has some rather bizzare contents, though. There's even a supply of peas and chips at the far side.

Hold on...peas and chips...at breakfast? Valladolid thought he was seeing things.

Breakfast, anyone?

9:00am. Today's festivities will centre on a bus tour of the island, taking in the Tramontana Mountains, Palma's Old Town and the flat plains of Inca. And Sa Pobla. Lovely Sa Pobla. We locate Denis Norden at reception, who leads us down to the beach with vigour and haste. Remarkably, the vast majority of shops are still shut, prompting me to wonder if the town of C'an Pastilla EVER wakes up. At the beach, Cordoba is walking the promenade with a confident swagger when all of a sudden he trips on the pavement. As he struggles to regain his composure, Denis Norden turns round and starts chuckling wryly. Behind that laid-back, non-commital demeanour, I get the feeling that Norden has a rather dark sense of humour. Which is fair enough, as long as it doesn't catch up with him one of these days.

"WOAH!"

Denis Norden promptly collides with a bicycle rack, falling forwards into the solid metal structure and almost completely losing his footing. What was that I was saying about humour catching up with you, Denis? As Norden struggles back to a standing base, I start laughing to myself about the calamity of it all. But I shouldn't mock: if this chain of events continues, I'll probably be the next one taking a pratfall.

Pratfall: Ronnie Corbett

9:15am. A recuperating Denis Norden launches into a detailed description of the Majorcan economy, which revolves mainly around tourism. The majority of the group projects this week will involve tourism in one form or another, so it's all relevant stuff. Quite what the relevance is of a trip to the peri-urban zone of Sa Pobla is another debate for another day, but Norden kicks off the day with a fairly interesting speech. The main distraction in all of this is Benidorm, who is repeatedly shuffling sand onto Vigo's foot for no apparent reason. Strange. Very strange indeed. Vigo doesn't seem to mind, either.

10:00am. The tour finally hits the road, heading west towards Palma then looping North-West in search of the Tramontana Mountains. They're not hard to find, rising 4,000 feet from the plains of Central Mallorca. I will alternate between the spellings of Majorca and Mallorca for the next seven days, but I guess we'll just have to live with that. Come on, you all do it too.

A signpost to Arsenal's new stadium at the Emirates, no doubt

10:30am. The village of Bunyola, home to a quaint railway station and sitting amidst the stunning scenery of Western Majorca. Tenerife gathers together a group of about thirty students (we seem to have split into multiple factions somewhere between C'an Pastilla and here, but I'm not sure how or why), and begins explaining the agricultural history of the Mallorcan mountains. The most striking feature to me is the shrubbery on the hilltops: the mountains of Scotland are some of the most spectacular and famous on Planet Earth, but there's certainly no plant life on the summits of Goatfell or Ben Lomond. Just random tourists like me, getting lost on moors. Tenerife then describes the physical geography of the plains underneath, referring to them as the 'Piedmont'.

"How do you spell Piedmont?", asks Cordoba.

Tenerife looks bemused at the simplicity of this question
- "P I E D M O N T."

He turns round and starts talking again, describing the underlying plants of the area as 'Carob'.

"How do you spell Carob?", asks Benidorm.

Tenerife is shocked at the percieved lack of linguistic skills of his geographers.

"C A R O B."

He shakes his head and returns to his speel, asking the students to draw a 'field diagram' detailing the physical geography in front of them. I'm slightly confused that Tenerife is talking to us about physical geography, after I spent 10 weeks doing a Human Geography class with him. Anyway, he finishes his speech by reminding us of a theory known as 'McSherry', which is something to do with the cultivation of land (or something like that). Turning to Cordoba and Benidorm, in a moment of supreme satire, he proclaims,

"Now that's spelt, M C - Sherry."

The man's a comic genius. The group chuckle heartily. Cordoba and Benidorm look humbled.

11:00am. The tour continues apace, with the town of Valledemossa next on the agenda. Certain questions remain unanswered as the bus enters a magnificent vallery filled with greenery. Namely - why in the heck did Bilbao ask Tenerife where the next Real Mallorca game was being played? That's hardly a geography question, after all. For the record, their next game is on Saturday, when they'll be playing away from home. And I bet you they lose 2-0. I bloomin' well bet you.

Gran Canaria leads us to a local car park, amidst protestations from Benidorm that he "looks under pressure". He promptly tells us to sit down on the ground (do you know how uncomfortable tarmac is is 20C heat, mate?) and starts reading from a pre-drafted sheet of paper. It's an interesting speech, all about the recent influx of foreign millionaires and celebrities like Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Benidorm watches with an increasing smirk on his face, convinced that the whole speech has been nicked from the gossip columns of OK Magazine. But Gran Canaria continues regardless, even arguing that the Spanish government bailed out Douglas and Zeta-Jones when their cultural centre failed to reach its monetary targets. All in all, it's an interesting dose of human geography, which makes his final remark all the more stinging for the physicians among the group.

"And now, Lanzarote will tell you about some rocks."

Ouch. I wonder if that line will ever get back to Lanzarote. Part of me hopes so.

Douglas: Bailed out

11:30am. Lanzarote does indeed talk to us about some rocks, up on a hillside above the town. But not before Cordoba asks to take an impromptu toilet break in nearby shrubbery. And so does Benidorm. And Valladolid. And practically half the class, from the looks of things. It turns out that Lanzarote never hears about the sarcasm shown by his esteemed colleague Gran Canaria. Which is just as well. The ensuing fight would have been quite ugly.

On the way back to the coach, Denis Norden seems quite agitated. A fellow survivor of Prestwick Academy (or P*******k A*****y) Jerez, asks what the matter is. Norden replies with typical honesty:

"Where have the other staff gone? They've all b******d off!"

The character of Norden is beginning to shine through. He may have the voice of the presenter from 'It'll Be Alright On The Night', but his persona is gradually resembling that of Victor Meldrew from One Foot In The Grave.

Persona: Meldrew

12:30pm. At long last, the capital city of Palma is reached. I don't know much about this place, except to say that it's very big, so I have absolutely no idea what to expect when the coach veers onto the promenade (or is that more of a British word?). The sight before me is nothing short of stunning. An overwhelmingly dimensioned Cathedral is staring me in the face: ornate, historic, and almost too daunting to consider entering.

Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.

Pictures don't really do this sight justice, so I'll show you one anyway. WWE commentators describe the 7-foot, 500-pound giant 'Big Show' as the Largest Athlete In The World (and the way he assaulted Floyd Mayweather at Wrestlemania, who would disagree with him?), but I think Majorca Cathedral could legitimately lay claim to being the Largest Church In The World. No matter what angle you view it from, however far away, it takes your breath away, almost literally.

Largest Athlete In The World

Largest Church In The World?

12:45pm. Outside the Cathedral, Denis Norden sets the scene brilliantly, describing Palma as an energetic and dynamic hub of Majorquin life. Above us, the sun is blisteringly hot, forcing many students to tap into their finite supply of Sun Tan Lotion. Norden then cooks up a bizarre plan, which involves us walking round the city for the next hour "noting down anything interesting", then returning to the buses at 2pm. Bear in mind, this is during our lunch hour, and we've not eaten anything since we had those watery sausages at breakfast. Suffice to say, there won't be much note-taking over the next hour.

Speaking of those sausages, Cordoba is beginning to feel a bit ill this afternoon. He's blaming the sausages for his prolonged queeziness, and the likes of Benidorm and Vigo aren't sure if he'll last the day in this searing (sp?) heat.

1:00pm. Rather than following Denis Norden's instructions and "noting down anything interesting", 108 of us are instead seeking out the best venue for lunch. I run into Bilbao at the top of the hill next to the Cathedral, and he looks as clueless as the rest of us. The map of Palma we were given by the Geography Department is, with the greatest of respect, about as reliable as a Scotland manager's contract. The street names are faded, the scale is too small, and we can't read a ruddy word of it. So we go walkabouts in search of the ideal restaurant/patisserie/Subway. On the way we bump into Elche, a Level 3 student who is leaving Glasgow University in the summer but decided to come along for the trip anyway. The irony is, he's a Subway employee back in Glasgow, but he can't locate the local Subway for me out here. Mark my words: before the week is out, I'll have held a very special Spanish Subway Marathon!

