As I sit on my
bed electronically penning this blog the skyward view outside my bedroom window
is far from enticing. On any normal day the view of a dreary British summer
evening; a sky enveloped by ominous grey clouds, would be ever the acceptable
norm. At this point in time however it only seeks to give me a slap in the
face. The reason being that on Saturday I returned from a ten-day trip to
Benicassim and Barcelona on my first ‘Lads Holiday’ with, if you know them or
not, Joe, Jake and Dorsett.
Undoubtedly some of the best days I’ve
experienced on this earth; gaining stories, catchphrases and memories that I’ll
take, excuse the morbidity, to my grave. Ah, surely now you understand my
reticence at the Great British weather. So much happened throughout the course
of this trip that inevitably I’ll forget to include some events that no doubt I
will be reminded of when I put this out, but what follows is a collection of
some of those stories. It’ll be full of inside jokes and jokes that’ll make no
sense unless you went but, y’know, so what.
Part One: “You Want Buy Weed? Coke? Meth?”
If any of you
reading this have ever watched the film Planes,
Trains and Automobiles you’ll have some sense already of the magnitude of
transport we had to use to get to Benicassim. We had decided in advance not to
book train tickets for when we landed in Spain, mainly because we were flying
with Ryanair, but also because I had tried to negotiate the Spanish train
website before we left and there was no option to change the language to
English.
Anyway, long story short, and somewhat
inevitable, we arrived at the train station for 12 noon only to be told that
all the trains up until 8pm were booked up. We deliberated for a while, too
pumped up on adrenaline from arriving to really be bothered particularly,
before deciding to get a taxi for the 2-hour drive to Benicassim. And yes, it
was expensive. I won’t tell you how much. It was at this point however that we
stumbled upon a gentlemen and a scholar by the name of Rob who became our
inherent brother in arms throughout our festival experience and who, if he is
reading this, can only be congratulated for sticking with us through thick and
thin and providing us with so many laughs. Cheers Rob.
Through some kind of Spanish miracle
we eventually arrived in the lovely little town of Benicassim and were dropped
off at the bottom of a vast dirt track next to a go-kart course and a makeshift
bar. We were directed up the path and were told to go and check-in at the very
top. The heat was much more intense than in Reus where our flight had landed
and lugging two heavy and mightily awkward hold bags and hand-luggage wasn’t a
welcome addition to the trip itinery. On our way up the main arena we witnessed
a lad spewing up his morning dose of beer and immediately knew what kind of
thing we’d gotten ourselves into. Yes. A good thing indeed.
Our plan was to dump our bags at the
campsite, unpack and erect (calm down) our tents and then go off to get some
beer-based supplies, which sounded like a decent plan on paper, but turned out
to be a little more complicated in practice. The main problem being that after
the morning we had had, the campsite felt a million miles away. Sweltering and
sweating our proverbials off, we arrived at the campsite entrance only to be
told that first we had to exchange our tickets for wristbands. Only then could
they grant us entrance into the site. With unimpressed but surprisingly upbeat
groans we returned to the main entrance to check-in and walked back up the
campsite (a walk that got quicker and less annoying with every trip).
The next hour was spent looking for a spot
to set up, setting up and having a sit down to just refresh after the hectic
morning. This sounds, all told, fairly simple but the lads will know there is
no way of expressing with words how much of a nightmare that was in the
blistering Spanish heat. But having said that, “we’re on ‘oliday!” (Inside joke
#1).
That done, to the shop it was. Cheap
beer, cheap “food.” It is at this juncture however that the subtitle of this
passage comes into play. Having been on the go pretty much all day we decided
that we’d have a bit of a scran at a small cafe in Benicassim which,
incidentally, we did not return to (there’s only so many times you can dodge
suspiciously pink looking flecks of meat in a burger). Now I have a tendency on
the odd occasion to go ever so slightly British or ‘go all Stephen Fry’ as it
has now seemingly been redubbed. None so more than this occasion. Whilst we were
eating, a Spanish man approached the table and within a flash had bent down to
eye level with me, stared me straight in the face and before I really had time
to clock him said
‘You want buy weed? Coke? Meth?’
Within literally two hours of arriving in Benicassim I had been offered Meth.
Going into British mode I said:
‘Sorry? What?’ The offer was repeated
and when I was sure what he had said I answered:
‘Oh, oh no, no thank you’ in an accent
I have never used before and am likely to never use again.
Needless to say, even on the first
day, we had got our first holiday phrase which, even up until this day we haven't forgotten and unbeknownst to us would be the
first of many. Many many.
