The Aftermath

I awoke with a banging headache. The remains of a bottle of water by the side of the bed. It had turned pink. A partially dissolved paracetmol floating on the top. Looks like I tried to take a couple last night. Banging inside my head again. I looked at my watch and squinted to see the time, 10:30am. I had managed to take my lenses out also. What I hadn’t managed to do was undress. Or get under the covers. More banging. The front door.
“Come on yer lazy git. Brekkie Time!”. The unmistakable dulcet tones of Shane, managing to wake up the entire hotel.

It compulsory on Lad’s holidays to start the day off with a full English. It’s a bit like the first pint after a heavy session. It sits in front of you, untouched for a few minutes. Your mind is rejecting it. Your body squirms and informs the brain that it too is going to reject it forcibly. The smell of the bacon brings on nausea. But experience tells you that you’re going to feel a whole lot better after a few mouthfuls. Down the hatch!

Breakfast over and the plan for today was lazing around the pool.
“No beer until the Arsenal game”. What a fantastic plan. Hopefully it will be the early evening kick off.


The pool at Sotavento.

Around the pool were the usual girls soaking up the sun. A gang of lads camped out near the bar. Boom Boom music blasting out. How many times did they play “Tonights gonna be a good night”? Ipod on full blast was the only solution. The relaxation around the pool was broken at 3ish. Andy was impatient to find a bar showing the Arsenal game. It was a 3pm kick off in England. It would have to be one of those bars that show Scandinavian sports channels or whatever else shows games not covered by Sky. We found that the massive “Mambo’s” bar was such a place.


Lazing around the pool.

Watching the game there was a surreal experience. The Friday afternoon chilled out vibe was replaced by a DJ who was whipping up the atmosphere. Promising free shots for all. Taking the piss out of any passersby. He had tagged each group by location or by look. Near the bull were the St Helen’s lot. At the back the Leicester boys. In one corner, two slightly aging rockers were christened “Spinal Tap”. We were duly named the “Arsenal Fans”.


Mambo's.

As the game got underway, so did the party games. The rodeo bull got going. All the Stags and Hens present got called up and taken for a spin. The stags more up for it than the hens. We had a Gimp and a cross dresser, wearing a way too small pair of ladies pink briefs, ride the bull. There was the tampax drinking game. One bloke had to down a pint of some vile red looking concoction whilst having two tampons placed inside his mouth.
“It’s a marathon not a sprint. Breathe through your nose!” advised the DJ as the guy’s face expanded like an inflatable beach ball.

The game passed most of us by, except Andy the Arsenal fan. I can’t remember the score except it seemed an easy win for the Gunners. Our attention had been focused on all the party games. Game over and we headed off to the Boatyard Bar for the Liverpool game. Typical Brits abroad.