1:30pm. Completely out of the blue, and by accident rather than design, we seem to have stumbled into the city's main square, the Plaza Mayor. And what a square it is. It puts Burns Statue Square in Ayr to shame (no offence to the Bard). We recently passed Valladolid, Alicante, Zaragoza and others at a streetside cafe, but Zaragoza gave the premises a negative review. Emphatically negative, in fact. So we're wandering about the place looking about as lost as Pete Doherty at a 'Round The World' Sail. With no boat.

Round the corner, Elche locates a sign for a local McDonalds. "It's in the Plaza Cort", he says, "let's follow this sign." Yes. I know it's one of those reprehensible global brands that exploits its workforce, tramples upon the local culture and fills its food with fat. Allegedly. But we're ruddy starving here, and we'd happily take a Big Mac or McChicken Sandwich for a suitable fee. However, upon following the sign, problems arise. We turn round, and the other side of the sign is pointing the OTHER WAY! What the heck is this, a cruel trick being played on us poor British tourists? Is this what happens to supporters of globalisation: they get played like fools abroad?

We're almost at the point of admitting defeat when we find a local bakery serving delicious baguettes for €2:50. Ah, bliss. I get the feeling I'll be purchasing a lot of these over the next week. Up at the Plaza Mayor we run into Menorca, so along with Bilbao and Elche we stroll back down to the promenade. Well, we think we're going in the direction of the promenade. Truth be told, none of us have any proof.

1:45pm. Further downhill, a range of people including Benidorm, Valladolid, Barcelona, Valencia and Sevilla are roaming the streets. Sevilla will join myself, Barcelona and Valencia in researching gentrification this week, but since I know absolutely nothing about gentrification (I'm still struggling to explain its definition to people), I hope Sevilla's knowledge of the subject is vast and wide-ranging. Then maybe I can do my bit for the team by doing the presentation on Wednesday.

*insert fear*

2:00pm. I'm increasingly worried that the coach will leave for Sa Pobla without us (they're not even taking head-counts this year: what the heck is that all about?) but Barcelona, Valencia and Sevilla reassure me otherwise. At the promenade, there's still no sign of Menorca, Ibiza or Bilbao, prompting fears that they lost their bearings up at the Plaza Mayor. I left them high and dry to purchase my €2:50 baguette, and not only am I worried about the bus situation, it also looks like I "dingied" them. That will become one of the most reguularly used phrases of the weeks, along with "gentrification". And "I should tell her how I feel".

Finally, Menorca, Ibiza and Bilbao show up, to my immense relief. Cordoba, on the other hand, is still missing. Benidorm confirms his whereabouts in a chat with Lleida and Santander, and it's not good news.

"Cordoba got a taxi home - he's been sick after eating those watery sausages at breakfast."

Uh-oh. Those watery sausages at breakfast, the ones everyone had...including me. And I enjoyed them, which adds to the confusion somewhat. This does not bode well, but the first thing to establish is Cordoba's health. Lleida says he'll probably be fine in a few hours, and Santander describes it as a mild case of food poisoning. Both girls look rather worried as they say it, though.

Behind me, the lecturers are far less concerned. Denis Norden and Lanzarote are laughing off the 'sausage' theory, clearly implying that Cordoba's ill health is due to a few too many beers last night. Given that none of us got that drunk last night, I'd question their sincerity on this issue.

I should point out, of course, that Cordoba, Valladolid, Benidorm and the others did try to get drunk last night. They just didn't find anywhere that was lively enough.

3:00pm. The coach convoy roars past Inca, not even bothering to stop for a brief foray into the town. Tenerife explains that the drivers are "not really for stopping", and that we must travel onwards to Sa Pobla with haste and gusto. Why, I'm not so sure. By all accounts Sa Pobla is hardly Midtown Manhattan at the best of times, and on a Thursday afternoon the town is as deserted as a Paul Burrell book signing (3 people turned up, apparently - they must have some deep-rooted psychological problems). Tenerife gathers everyone round for another charismatic promo explaining the agriculture of Sa Pobla's peri-urban zone. Only Tenerife could make it sound remotely interesting. Talk then turns to the new motorway between Palma and Inca, and Tenerife struggles to remember the journey time prior to the road's construction.

"Denis Norden's here somewhere...ah, there you are sitting over there. Denis, how long did it take from Palma to Inca when we started running this trip?"

Denis chuckles heartily, shaking his head.

"That was 20 years ago - I'm an old man now, I've forgotten these things!"

Tenerife scowls, retorting - "He's lying! You can't get the staff these days." The comical interlude gets me thinking about who would win a real fight between members of the department, should any underlying tension explode one day. I speak to Madrid, who is the oldest member of our gentrification group, and one of the more knowledgable and articulate members of the squad of 108. His money would be on Tenerife if it came to a fight. "He's got that moustache: I reckon he's an es-SAS man", notes Madrid.

3:15pm. We prepare to leave Sa Pobla which, interestingly, has now broken the record for the most easterly point I've ever stood on Earth. Although I wouldn't mind travelling further East with Nerina Pallot (she could visit her father's family in India, and it would get the two of us away from this wretched weather), the truth is that I've never escaped the clutches of Western Europe. In the meantime, Tenerife warns the students of the impending danger on the main road, pleading with us to stop and wait for the traffic to quieten.

"Stop there, stop there, stop there, stop there......"

Everyone keeps going. Tenerife shrugs his shoulders in a admission of rare defeat.

"......Keep going then."

Nerina: Would enjoy warmer climate

4:00pm. The coach convoy takes a detour that could best be described as bizarre, snaking through a bunch of country lanes at about 12mph. it's like commuting in Guernsey, this. Only without the morning fog and roadside honesty stalls. Ibiza is sat next to me, but in scenes reminiscent of the journey home from Swansea, the two of us are too tired to attempt speaking to each other, Can you get jetlag from a 3 hour flight? It sure feels like it.

Of the 122 hardy souls who returned from Swansea on that interminable coach journey, a full 108 have stayed on to Honours Geography and made the trip to Majorca. Only fourteen people are missing this time, but unfortunately, two of them are Newport and Merthyr Tydfil. I didn't really get to know Merthyr much in Swansea, a decision I now regret wholeheartedly, but I spent a lot of time with Newport that week. Then she seemed to disappear off the face of the Earth, and I haven't seen her once since Swansea. In retrospect, actually, that was probably a blessing in disguise. She had a lot of baggage, in more ways than one. And I'm not talking the kind of baggage that Smeaton handles.

Tenerife grabs the in-house (or in-bus) microphone, and introduces Gomera to us. Gomera will be our interpreter for the week, but does not teach geography at University like the other staff members. We're not too sure about the direction of his introductory speech, in which he encourages us to "look out the window and note the geography you see". That's sound advice, I suppose, but if I try and note it all, I could be here a while.

Neil Oliver: Notes all examples of geography

Cartagena is still singing: it's a megamix of all the songs we enjoyed in our childhood. And, indeed, some of the ones we didn't. I drift off in a strange hybrid of consciousness, unconciousness, half-consciousness and deep thought. It's been a mammoth year for all concerned, but we've essentially got six months off after the end of this trip. I'm not happy at all about that: if I was in charge, every week would be like Swansea and Majorca, free from the stresses/mediocrity of normal life and in a great environment filled with banter. And unforgettable incidents......

*FLASHBACK*

Monday 3rd December 2007

We sat there like we did every Monday. The jukebox played a variety of pop and rock classics, including (but not restricted to) Billy Ocean, Johnny Cash and The Eagles. They don't make 'em like they used to. Well, not usually. The host rifled through the sheets, totting up the scores with precision and accuracy. Valladolid, Benidorm, Marbella and Santander waited pensively for the all-important announcement. Then it came.

"And the scores at the end of that round...'The Chinese Tractor Racers' are still in front with 28 points...'Honey I Bukkaked The Kids' are 2nd with 24."

Ah, the relief. The intangible relief. It was Monday Night at the Liquid Ship pub quiz, and the 'Tractor Racers' were on the way to another victory.

"Round 4 is the Lucky Dip round. Question 1 - how many Oscars did the Godfather Part II win?"

