Wake up sweating, it’s Saturday. Try to remember more than 45% of Friday night. Struggle through the early part of the day, make it as far as the beach, immerse yourself in the salty rejuvenation of the Costa water, begin to feel better, laugh about Friday when someone reminds you of it. Head for a few quiet ones Saturday evening, complain about Spanish food and assert how fish is poison (not poisson), vow to never eat it unless it’s battered, fried into shite and served by a non national back on the auld sod.
Eat in some Paddy on the Costa establishment. Discover the joys of home with optic measures and puke stout. Order the chicken wings as that’s as exotic as you get, complain about getting fresh amazing alioli instead of mass-produced sugar-ridden BBQ sauce from Lidl or somewhere.
Remember the final is on tomorrow. Get into a debate about how you used to play and you were good and you’d probably still make the club team back home. They were calling you to go to training with the county but you couldn’t be arsed with that. Too busy riding every bird in the country and telling everyone about it.
Become intoxicated, slur about your love for the homeland and your indifference to any form of politics hence you and your ilk become arse fucked by the system of backhanders and circle jerking that underpins any good neoliberal setup.
Realize you’re in Spain, suddenly become aware of all the tanned beautiful people around you, momentarily ponder making an arse of yourself trying to say “Hola guapa!” to a Spanish local who would respond by saying to her friend: “¡Qué feo el tío ese! Y muy borracho.”
Abandon plans of fornicating with locals and go chat up Patricia from Roscommon instead.
Wake up in a daze and sweat from your eyeballs. Make excuses, almost forget your flip flops on your exit. Reply to the lads’ Whatsapps, taxi to a bar with Irish flags by the beach where some friends have elected to patronize.
Have a “fuck off” fry with extra portions. Watch as Miko decides to accompany the fry with a pint. Tell him he’s an animal. Say later in private that “he’s horrid fond of the sauce”. Order a pint yourself 7 minutes later. Remember there’s GAA on. Check the watch, head for some other Paddy pub, run into a random English lad, explain the rules of GAA, make friends, talk absolute bollocks, discuss Brexit, feel the tension rise, realize that wasn’t a good idea, order more pints.
Remember there’s GAA on that day, find your seat in a rush, miss the first 5 minutes as you were talking shite to someone in the jacks, recount the embellished version of your Gaelic footballing career which never actually got started. Feel a massive shit coming on. Make for the jacks, wait as someone else has a massive shit. Almost pass out while squeezing out a stinky one.
Return to your seat, it’s half time, get pints, take up smoking again, stand around outside talking bollocks, remember there’s GAA on, head back inside realize you lost your pint, order more beer and shots this time. Get back to the table and see the last five minutes of the game.
Tell everyone you had a massive bet on the winning team. Say you’re up “several grand” this year on GAA bets. Say how you really understand the game and how you met Jim McGuinness once and told him your strategy. Say McGuinness was so impressed he used it against some team sometime and you could see it in action.
Say how you picked up “an amazing bird” the night before and banged her. Deny claims by your friend who has just returned from the jacks that she was a feckin “minger”. More pints, text Patricia from Roscommon, she ignores you.
More pints. Feel another shit coming on, hold it in, head to a club. Chat up Becky from Birmingham, forget her name. Shift her for a while, feel a puke and shit combo coming on, exit the club. Puke on your leg, as you stumble down the road somewhere between Benalmádena and fuck knows where. Somehow arrive home, crash on the sofa. Wake up thinking you’re back in Ireland. Feel the intense relief when you realize you’re not.
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