I'm going to Hell

It's been about 3 weeks since I last posted. I do have an excuse for a large part of that time, as I was away on holiday in Spain, visiting some of the Wench's family (she's not Spanish, they just live there). Since returning we've had a bank holiday in the UK, so that's even more time off. In fact I've only worked a few days in 3 weeks, and been pretty busy while at work.

Anyway, I'm back now (for a few days at least) and ready to tell you the truth about Spain. I'd gathered that the Spanish are fairly lazy, what with their siestas and the building site that is their country. There's also a lot that I'd been told that had misled me about Spain, but on the other hand some of what I'd been told was totally correct:

1. It's not as cheap as I previously assumed.
2. Young Spaniards have a death wish when driving bikes or quads.
3. The food is as good as you've heard.
4. It's not as warm as everyone says.
5. It's an entertaining drive back to the airport.

During my time in Spain the Wench's parents paid for most of it. Put it this way, we spent £36 for the whole trip. And I'm glad we weren't paying, because it's not as cheap as everyone says! But the food is worth what you pay for it. I loved everything I ate on that holiday, even the lead paint had a nice tang. The weather however, was supposed to be excruciatingly hot. During our time there, the UK had much better weather than we did. The six hour storm on the final night was impressive, but not quite what I was expecting.

I was designated driver on the trip, with the Wench, her brother and step-brother sharing the car. I nearly killed 3 Spaniards over the holiday, all on dirt bikes or quads, driving at ridiculous speeds in the middle of the road. After listening to the kids of the village roar up and down the main street all night I decided if I did actually hit one of them coming round a corner, I'd probably just laugh at his broken skull poking through my windscreen.

On the final night the four of us that had been sharing the car went on a mission to get wasted. We succeeded admirably, with the Wench's step brother throwing up over the balcony before bed and again the next morning. As we were up in the mountains it was a 45 minute drive to the motorway through winding roads up and down steep inclines, ideal for any hangover. It took 5 minutes till the first passenger was sick (the Wench's step-brother), followed by another (the Wench's brother). The two of them then went into full puke overload, going continuously till we hit the coast. This meant I couldn't use my wing mirrors or else I'd be sick, getting a prime view of them hurling from the windows. It was like they were egging each other on, setting each other off again and again. I had puking in surround sound. 'Vodka' became a magic word, capable of inducing vomiting even by whispering it. The outside of the car was in quite a state by the time we reached the airport, so we threw the key to the hire car across the desk and ran. Luckily it wasn't in our name.

Labels: drinking, driving, family, hangover, holiday, stupidity, teenagers, wench