We didn't have a ruddy clue. Valladolid's flatmate would probably have known, as he comes from America, is currently studying Film & TV and knows everything there is to know about The Oscars. I, on the other hand, hate all movies. Apart from comedies. Valladolid decided to text his flatmate, while Marbella and Benidorm peered at their own mobiles in a search for inspiration. Who could they text that would know the answer? Was this even legal? Would we get ejected from the premises for breaking the pub quiz rules?

Comedic: Ace Ventura

Unconvinced by our chances of finding the correct answer, I sat shuffling my feet and looking at the ground. Santander, desparate for some sort of inspiration, leant over the candle sitting atop the table, as if changing her position would somehow alter this drastic aituation.

It altered the situation alright. And drastically.

I could smell burning.

Looking up from the ground, I felt myself recoiling in horror at the brutal scene before my eyes. Santander's hair was on fire!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Benidorm glanced up from his text messaging session, and pulled a face that suggested he'd just pressed the 'Detonate' button on a nuclear bomb (in a drunken incident, no doubt). Marbella was too shocked to move, rooted to his seat in a split second of horrifed panic. Valladolid was still texting, for pity's sake. And I didn't know what the frig to do with myself. How was she going to extinguish the flames? She looked absolutely terrified, flailing her head about manically. How did this happen? Fire in Glasgow - what if it was terrorism? Where's Smeaton when you need him?

In a moment that will earn him critical acclaim and plaudits for a long time to come, the pub quiz host leapt from his lofty perch and sprung to Santander's aid, grabbing her jacket from behind her chair and wrapping it over her head in an act of superb spontaneity. The flames were out. Glory be to the lord above. Valladolid had only just looked up from the text he was sending, and had missed the whole thing. The pub quiz host, who had one eye that looked strangely different from the other (luckily they both worked tonight), jumped back atop his chair and wryly smiled.

"Sorry about that - things are really heating up in this week's quiz."

With disasterous death (alliteration) now averted, Santander was the butt of jokes for the rest of the night. The pub quiz host would later remark that the entire incident was caught on CCTV, and that the aforementioned footage was "hilarious". But life is to meant to be lived to the full, and if that means swirling your flaming head around in full view of the general public, then so be it. Selfishly, I was just glad it wasn't me on fire (although my hair isn't as long to start with), and we could get on with winning the pub quiz. We secured 20 bottles of Stella Artois that night, but got the £175 question wrong. And yes, it was a Geography question. We might be able to tell you all about the geo-spatial relations between urban planning and agricultural pedestrianisation (made-up phrase), but apparently we don't know that Argentina is bigger than Sudan.

You'll never guess the song they played at the end, either. It was another Johnny Cash classic, a song with great rythym and meaning. A song that has stood the test of time. And a song that wasn't wholly irrelevant, given the events earlier on.

Ring of Fire.

*END OF FLASHBACK*

4:30pm. The coach grinds to a halt, jolting me back to life. I was having a dream that Ibiza was sat next to me on the bus talking to me, which is almost 100% accurate, except he's not actually talking. I hate to admit it, but today has started to drag. As the hours wore on, I felt more like a pensioner on a Dodds bus tour (stereotypical) than an Honours Geography student on a field trip. But never mind, the Gentrification project will start tomorrow, and business will pick up then. Tenerife then grabs the mic and announces that, contrary to popular belief, the coach tour has still not finished yet.

*turns to camera like Harry Hill, sighs impatiently*

We are instructed to leave the bus with our belongings, walk past an aquarium that we randomly stopped at and head to the beach. When we finally get there, Fuerteventura hits us with a 20-minute tirade about the commercialisation of the Majorquin coastline. He seems like he's on the rampage, but I'm not quite sure why. He's the only staff member that got to go to Swansea last year and Majorca this year, so I'd say he hit it rather lucky.

5:00pm. Fuerteventura is still talking. He certainly has a lot to say about the touristification of Palma's shoreline, but I'm now becoming more concerned with the rumbling of my stomach than any offshore platforms or coastal seabed erosion. A random dude with a moustache walks past, but even his attention cannot be kept by this veritable blitz of Physical Geography. Then, Fuerteventura starts asking us questions. Hrmph. Fuerteventura knows his coastal onions, I'll give him that, but the vast majority of people here are doing Human Geography projects. This is going to be about as fruitful as Simon Cowell's search for the "next big British Superstar" on the 2004 X Factor, which left us with Steve freakin' Brookstein.

Brookstein: 'Superstar'

Fuerteventura asks us what the major characteristics of storms are. Out of nowhere, Getafe springs to life and replies, "Flooding." Ah, things just got interesting, Getafe's woken up. Fuerteventura fires back: "What causes flooding then?"

"Tidal surges."

"It's a storm surge, not a tidal surge", retorts Fuerteventura, "Now why am I correcting you?"

Getafe's response is a beezer.

"I don't know, I had to be corrected."

The group breaks out in a snigger. Fuerteventura is momentarily in a state of shock, then retreats from battle and asks the rest of the group, "What happens when there's a storm?" Looks like 1-0 to Getafe from where I'm standing. Getafe scares Fuerteventura.

5:15pm. Hierro takes over the reins and gives an interesting talk on the provision of tourist services for Brits and Germans, in Magaluf and Arenal respectively. Magaluf sounds like a scream, albeit an expensive, booze-fuelled train wreck of a scream. Somewhere amidst this speech, Hierro somehow manages to proclaim his support for Scots folk music, a decision that pleases me greatly, and will please fans everywhere of Runrig, Wolfstone, Capercaillie et al.

Runrig: Endorsed by Hierro

5:30pm. Full circle. Our walk along the promenade (I've decided that word must be French: it just sounds it) takes us back to the beach at C'an Pastilla, where Denis Norden will give one last brief speech. It's a moment that Valladolid will rightly describe as 'Deja Vu', except it's not quite as interesting as the video for Beyonce's No.1 hit 'Deja Vu'. But then, what on earth is?

Walking along the beach, it's obvious that Valencia and Barcelona have been inseparable since their meeting at Swansea last year. So inseparable, in fact, that Barcelona's habit of quoting Alan Partridge endlessly has worn off on Valencia, without her even knowing it. This evening, she's describing the weather conditions in C'an Pastilla as "hotter than the sun", but I'm sure she doesn't know that the origins of that quote lay in an Alan Partridge scene involving an 800C apple turnover.

Interesting: Deja Vu video

5:45pm. In the midst of a football kickabout, Denis Norden (who unfortunately doesn't join in) asks if any of us have ever been to Palma before. Alicante replies, "I came here when I was 12." Norden is inquisitive, and responds, "is it how you remembered it eight years ago?" "Well, no, it felt a lot bigger back then," says Alicante. Given that Alicante was probably about half the size at the time, I guess that figures. Although as that Father Ted sketch showed, gaining a sense of perspective and size can be more difficult than you think.

7:00pm. Dinner at long last...isn't it? Well, no, not as it turns out. We'd originally been told that food would be served at 6pm every night, but by the time Lanzarote enters the room and launches into his review of the day, it could almost be time for Coronation Street to start. Oh, wait...we're an hour ahead of the UK aren't we? Scrap that analogy then, that just complicates things.

Lanzarote congratulates us for our stellar behaviour in the hotel last night, and draws our attention to the group of French students staying on the floor beneath us. "While we salute your good behaviour yesterday, and we're well aware of the din created by another group in the hotel, we wouldn't want you to go launching any revenge attacks tonight." Don't worry, Lanzarote, I'm sure we're all sensible enough to to resist any such notions of vengence. Cooler heads will prevail. There's nothing to worry about.

...absolutely nothing...

7:15pm. When I got back to the hotel I observed a fascinating game of crazy golf transpiring in the park beneath me. Zaragoza and Malaga were playing, amongst others, so I ask inqusitively who won the contest. Zaragoza raises his hand in victory: a proud, defiant gesture from a multi-talented sportsman. If only Adam Sandler had shown this kind of composure on the golf course, none of that carnage would have ensued.

Carnage: Sandler

The time comes for our supervisors to be allocated, and the system is haphazard to say the least. The lecturers walk about in a random fashion, asking the groups if they've been given a supervisor yet, until every group has met a suitable staff member. Time goes by ("so slowly" - Madonna 2005) before finally a Human Geographer approaches us. And what do you know, it's Denis Norden! Denis asks us a few brief questions about our impending study of gentrification, nods his head repeatedly and says,

"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."

