Malaga 16


I have reached my limit; a few days after I arrived I posted a status on the skynetmatrix along the lines of ‘this place will be the death of me’; these past few days it very nearly has been as, with my friends visiting, I have allowed my self-appointed post as party-animal to mutate and distort into a role as a kind of fantasmagorical monster of the fiesta – which led to a series of incidents which have left me feeling every inch the droopy-eyed, armless child (honestly Charlie Sheen  just never fails). It was good banter though.

On Wednesday I went to pick my friends up at the airport; Keith, who was once heard to have left a voicemail on a friend’s phone after a night out describing his clothing and whereabouts ‘just in case he got raped’ – his clothing was a brown dressing gown and a builder’s hat and his whereabouts was the playpark across the road from his flat, and Alasdair who rivals Charlie Sheen for wordplay and once threatened a friend that he was going to ‘purchase a shovel and pummel your face with grit’. This extraordinary caliber of drinking buddy boded well for the following five days and we got off to an admirable start over the bus journey and some one-Euro tapas (abondigas, chorizo and…wait for it…potato salad,) meaning that we were slightly merry when we turned up to the pub quiz to, horror of horrors, fail even to win third place. Sorrows were drowned as several nightspots were frequented and the night became a series of blurred, misty tableaux of terror including eating the mint leaves from mojitos, stealing and flinging ice-cubes in random directions, stealing the signs and electrical installations from the flat – leaving the place without electricity in the morning and a bunch of other filthy deeds which meant that Thursday got off to a slow start.

I came back from university at around half past five to find an irate neighbour complaining about the constant rowdiness at five o’clock in the morning, allegations which I politely and incredibly unconvincingly refuted. The first thing we actually did was go and have dinner which seemed to kill the hangover a little bit. We then made the rash decision to do something touristy, the only real option being climb the Gibralfaro to look at the castle, a feat which proved too much for poor Keith who ended up venting his spleen (so to speak) over a wall, much to the disgust of all the romancing couples around us. This – and the fact that I had four hours of stressful, end-of-term classes the next day – called for a night in.

This proved a wise decision as I was able to breeze through my classes and then we went to the beach to chill for a bit before our Spanish friend Eduardo took us to one of the Tapas bars where you get a free tapa with every drink. It would perhaps have been prudent to slow down when we got to the stage where we had ordered enough drinks to sample everything on the menu twice, but our insistence on not being puffy allowed us to soldier on, through some drinking games back at my flat and then back out into the swaying, hazy fog of the drunken night out, me having to retire to my bed earlier than planned after some kindly fellow decided to punch me on the face (I am unscathed, but that is the point at which one has invariably had enough for one night.)

Saturday was again spent on the beach swimming and tanning, although my friends being as pale as I was when I arrived, and Ali in particular being of the opinion that sun cream is ‘for the weak’ ended up baring a close resemblance to ‘La Pantera Rosa’ according to some cruel but hilarious Spanish sources. At night we played the usual drinking games around watching Xavi, Messi and the rest of the radioactively created football superheroes known as Barcelona, stroll past the second best club in the world without breaking sweat, followed heading to an electro warehouse club which is normally quite good, only to be charged twice as much as normal and to find that that had deterred most other people in the city from going. We cut our losses and went to the rock bar under my flat until eight in the morning.

We were rudely awoken two hours later by an irate cleaning lady demanding to know why the flat looked like a cross between T in the park and Dresden in late nineteen forty-five and why there were two people sleeping in our living room who clearly did not live there…goodbye deposit, it has been nice, unless the agency believe my elaborate lie that they had only been there  for a couple of hours instead of a couple of days. We shall see.

We washed off this rather unpleasant start to Sunday at the beach once again, where we stayed until it was very sadly time for my friends to go home. It is fair to say that we made an impression, perhaps the impression that Glasgow is in fact the new name given to the ancient city of Sodom or Dante’s inferno, but at least it was not boring.

So I am embarking on a  detox right now by watching some tennis – although my hopes for a final twist in the tale are not being raised by the fact that Andy Muzza has inherited my gammy ankle and Novak Djokovic has now twice failed even to be taken to three sets in a best-of-five match, that is when you know you are playing well – and thinking of starting reivsion for the exams in a fortnight’s time…miracles happen.

Until next week then.

Gregor.

Categories: Malaga, Spain

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