Saturday, June 03, 2006

Bright Lights, Spanish City


Word up, dawgs? You feelin' it? Respec'!

I won't lie to you, your Colonel is not at his mid-season best right about now. A bout of phlegmmy chest infection is taking its' toll, combined with a week-long hangover that refuses to go away.

I refer, of course, to the after effects of a Bank Holiday monday spent swilling and illing in Whitley Bay. Now clearly a trip to the Bay is A Good Thing, but it is slowly dawning on me that it may be a young man's game.

The day started with a strange combination of sunshine and heavy rain showers. Thankfully, by the time we were in the taxi and tooling along the coast road the sun had got it's hat on and was shining down like a mofo.

Passing through Seaton Delaval one of the chaps remarked "I can smell it!" to a carful of confused expressions.

"The fanny! You can smell it from here!" he elaborated.

A regular Robert Browning, that lad.

We arrived at the first pub, called The Sitting Room or something unorthodox like that. Pubs these days, eh? Whatever you think of the name of the place, the fact remained that inside it was like a birthday party at Hugh Hefner's house. Everywhere a chap looked it was "waal to waal blart, like". Naturally we supped up our drinks and went elsewhere.

You know me, I only drink in moderation, believing as I do that there is nothing big or clever about getting all boozed up. This isn't a view shared by everyone though and I'm afraid I found myself supping all manner of outlandish beverages. There were modish lagers with slices of lime in the neck, pitchers of vodka and red bull, premium strength lagers and a devilish concoction known as "Cheeky Vimto".

Cheeky Vimto is a fiendish combination of blue WKD, the alcopop of choice of the slattern and the effete chap, and port, the wine for the posher tramp. These come together to form a potent purple potion that actually tastes just like Vimto. After sharing a jug of this stuff the world becomes a strange place indeed. The room appears to spin, people loom at you like some kind of hall of mirrors effect and every pub DJ is playing a raved-up version of Dolly Parton's "Nine to Five" or that "Paris to Berlin" thing. Also you find yourself gurning like Bruce Forsyth and assailing passing females with cries of "Give us a shot on your rat, pet!"

In short, not the type of behaviour befitting one who strives always to be a suave boulevardier and cultured man about town.

It was time for a taxi back home.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a haze, to be honest. We headed for a local pub with a couple of lasses, one of whom goes out with one of the chaps. Having sifted the evidence and reconstructed those last hours of monday in my head, this is what I believe happened.
  • I gently let down a girl who wanted to sleep with me, explaining that she was a bit tipsy and she possibly wouldn't respect herself in the morning if she acted on her urges tonight.
  • I made sure that the lads got home alright, what with them being a bit young and having had a bit much to drink.
  • I bade our host a good evening and went for fish and chips, where I didn't swear at the proprietor and didn't get my old chap out in the shop.
  • I walked home without falling over and didn't piss up any back alleys.

And that is, almost certainly, what really happened.

Bank Holidays, eh? That's livin', alright.

Believe, bitch.

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