Hmmmm, interestingly non-committal from Norden. This kind of interlude will occur regularly for the next seven days.

7:30pm. After a wait that is more painful than an in-ring dentistry session with Ricky Hatton, dinner is finally served. I'm perfectly happy with the night's offerings of salad and chicken, but across the camp, unrest is beginning to grow. Valladolid is incensed at the quality levels, or lack thereof, of the breakfasts and dinners, while Benidorm is worried about the health of Santander, who is suffering from an illness of her own. It's claimed that the paramedics were called out earlier this afternoon, after an incident involving abnormally low blood-sugar levels. Combining this with the Cordoba food poisoning scandal, one has to suggest that culinary standards in the Hot Linda are anything but flawless.

The Fire Drill map. In case I need it.

8:30pm. Time to head on up to Room 320, and properly get this show on the road. The 'sole purpose' of this field trip is to prepare us for our Honours Dissertation, and the various research methods we'll have to apply when we do the real thing in the summer. With that in mind, Barcelona and Sevilla are using their room as a base for crucial Summit Talks, G8 style, as the seven of us gather together to discuss our research methodology for gentrification.

The famous Quacking Torch

Unlike the dissertation, success or failure will not hinge on an 8,000 report, but instead on a 10-minute presentation (*insert fear*[CAPS LOCK]). Madrid, who I'm inclined to call the unofficial head of the group, has a range of ideas of how to impress the lecturers during the talk on Wednesday morning.

"Fuerteventura is obsessed with Physical Geography. He talks about nothing else! So why don't we incorporate physcial words into our presentation? He'll love that!"

"Yeah", says Barcelona, "you could describe how the areas of gentrification in Palma are reminiscent of a U-shaped valley or something."

"Or talk about the erosion of the working-class population from the Old Town", says Sevilla. Valencia giggles at that one.

"I know!", says Madrid, "Las Palmas is a feminist, isn't she? So she's bound to give us good marks if we somehow bring feminism into it."

I scowl somewhat. I studied feminist geography in February, and I saw right through the sham.

Madrid, though, is hatching a plan: "Rather than talking about gentrification, we could discuss the 'ladyfication' of Palma!"

The group chuckles heartily. Even though this discussion is only meant as a parody of the real presentation, it's still very entertaining. All parodies are entertaining.

"Or how about this", says Madrid, "since both men and women are getting displaced by the rising house prices, we could call it the 'Hermaphrification" of Palma!!!"

We're pretty much in hysterics by this point. But the comedy continues, as Barcelona inexplicably brings Michael Jackson into the conversation (I don't mean he literally turned up and started speaking: that would be quite a creepy experience), and we start thinking of ways that Jackson lyrics could be incorporated into the presentation.

"For the working class people, gentrification is bad, it's bad, you know it!"

"If you're getting priced out of your home, it doesn't matter if you're black or white."

"Right, that's the end of our presentation, now beat it!"

Unfortunately we can't think of anything for Thriller or Billie Jean, which is a great pity. I try to dream up one last parody, to keep the humour going a few more seconds.

"Has gentrification...led to an increase in smooth criminals?"

Bingo. Zaragoza and Madrid like that one, despite their polarising (good word) views on gentrification itself. Obviously, the time eventually comes to work, as we read some books on gentrification that we found in Glasgow. We didn't actually bring the books out with us: we just copied and pasted them as e-journals to our respective USBs. To steal/adapt a Jasper Carrott joke, I always wonder if e-journal is something a Yorkshire person says when they find a journal on their doorstep.

Carrott: Eeeee - Journal!

10:20pm. Denis Norden was supposed to meet us at 10pm, but it seems that his meeting with the Regional Identity group (including Menorca and Tarragona) has inadvertently overrun, much like the careers of all Osbournes. Eventually at 20 past he stumbles in, perching awkwardly on the table and moving rows of beer bottles as he does it. The half-hour conversation, much like the one three hours earlier, goes like this:

"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."

No-one could accuss him of trying to enforce his own views on the group, that's for sure. Norden stumbles off into the night having completely forgotten about our Daily Risk Assessment Forms. That's fair enough - none of us could be bothered filling them in anyway. I say my goodbyes to the group, but not before Barcelona asks me what my favourite Alan Partridge line is. I can't think of one on the spot, so I respond that my favourite scene was when Partridge had the dead cow dropped on him by irate farmers. Still makes me laugh today, that one.

Partridge: Deceased cow problems

10:50pm. Along at Room 323, I knock to see if Menorca or Ibiza are in. The response is quieter than the audience at the Brit Awards (have you ever noticed how rude and unresponsive they are to EVERYTHING?) so I decide to call my family in Prestwick via my ridiculously expensive Sony Ericsson K550i price plan. The news is not good for poor old Gretna FC, as it looks like they might not see out the weekend. Outside Room 325 I hear a fair bit of chatter, so decide to survey the scene. Inside are the room's three occupants, Valladolid, Marbella and Alicante, as well as La Coruna and Benidorm. They seem to be deep in thought as they examine the glossy pages of Zoo Magazine, determining the most impressive makes and models, the best shapes and specifications, and the most desirable rides on show. And after that, they look at the cars.

Benidorm sits me down. "Here McLovin" (they call me McLovin from Superbad, even though I don't have buck teeth), "this will help to educate you. Now, take a look at this page of women, and tell me which one you would most want to chat up in a nightclub."

This is a most perplexing question. I request more details.

"Do you mean, which one is the best looking?"

"No no no - which one do you think you'd have the most chance with?"

I'm not too keen on answering that, as it implies that the women on the page are all rather...how do you say it...easy? I'd rather stick with my original assumption, and pick the most attractive.

*turns to camera like Harry Hill* After all, this is what field work is all about.

Scanning the page, it appears obvious that, while all the candidates boast their own respective assets, only one has brunette/red (it's difficult to tell from this angle) hair. Since honesty is the best policy, I duly select her. "Good choice, McLovin", says Benidorm.

Valladolid grabs the smutty magazine, observes the pages and lets out a cackle - "He picked her because she looks most like Gibraltar!"

Woops. Have I been rumbled here?

I fall back onto the bed in mild humiliation, as the others laugh just as heartily as the gentrification group were a few minutes ago. But for altogether different reasons this time. Benidorm taps me on the stomach (I'm still not sure why), and in the confusion I let out a high-pitched scream. It's more than a tad embarrassing, but luckily it takes the attention away from my recent admission.

11:10pm. Valladolid, Marbella, Alicante, Benidorm and La Coruna are heading out to search for a club (or a lively bar: whichever's nearest), but I've already decided to stay in tonight and have a relatively quiet night. Speaking of Valladolid, I do apologise for the less-than-flattering picture of you and Vigo at the top of this journal. And I will strive to replace it with a more fitting JPeg. When I'm next at a computer with proper photo-editing software.

I'm stood on the balcony of 325, and from here the quickest way to 323 is to hop the balconies like some sort of risk-taking Colin Jackson. Unfortunately, I have only a fraction of Jackson's athletic prowess, so I'm going to have to clamber along the balconies with much less finesse. And I'll not be breaking the 110m hurdling Olympic Record either.

Finesse: Colin Jackson

I examine the balconies. They've been designed in such a way that it's remarkably easy to climb from room to room, so Lanzarote has warned us to lock all our balcony doors at night in a security measure. Alicante then joins me on the 325 balcony. He looks very worried for me.

"McLovin...what are you doing?"

"I'm going to climb over to my room."

And with that, I leap onto the barrier between 325 and 324, flinging my right leg over the other side. It's all going very well: I feel perfectly stable and safe up here. I'm not even remotely drunk at this stage. But then I turn round and face Alicante, and he's looks like he's having kittens (not literally, I think it's an old phrase).

"What if you fall off?"

No, no, there's no danger of that happening because...oh...wait a minute, he's got a point. Instead of having my back to the wall, which would be the much safer way of doing this...I'm facing the wall. Which means that behind me is a 40-foot drop to an unforgiving crazy golf course.

"Shengus!"

I hurriedly clamber off the dividing barrier betwen 325 and 324, landing on the comparatively safe ground of 324. Alicante had a point there, you know. One gust of wind and I would have been in amongst putting balls and ridiculous underground tunnels and stuff like that.

