SCARING THE LOCALS

Addy and I tried to wash away our hangovers with a short trip down the beach. So there I was, blinding the poor unsuspecting population of Valencia with my whiter-than-white skin. I had marine wildlife surrounding me like I was some sort of Jellyfish god. I invited a few stares from the locals; hardly surprising, I looked like an albino with a fright. There was shipping miles offshore using me for navigation; I was like lightning in blue shorts. Well – they do call me “flash” after all.
After I had lathered enough sun-cream to protect Chernobyl, I was ready to take whatever abuse the Spanish sun was going to give. Greased up as a foxy-boxing lesbian, the sand was sticking to my skin so that my legs looked like family-sized fish fingers. But I let it fret me not; I delighted in dipping my ivory bod into a sea that (a welcome change from the ‘Nock) didn’t make you a eunuch for the next twenty-four hours.
That night we returned to the beach, this one a wee bit north, at Pucol. As I sat in this outdoor bar, being plied with some free booze from Addy’s friend Gloria who worked there, I wondered how this sort of thing would actually work on Portmarnock beach. It would be quite difficult; the homely, earthy ambiance of the shelters didn’t quite detract from the icy blizzard from the east, that would blow the head off your pint and freeze its body, all in the same gust of arctic zephyr. Besides, if there is a bar on the beach, where would people go to have sex? Back into Tamangos? Well wouldn’t be the first time I suppose. I’m not speaking from experience mind, the sexiest thing I experienced in Tamangos is being fleetingly wedged in a doorway with some yoke that looked like she had eaten a few too many wedges herself.

So, knowing that that was one thing Ireland could never match, I savoured the moment. I sipped Budweiser from my thimble-sized cup, listening to verbal abuse from Addy. Ah, this is the life.