I stepped off the plane around two with pins in my feet and fire in my belly. A hungered lust for Tapas and curiosity to what the week would bring. The ten feet to the bus was not unpleasant. With the sun on my back like a lover pressed against me, breathing sweet nonsense down my neck.

The squeeze of fitting the contents from a hundred metre aircraft to that bus was a disgusting experience I do not wish to reapeat. It was steaming hot and crowded; everyone bumped and grunted. In briefs, it was like a Turkish bath house. They made us wait for twenty minutes to get us plenty sweaty and then bumped across the asphalt to the arrivals lounge. I stood next to a stinking pig of a man with trousers so tight I could read the washing instructions on his underwear. Genuine lace, dry clean only. I sat on the static luggage belt wiping someone’s sweat from my face and listening in boredom to a middle aged woman yapping about her friends, relatives and other assorted and irrelevant dribble into the air two metres left of her assumed spouse. He lent on the trolley and answered her blindly with a series of nods and short “hmm”s. praying to some deity that the belt would move soon. Collecting my luggage I wobbled down the street to the bus bound for the Placa de Catlunya, into the underground and a on to Liceu and the Hotel Peninsular.

We killed the remaining daylight scouting for food. We end up at the most Norwegian joint in all Barcelona “Vildsvin”. I was tempted to order the reindeer but it had been a long day I could never eat a whole reindeer; even on a good day. So I waited and hour and a half for two sausages and a dollop of mustard. I was so hungry I lured a waitress to the table and was about to stab her in the neck and eat her bones clean when a Lise’s rough hands and powerful grip arrested me. I dropped the fork and sat down. This is the last time I offered to share my plans or my waitress with her. I made do with some left over mussels in tomato slush until Leidulv made some tasteless comment about them looking like severed vaginas. This killed my appetite and the evening. Vaginas in tomato? Could you consider Ragu an aphrodisiac or even an effective lubricant? I’m not going to endorse the idea. I will not be held responsible for the medical and economic complications of abusing Dolmio sauce. When’s-a your Dolmio day? I left the place twenty euros poorer and in a foul mood. The only upside was discovering a sweet, dark ale called Korza. I must go back for more someday.

The following day we ate fresh bread and cream cheese and took the tube to Gaudi’s cathedral. As outdated and garish as this building had a certain majesty. It looked so out of place that even the surrounding buildings seemed to stare. And there was a sort of violence in its jagged spires. Like it would stab you if you didn’t like it. I went inside and was admiring the trippy stained glass windows when I was caught in a cloud of French tourists. They swept me through the building and then scattered as soon as they were outside. I remained where I lay for a time then sat up straight legged and lit up a lucky laying back bathing in the beating sun. Squinting through my shades at the skyline until Leidulv caught up. After going as slowly as we could through every corner of the museum I sat in the park with my baguette and waited for the group. We then walked with blistered feet within pissing distance of La Rambla before catching the subway to some other corner of town to see Gaudi’s house and garden. Where I ate an entire chorizo before heading home early to get myself cleaned and pressed for a night of heavy drinking.
After meeting the rest of the group and eating diner in a very fine restaurant named Quid. Run by the Finnish mafia in the back alleys by the water front. We wandered through the red light district looking for a drinking hole. After stopping for three drug dealers and two pairs of hookers. We found the London bar. Many beers later a Middle Eastern man with a moustache came up to the table selling roses “for the ladies”. His sales pitch involved kissing three of us, laughing a lot and finally shouting “INDIAN?” repeatedly and loudly at one of our party. Finally he left and after one final beer we crawled home through alleys lined with broken glass, fag butts and dog piss and caught as much sleep as we could for the next morning.

Next morning I took a sudden notion to go down to the ocean I got my sun-tan lotion my flippers and my mask. It was a good solution and with proper execution we could go to that ocean of pollution in which I daren't bask. Some terds were teeny-tiny and some were big and shiny. They tossed in the briney in which I dipped my toe. If you go swimming in that shite you'll get worse than dermatitis from the sea of grey detritus Where the sewage ebbs and flows. And there is no respite From the cess-pit no shelter from its pong. The poor old ocean is full of motions where the hell did we go wrong?
Like a lamb off to the slaughter I pored myself a glass of water but I failed to spot I'd caught a little creature in my cup I was well and truly bollocked from the fires of hell that followed it was the cup of life I'd swallowed and it truly fucked me up. Something was coming through that plumbing that should not be there at all. The glass is brimming and things were swimming and quite frankly, I'm appalled
I was a very hungry fella’ so I had me some paella and came down with salmonella and three weeks in intensive care. But they failed to send technicians in to check the air-conditioning which was unfortunately transmissioning a case of Legionnaires. Now there’s a malaise about my mayonnaise and a poo-poo in my prawn. I can feel ‘em them in my system where little germs are being born. Then I went out for more drinks. Lost two of our party who stayed and discussed politics with an overweight American in a patriotic jumpsuit.

Awoke on the morning of Sant Jordi with a bad taste in my mouth and an empty Diablo Noir in my hands. But today is a special day and I will not have it ruined. I perform the three S’s and limp downstairs (I never discovered the cause of this limp)

Now it's fiesta time in old Ba-th-lona and I long to be back on the beach with my Corona Where we lived for today never giving a thought to tomara to the strumming of guitars in a hundred grubby bars I would whisper "Te amo." The mariachis would serenade and they would not shut up till they were paid we ate, we drank, and we were merry and we got typhoid and dysentery. But best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros and now whenever I start feeling morose I revive by recalling that scene with names like Belmonte, Dominguin, and Manolete If I live to a hundred and eighty I shall never forget what they mean. (For there is surely nothing more beautiful in this world than the sight of a lone man facing single handedly a half ton of angry pot roast!) Out came the matador who must have been potted or slightly insane, but who looked rather bored. And the picadors of course, each one on his horse I shouted "Ole!" every time one was gored. I cheered at the banderilleros display as they stuck the bull in their own clever way why I hadn't had so much fun since the day my brother's dog Rover, Got run over. (Rover was killed by a Ford Fiesta. And it was done with such grace and artistry that the witnesses awarded the
driver both ears and the tail) The moment had come I swallowed my gum, We knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon. The crowd held its breath, Hoping that death would brighten an otherwise dull afternoon. At last, the matador did what we wanted him to. He raised his sword and his aim was true. In that moment of truth I suddenly knew. That someone had stolen my wallet. I wasted the night away in a bar. While my strange company discussed their sex lives over their gin and tonics. I had another drink and herded them home.
The only event that truly stood out was paying a cabbie five euros to drive us a hundred metres around the corner. He told us to fuck off. I exited the taxi and hurled a fist full of change at him before slamming the door and walking down the street with a big ol’ smile on my face.

The rest of the week is a blur of Campari and tonic and surrealist art at the house of some god awful artist named Salvador Dali. I never heard of him but I hear he’s big in Spain and France.
I distinctly remember being removed from a house of worship for wearing a shirt sporting the band “Bad Religion”. I may have also danced the can-can atop Montserrat. I remember destroying my leg and purchasing my cane. I twirled it grimly as I ate three day old chorizo and sweaty cheese in a stale baguette. Before we left the gang hit the clubs down on the beach. We picked up a charming a charismatic man named John or Matt or Mark or possibly Mack. I seriously regret not packing him. Now I’m back in the cold, clean of Norway. Where all the women are blonde and all the men have beards (or some kind of manly stubble) and all the children are running wild in the streets. Within two days of landing I will develop a nasty cough and six days later I will die.

Goodbye everyone!