"That was so dangerous McLovin, you could have fallen off!"

Yes, good point Alicante. But then, you also said it was dangerous when I had my phone on Flight Mode during the flight yesterday.

11:30pm. Having negociated the second barrier the traditional way (if there is a traditional way to balcony-jumping) with my life intact, I'm back in the sanctuary of 323. Menorca and Ibiza have returned from their respective group meetings, and are partaking of a couple of inexpensive San Miguels, so I join them. It's been a long day, and I'm not sure if the field trip has quite sprung into life yet. But we've been hampered by dodgy timetabling, dodgy food and a bus tour that was as energy-sapping as a Freddie Flintoff nightime paddle. But tomorrow, the field trip really begins. Our research will take us into Palma's Old Town, where we'll have no restrictions and no limitations. It'll be up to us to decide if Gentrification really is pricing out the working class from Palma, and along the way, it'll be a heck of a journey.

Flintoff: Worse for Wear

[I should tell her how I feel.]

1:00am. Just about time to go to bed, and Ibiza has uncovered a glorious scam in the in-room TV. Channel 14 is assigned to a German station, but Ibiza has noticed that if you switch the TV off then on again, 14 suddenly starts showing BBC Three! Ok, it's not the best of channels (it was responsible for unleashing Little Miss Jocelyn, one of the few TV shows that I believe deserves unabaiting criticism), but it does show nightly double bills of Family Guy, so it's good for something.

Menorca recalls the bizarre sight earlier today of Denis Norden exiting Eroski with a bag full of wine, laughing and proclaiming loudly: "That's me got the supplies in!" Surely I've not landed up with a drunkard as my Project Supervisor, eh? This of all weeks? It's bad enough that we'll all be 'drinking in moderation' for most of the week anyway, but if Norden gets plastered too then we're all stuffed. And I mean that in a metaphorical sense. I think......

*Family Guy segment, overheard whilst drifting in and out of consciousness*

Brian: Ugh, I can't believe you're serving a three year sentence. It seems so harsh.

Lois: Well, the only upside is that its given me time to think about why I ended up in here. I guess I was stealin' because I was so sick of the same old routine, I felt like I had a void in my life, like, like, there was a secret hole in me--

Quagmire: Giggidy.

Lois: --and I was tryin to fill that hole with all kinds of expensive objects, and things--

Quagmire: Giggidy-giggidy!!!

Lois: --and I felt wonderful with all those things fillin' that hole.

Quagmire: GIGGIDY-GIGGIDY-GIGGIDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lois: I did this to myself, so I'm just gonna have to lay back and let the penal system teach me a lesson.

Quagmire (in deadpan voice): That one is also sexual.

*to be progressed*

Wednesday 12th March 2008

2008-03-23T14:35:00.024Z

How do you top the untoppable?

The air is still, the sky grey, in the early throes of a typical Paisley afternoon. You lean against the singular pain of glass supporting the Gilmour Street bus stop, poised and ready for the arrival of the No. 300 service. The stop is Non Smoking. That's good news. Around the corner chugs a bus full of families and locals playing 'Happy Hardcore' at the back, but you board regardless. Apart from anything else, you want to distance yourself from the rather neddy looking guy at the other stop. You jump on, suitcase in hand, and shove a rail/bus-link ticket in the driver's face. A year or two ago he probably would have refused it. That's how life always used to be. But in 2008 he nods his head uncharismatically and says "right pal". Life has changed in the last year.

Paisley has changed too. But not for the better.

As the bus approaches the M8 flyover at Junction 28, it takes a swinging left turn, jolting the passengers as it suddenly undertakes a guided tour of the Renfrew road system. Roundabout after roundabout after roundabout: the bus negociates a route with more twists and turns than a Heather Mills court case. Eventually it circumnavigates a long-stay car park, turning 270 degrees and re-crossing its original path. Straight ahead is a mess of temporary crash barriers and road blockades. And concrete blocks. It's 2008 in the Western World, and the bus is being restricted by concrete blocks. The driver chicanes between each line of blocks, finally breaking free and pulling up outside the Main Terminal of Glasgow International Airport. You thank him profusely, stepping off the bus to be faced by a scene of quiet contemplation.

Glasgow Airport is still a building site after the horrific events of June 30th 2007, when two maniacal terrorists drove a blazing car into the terminal building. Allegedly. It was supposed to kill hundreds of little children flying out for their summer holidays. It was supposed to kill your brother, who was flying out for New York that very weekend. It was supposed to kill the Scottish way of life. But it failed. Scotland came out fighting, stronger than ever before, led by a baggage handler by the name of John Smeaton. And now a year later, you too stand charged with the task of coming back stronger than ever. You stand charged with the task of topping the greatest week of your life. Topping the Geography field trip to Swansea. Topping the untoppable. Can you do it?

Well, maybe with a little help from your friends...

Wednesday 12th March 2008

And if you wanted to
Then there's nothing left to do
Let's start a band

12:30pm. Striding through the automatic doors and immediately bearing left, I locate a queue of people packed to the rafters with geographers. Most of them are strangers to me, which is surprising given the remarkable number of people I met at Swansea. However, I can locate a couple of staff members mingling with students and distributing the soon-to-be-invaluable Majorca Handbooks. For argument's sake, let's call them Las Palmas and Lanzarote.

(Oh yes, the coded names have returned. But this time, in Spanish.)

Towards the front of the queue are two students named Zaragoza and Malaga. Both gentlemen will be in my group as we carry out a research project on the gentrification of Palma city centre, but for now they remain out of reach at Check-in Desk 32. Behind me, a guy I know from Swansea and the occasional Thought lecture, Oviedo, joins the queue, so I go over to chat to him. Before we know it, we're at the front of the queue getting asked if we're "travelling together" (I'd rather it wasn't worded like that, but yes, we might as well sit together) and if I have any "sharp objects" in my belongings. Already cruising in autopilot, I answer "yes" before realising my mistake. I haven't had much sleep or rest recently, as the weight of Geography projects has gotten on top of me slightly, but I should really try and be more attentive. Otherwise, security will haul me out in front of the building and Smeaton will give me another doing.

Doing: Smeaton

1:00pm. One by one, people are showing up. Menorca has texted me to say he's at the back of the queue, which is a relief. I'll be rooming with him and Ibiza for the next week, and they're both solid guys, as the phrase goes. After checking in, I scour the queue to find any more familiar faces, and immediately pick out Barcelona, Valencia and La Coruna. Barcelona and Valencia are now a couple, having formed in the most unlikely of places, my Physical Geography group in Swansea. As Tony Blair once said, now is not the time for soundbytes, but I felt the hand of history on my shoulder at the time.

La Coruna introduced herself to me after Swansea, and due to the relevant social circles moving the way they do, I've gotten to know her quite well over the last year. Barcelona and Valencia, on the other hand, have been continually out of reach of me, and it's irked me ever since Swansea that I spend practially no time with them. I usually sit at Geography lectures with other people, and I'm always worried that it looks like an intentional snub. With that in mind, the only logical decision was to join their research group for Majorca, so here I stand discussing gentrification with the two of them (and talking about Alan Partridge with Barcelona). It could almost be Swansea again. I like that.

1:15pm. Lanzarote hands us the Official Majorca Handbooks, and we frantically turn to the photos page to see how we all look. Only, there's a problem. Yes, the field trip hasn't even begun yet, and the Geography Department have botched it up royally. On the page for students with Surnames A-M, only two photos have been printed, while the rest of the page is whiter than a Ku Klux Klan shareholders' meeting. La Coruna jokes that the Department can't get anything right - she's still waiting for the return of an essay she wrote in December, mainly because Betws-y-Coed (he's not coming to Majorca, so that's his Swansea name) is so busy at the moment. I'm slightly miffed, as I was looking forward to putting faces to names, and now I only have names. I feel incomplete, much like the audience of 'Lily Allen and Friends' after half of them walked out.

Ku Klux Klan: 'Not anti-black, just pro-white'

I ask La Coruna where Valladolid and his mates are. Valladolid is one of my closest friends, especially after the post-Swansea binge of April and May that seemingly took in every bar and nightclub in Glasgow. And especially after I kept sleeping on his spare couch without properly asking. La Coruna informs me that Valladolid et al have "gone to Frankie and Benny's". Unfortunately, I don't quite hear her. In an attempt to pretend that I did, I reply, "So are they maybe at Burger King then?" La Crouna looks confused, and responds with a smile, "No, I'd say they'll probably be at Frankie and Benny's, Craig." Ah, yes. Good point. Given that you already said they'd be at Frankie and Benny's, they'll probably be at Frankie and Benny's. I decide I need to properly wake up.

Menorca and Ibiza are further up the queue, and joining them is Farajan. Menorca and Ibiza are trustworthy people to room with, so I have nothing to worry about as I embark on my first ever trip to the "Med"(iterranean). Getafe, on the other hand, is examining the damage from the terrorist attack with an eery look of calm on his face. Given his anti-Blair, anti-Bush political views, I'm slightly worried by his reaction to the whole thing.

Getafe scares me.

1:45pm. After heading up the escalators and towards International Departures, I run into Valladolid, Benidorm, Córdoba, Vigo, Alicante and Marbella. They're storming out of Frankie and Benny's, and they don't look too happy. Seven days pass before I get a full explanation of the events that transpires, but Bilbao eventually explained all. To cut a long story short, the group asked the waiter if they could use any meal deals on the premises. The waiter took the hump, proclaiming loudly "NO!" When the group noted that all other branches of Frankie and Benny's offer student deals, the waiter took leave of his senses, barking, "Look, if you want deals, then go to Greggs." So go to Greggs they did. As for me, I just went straight to Greggs from the outset. There's no real point spending an extortionate amount of money on airport food, especially if your flight later experiences turbulence.

Scooch: Cause air-related nausea

2:15pm. Most of the group are now through Customs and mingling in the duty free area before Gate 20A. Menorca is more optimistic about the trip than when I last spoke to him on Friday night, but then, Friday was a very strange night. Very, VERY strange. I spent a truly enjoyable evening in Maryhill at a band night with Merthyr Tydfil, raising funds for her impending trip to Trinidad. However, we then went to Cheesy Pop at the QMU, where I was punched in the jaw by a former Subway worker. Then physically threatened outside by a random scumbag ("Was that you on the dancefloor, EH? D'ye want tae go at it?"). Then we got back to Menorca's flat, and his neighbours had kicked three holes in the door in a drunken incident. So it wasn't really the ideal time to chat about Majorca. But in the cold light of day, he's relishing the opportunity to live it up in the Mediterranean Sea with 107 Geography colleagues.

Staff members Las Palmas and Gran Canaria are still perusing the newspaper stands at WH Smith, so there's no rush. To their left is a woman who looks like Susan Kennedy from Neighbours. Little do I know it at the time, but we'll eventually find a lookalike for her husband in Palma. Seriously.

2:30pm. I run into Alicante, a passionate foot-soldier for the Tartan Army, outside the entrance to Dixons in International Departures. He has quite a spring in his step, and is especially looking forward to the inevitable post-presentations booze-up on Tuesday night. Will a jaunt to Magaluf be on the cards, he wonders? However, trouble is on the horizon. We glance at the increasingly-invaluable Majorca Handbook, turning to the timetable for the week ahead, and there is a rather large discrepancy. The presentations have been moved from Tuesday evening to - get this - Wednesday morning at 10:30am.

Yes, without our permission, we've been given another day of work and our last night of fun in Majorca has effectively been cancelled. Way to go, guys. Alicante is fuming, and begins planning some sort of mutiny, in a move akin to Ahmed's classic "military coup" in Big Brother 5 (the best series). I'm not sure if it'll catch on, though. Staff members like Gran Canaria and Fuerteventura can be notorious for shouting down voices of dissent, and it's highly unlikely that any such coup will profer much success. Even if Alicante is a "raging ginger", as Marbella correctly points out.

2:45pm. La Laguna is sitting across the departure lounge with a bunch of guys I've never seen before, including Sabadell and Logrono. Technically, all Geography students are supposed to attend the Thought and Techniques lecture that operate throughout term-time, but I guess they must have had problems with their alarms. Um, all of them. Every morning. Anyway, I make a point of saying Hi to La Laguna, as I don't see her that much. The last time I spent proper time with her was in January, at another mad flat party at Valladolid's, when she noted her displeasure at my omittance of her "beautiful looks in the Swansea Blog". This was an oversight on my part, so I'm happy to set the record straight here and now.

Do You Feel The Power Of The Gladiators? (AWOOGA)

3:00pm. Through in Gate 20A, all is quiet. All, that is, until a familiar face rounds the corner and takes his seat. This guy has been my Cities lecturer and Dissertation Adviser for the last few months, and in Majorca he will become our Group Adviser too. I wish I could provide a Spanish place name for him (all the other staff members this year are named after Canary Islands), but after Menorca gave him a new nickname in January, it just stuck. You see, when this guy speaks he sounds remarkably like a legendary TV figure. In fact, close your eyes and it could almost be him (almost sounds homosexual). Ladies and gentlemen, I'm talking about one of the stars of this impending trip. Mr. Denis Norden.

Legendary: Norden

3:15pm. After taking a bus trip round the tarmac (what the heck is this, Hope Street at rush hour?) we finally board the FlyGlobeSpan craft, charged with the task of taking us to the Balearic Isles. Denis Norden and the rest of the staff have taken their seats at the front, leaving us students to slum it further up. Oviedo is next to me, and the inimitable Cartagena is to the left of us, but we can already hear some commotion behind us. We turn round to find Santa Cruz getting harangued by a drunken bald man with a fat stomach and a voice like a bingey foghorn.

*turns to camera like Harry Hill* Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.

Anyway, the man is not for quietening down and immediately launches into a slurred routine which will last the duration of the flight, covering such subjects as: his sexual history; his toilet habits; his hatred of the city of Aberdeen (I don't think I've ever heard the "sheepsh****r" insult before, so that was a true relevation) and his general penchant for being a drunken bald man with a fat stomach and a voice like a bingey foghorn. Poor Santa Cruz is caught in the crossfire as the man, surrounded by his giggling and slightly immature mates, hurls a string of sexual innuendoes at her. Before launching into his version of the classic song, "Give me hope, Santa Cruz; Hope, Santa Cruz!" To be fair, that one is quite funny. The first of seven times.

Eddy Grant: Gained inspiration from Santa Cruz

3:30pm. After a safety demonstration that is almost drowned out by the confused ramblings of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, we turn left along the South-West runway of Glasgow Airport and the Boeing 737 roars into life, hurtling down the tarmac and jetting off into the Scottish sky. No terrorism in Glasgow today: the only terror is being caused by the hooligans two rows behind us, who are beginning to live up to the reupation bourne by a generation of scummy British twats flying to Spain and destroying the Costas. That was almost racist. And justifiably so.

4:00pm. Having flown over Ayr (a good metaphor for my relationship with the town), we're heading south over England. Oviedo has been chatting to me on and off since take-off, but it's quite difficult to hold a decent conversation on such a noisy plane. As far as socialising goes, the Subway Marathon it ain't. In addition, Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn is now too much to bear, and while Cartagena seems to lapping up the double entendre on show, Oviedo has had enough, reaching for his iPod and attempting to escape to a zone far away from this wretched Boeing 737. Good choice, I think, so I open my own MP3 Player (I've stopped calling it an iPod now because, well, it's not really an iPod) and listen to Nerina Pallot humming. I can guarantee that this will be my only mention of Nerina Pallot humming for the duration of the blog, unlike Swansea where I mentioned Nerina Pallot humming every day. So from here on in, there will be no more mentions of Nerina Pallot humming. Um, except that one.

Nerina Pallot: Must stop mentioning her humming

5:00pm. Duty Free are trying to sell me some overpriced tat. I find that ignoring them does the trick, although perhaps that's a trifle rude.

5:30pm. Somewhere over France, the pilot now delivers an impassioned speech explaining the plane's geographical position over the Bordeaux metroplois. He then remarks that the temperature outside the jet is as low as -55C, drawing a series of gasps and giggles (alliteration) from the students on board. Is it really -55 outside? Wow, it sure doesn't feel like it. I just hope these windows are quadruple glazed, that's all I can say. If a ned comes along outside and starts hurling bricks at us, we've had it.

6:15pm. "This is your cabin crew speaking, we will soon be beginning our descent into Palma. Could you please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened, and also note that the local time is now 7:15pm?"

Oh, fine then. I guess I'll just have to re-write that bit then.

7:15pm. "This is your cabin crew speaking, we will soon be beginning our descent into Palma. Could you please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened, and also note that the local time is now 7:15pm?"

Jeremy Beadle: Before his time

7:35pm. I'm in the process of discussing with Oviedo whether cash-stricken Gretna will see out the weekend, when out of the window I see a line of mountains on the horizon. Hurriedly I open the shutters (which were lowered after Cartegena complained about the sun's glare, justifiably), and reveal a stunning Majorquin panorama. The North-West Tramontana Mountains are quite unlike any other mountain range I've seen in my life: shaped so meticulously, so uniquely, they could almost have been carved from granite.

Wait a minute, I better not say granite on this plane...Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn will utter something racist about Aberdeen.

7:45pm. The plane starts stacking behind a veritable slinky (sp?) of aircraft circling over the centre of the island. There's something strange about looking out of a plane window and seeing another plane beneath you. Almost...a bit...unsettling. Like you think something bad's going to happen. Anyway, we steadily lose more and more height before flying over Pollenca (the town we were supposed to stay in this year, until the hotel got fully booked) and straighten up over the settlement of Inca, making a beeline for the Southern runway at Palma International Airport.

We're nearly there. In five, four...

...

...tres, dos, uno...

...

(Whatever the Spanish for "touchdown" is)

Made it. At the age of 20, about 17 years after everyone else, I've made it to the grand country of Spain. I'm here on Mediterranean soil with 107 of the best darned geographers you're ever likely to find. And for the first time ever in life, I'm embarking on a field trip with no fears, no reservations and nothing holding me back from having the most enjoyable week known to man. Um, unless I make myself do a presentation.

*insert fear again*

8:00pm. The walk to reclaim our baggage is longer than a Tommy Sheridan lie under oath, but it does give us time to ponder over the scenes we witnessed on the flight. Bilbao too was annoyed by the actions of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, and we deduce that if he had said "Santa Cruz" once more, we would have been forced to take physical action against him. In three hours, he only came out with about three good lines, which is not a good strike rate. The only one I can actually remember is when he said, "If you say thesis with no teeth, it sounds like feces", but it's up to you to decide if that's humorous or not.

8:10pm. At Customs, most of the group seem to be lining up in the right hand queue, even though there are two booths straight ahead. It gets to the stage where we genuinely believe the left hand booth is closed, or used for foreign nationals or illegal immigrants or something. Then out of nowhere, Getafe zooms on in and takes his place at the top of the left hand queue. Security waves him through without a second glance. A group of us rush to the left booth, overtaking Valladolid, Benidorm and others. I think I'd rather be with Getafe than against him on this trip. Getafe scares me.

8:30pm. Admidst hot and humid conditions, we board the bus for a (ridiculously) short journey to our base for the next week in C'an Pastilla. And what a base it is. Situated on the shores of the Metiterranean Sea, with golden sand all around, C'an Pastilla is a holidaymaker's dream. But the surroundings, of course, make up only 1/3 of a holiday. If you're simplifying things, as I like to do. The 2nd third is the people (sorted), while the 3rd third is the accommodation.

With that in mind, the coach pulls into the street brilliantly named Octavio Augusto, grinding to a halt right outside the front door of the Hotel Linda. Probably named after Linda Barker, now I think about it (with the Spanish version of her show entitled 'Changing Hotel Rooms', no doubt). A receptionist comes to the door, her gaze transfixed on the bus of Scottish students now invading her workplace. She breaks into a smirk, but not a happy smirk: a knowing, prepared smirk. Lanzartoe, the leader of the field class, reads her mind as if he were a clairvoyant.

"Here comes trouble!"

It's almost like she's had an epiphany of the week to come. And secretly, she doesn't like what she's seen.

8:45pm. I meet with Menorca and Ibiza to take the keys for Room 323, our home for the next seven days. And negociate a safe key, which costs me a 10€ deposit in the process. Hrmph, I hope I get that back, otherwise the whole concept of procuring a safe - to protect my resources - will be deemed an ironic failure. We get to the lift, ready to board, when a bulky man who probably works as a bouncer in Magaluf at weekends stops us. "Two to a lift", he says. Later on, Menorca will remark that he looks like Officer Dibble from Top Cat. So here's a picture of the aforementioned officer (Dibble, not the guy from the hotel).

Officer Dibble: Lift Enforcer

9:00pm. The room is up to scratch. Not the largest room I've ever seen (that distinction would to go Paul Burrell's room full of stolen Diana jewellery), but packed full of furniture and decent lighting. And, unlike Swansea, a satellite TV. Ibiza switches it on, and starts searching for English-speaking channels. Quickly we decide that the only fully functioning one (apart from CNN, which he doesn't like) is BBC World, so we wait for the news jingle at the top of the hour and jive to the nightclub-style beat. You know the one - it plays at the start of the Six O'Clock News every night, and on News 24 every hour.

BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BOING!!!!!!!

Now I'm ready for dinner.

9:10pm. Downstairs, a large queue has gathered outside the restaurant. I didn't think the food was too shabby at Swansea, so I'm eager to see what they've got lined up for us here. Officer Dibble shows us to our seats, and myself, Menorca and Ibiza are joined by another student, Murcia, on the way to the buffet table. I've never met Murcia before, but he seems a decent chap from our first chat together (I think I said something about the array of onions on show). The quality of the food will prove to be a MAJOR talking point in the days to come, but I find no real problem with the first night's offering of soup, salad, chicken and pork. Perhaps on Tuesday night, after my seventh straight serving of chicken, things will be very different.

I pass Santa Cruz, who is having dinner with Barcelona and Valencia. Still reeling from witnessing the drunken shenanigans of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, I ask if she's alright after her three-hour mid-air haranguing. "Oh it's ok", she replies, "It was another Santa Cruz he was talking to most of the time". Ah, fair enough, I needn't have worried so much. The guy was still a twat though. And how must the other Santa Cruz have felt, whoever she was?

Zoe Lucker: Mile high shenanigans

9:30pm. Lanzarote organises a meeting in the restaurant, and attendance is compulsory. He outlines the plan for tomorrow, which will involve a coach tour of some of the more interesting and dynamic settlements spread across the island. And Sa Pobla. He then underlines the code of conduct with regards to the hotel - no shouting, no running about, no staying up late disrupting other guests and no drunken parties in rooms. That pretty much rules out another Floor 4 Party then, doesn't it?

Before leaving us to enjoy the evening, he announces with delight that he has a gift for us - "The Missing Page has arrived!" He whips out 108 copies of the photos page from the now-valuable Majorca Handbook that was botched earlier today at Glasgow Aiport, and scarpers off into the Majorquin night. In the melee, I fail to procure a copy, but luckily my co-group member (or sub-group member) Zaragoza agrees to hand over his. He'll just have to go without one for the duration of the trip, but he hastily reassures me that "I wasn't wanting it anyway."

9:50pm. Menorca and Ibiza have decided to take a wander to find the nearest supermarket/bar/all-night club, so the three of us head downstairs. Officer Dibble is chatting to the staff, which include Tenerife and Hierro. Hierro was only introduced to us last week at the pre-Majorca labs, but he seems like a scholar of much integrity. Tenerife already fits that bill, having lectured to us since the nervy days of Level-1 back in Autumn 2005. Boy, life was different back then. But Tenerife's reputation for first-class lecturing has remained, and it's a major plus point that he's on the trip.

We leave reception and head south to the crossroads, before turning back to observe our base for the next week. Wait a minute...that sign on the wall...it can't say what we think it says...can it?

Who the heck is Hot Linda? And can I have her MSN? Please?

Outside, we run into Valladolid, Alicante and Marbella, who are also looking to stock up on a supply of alcohol. Uh, and cheese and bread, and stuff like that. And maybe preserves, too. The six of us head west down a slim but well proportioned road (steady) which heads down to the Mediterranean Sea. Most of the shops and cafes seem to be on this road, but crucially, they're all shut tonight. Finally, at the top of the last lane on the right, appears a lit sign bearing the word "EROSKI".

It could be almost be the Russian word for Erotica, but this efficient mimimart ends up becoming a key base for much of the week. If we need 5 litres of water for 80 cents, or 6 San Miguels for 2€, all we need to do is head to Eroski. Can you imagine what would happen to the British way of life if we started selling six beers for £2? The house would fall in. Makes you wish you were European.

One thing that doesn't make me wish to be European, however, are the songs. The 15 minutes I spend in Eroski are 15 of the most unpleasant of the day, thanks to the endless stream of audio garbage clogging my ears from the in-house speakers. They call it "music" over here, but in our country we call it "Eurovision" and laugh at it with Terry Wogan. But then they give us "Nil Points", so who really has the last laugh, I wonder?

Chortle: Wogan

11:00pm. Back in Room 323, Menorca and Ibiza have cracked open the alcohol and are toasting the start of a new field trip. I'm all for falling asleep (I haven't had a proper rest since Christmas, and technically speaking, Christmas isn't a holiday anymore), but they suggest going downstairs to the hotel bar-lounge hybrid. I quickly down the last 1/6 of my San Miguel and head down with them, where I discover a barman who looks like Portugese footballing star Nuno Gomes.

11:30pm. A beer down here costs 3€ (I've just dicovered € signs on this computer: Allelujah indeed), and with the San Miguels in the room working out at approximately 22.77p at the current exchange rate, I decide not to purchase alcohol from down here for the duration of the week. The Bar-Lounge Hybrid is quiet tonight, although the lecturers are sipping away on the local liquors and generally acting with less stuffiness than they sometimes would in Glasgow. They sometimes get a bad name collectively, but if you exmaine them on merit, they're actually tremendously friendly and helpful people. As we'll see. Most of the time.

Nuno Gomes: Works in Bar-Lounge Hybrid

12:30am. Upstairs, Ibiza has allowed me to utilise a bottle-opener that he has helpfully provided. It's a life-saver (not literally), as I would never be able to access these cheap San Miguels otherwise. Out on the balcony, we sit and watch the world go by in C'an Pastilla "town centre". It's not a very big place, and compared to my estimations of Palma and Magaluf, not very lively. But it'll do. it doesn't seem to have any rough elements (the only swarm of youths we passed on the way to Eroski were some nine-year-olds having a kickabout, so it's hardly Drumchapel out there), and the beach is only five short minutes away.

Menorca and Ibiza are chatting away about their respective home-towns of St. Andrews and Eaglesham, and comparing and contrasting the differences between the two. Almost sounds like an outline for a Cities essay for Denis Norden. The two have met before, but didn't really know each other until they were flung together for this trip. It all happened very quickly a couple of weeks ago: I had just arranged to share a room with Menorca via text, when Ibiza texted me to say he'd put my name down to share with him. In the end it all worked out perfectly, and I can already tell at this early stage that there'll be no tension whatsoever between the three of us.

"I've just seen a ghost. Coming up after the break, watch me look at more ghosts."

1:30am. There's nothing on the telly (so there are some similarities with the British culture over here), so I decide to head to bed. Menorca waits up to continue his smoking, which we believe is permitted on the balconies. I'm not sure if I've publicised this well enough or not (sarcasm), but I'm not the world's biggest fan of smoking (not sarcasm), so I jump off the table on which I am uncomfortably positioned and head into the room. Why the heck did they put us in rooms of three then only give us two outdoor chairs? It's political correctness gone mad.

[What would I do if she were here now?]

1:45am. Bedtime. It's been a long day at the end of a very, very, very long term, and there's a week of hard work still to come. But now, at last, I can take a bit of a breather. Other people have it much, much worse than me at the moment, so I hopefully won't be getting too self-consumed with my own "problems" on this field trip. Already I'm beginning to notice a bit of a difference from this morning in the way I talk to people. Swansea made me believe I could talk to anyone and do anything, which I still can, but in the ensuing year I worry that I've become just a bit too self-centred for my own liking. Lord knows how everyone else must feel talking to me. So the hope is that Majorca will put me back on Earth to an extent, reminding me that while I'm not inferior to strangers, I'm not superior either.

I have to listen to people's points of view; their opinions; their thoughts, in an attempt to make new friends and gentrify (buzzword of the week) my existing friendships. And I have to be a tad more polite to them. It's a tough task, but over the next week I'm going to try and put myself in their shoes. If I were them, how would I feel at having to listen to my conversation? It's a rather complicated forumla on paper, but it makes sense in my head. Hopefully by next Wednesday, after another ultra-intense field trip, I'll be a more complete person again, just like after Swansea. One thing's for sure, I won't have to worry about doing a presentation this time......

*FLASHBACK*

Wednesday 16th January 2008

The room was looming. The door was open, a thin light escaping from the inside. I walked towards it with a nervous hesitation. What could possibly lie in store through that door? Success? Life? Joy? Happiness? Or pain, misery and suffering?

"You'll be fine", said Valladolid. "We'll have done more work than anyone else."

This was not the door to heaven or hell, as the description may have inferred. This was the door to Room 501 in the Geography Department. And I was about to attempt my first presentation in over five years.

We walked in, and took our traditional seats on the right of the room. There were only eight people there this time round (Barcelona, Valencia and Santa Cruz recently jumped ship to a Thursday tutorial), but the way my nerves had jangled over the past month, it could almost have been 800. In November 2005 I scived a Geography tutorial in a room almost identical to this one, leaving a girl to do an entire presentation on her own. The audience was about a dozen that day: she apparently managed fine, but I wouldn't have stood a chance.

So now, in 2008, I had finally worked myself into a position where I could concievably do a presentation. And I just couldn't wait to get it over and done with. This was supposed to be how Swansea ended, but I ran out of the appropriate levels of testicular fortitude at the last minute.

The tutor went through the groups one by one. There were only three: this wasn't exactly the Pope's Easter Sunday Message. San Sebastian, his post-Swansea girlfriend Estepona and Pamplona were first up. The group involving Cantabria were next. Typically, we were the last to go. The tutor looked me in the eye, completely oblivious to the personal torture I had endured since the disastrous presentations of Standard Grade English.

"Right - away you go."

Could I do this? Could I really get it done? It's eight frigging people, it should be well within my capabilities.

Then I remembered the two beta blockers I'd taken that morning. And, odd as it may sound, suddenly I had the belief.

"Eh, right, we were reading the chapter “Arguments for a Humanistic Geography” by Stephen Daniels, from the book ‘The Future of Geography’. But, eh, it kind of ended up being ‘arguments for and against’, rather than just being one sided."

I wasn't shaking.

Ten minutes later Valladolid and I had finished the presentation, and I still wasn't shaking. The relief was overflowing, if that sentence makes sense. All my fears in life were crumbling like an Apple Pie in the Hotel Linda, and there was nothing stopping me now. The ghost of presentations had been put to bed.

Only...had it?

The next night I was mingling with students and staff after a special guest lecture at the Charles Wilson Building, Tenerife was there, as was San Sebastian, Estepona and the unique Llanelli. I received a text message from Valladolid congratulating me for the presentation the day before. But with it came a word of warning.

"Dont get ahead of yourself mate lol! Mind it was 8 ppl, we sat down and u read 4m a sheet. Good start though."

He had summed it up perfectly. I had done my first presentation in over five years, yes, but could it really be deemed a 'proper' presentation if I wasn't even stood up? It became clear that the ghost had only partially been put to bed. Some of the outer lining of the ghost, and the head, still swirled around my daily life. Metaphorically. And the only place to kill it off clearly and concisely...would be Majorca.

*END OF FLASHBACK*

Wuh...huh? Who's that? I've been woken up in the middle of the night at the Hotel Linda, and it's not Menorca or Ibiza to blame. There are a group of French teenagers maurauding down the corridor of Floor 3, making an almighty din and disturbing the sleep patterns of 108 Honours Geography students. I'm not very happy about it. But then, this is what a field trip's supposed to be all about, isn't it? Late-night drama, women worries, possible presentations, strange goings-on. This was what made Swansea so legendary in the first place. It might sound a bit odd, but I wouldn't mind seven more days of the same, please. After all, if everything goes exactly to plan, it won't make a very good story, will it...?

Don't worry: I don't think everything'll go to plan......

*To be extended*