TERROR AT SIX-AND-A-HALF FEET

Friday 13th
So begins our Road-Trip to Valencia. Again, there were plenty of reminders of road-death the whole way down. Valencia was hot and humid, where I encountered my friend Addy once more. Flog readers have already been aware of her; See ‘The Tale of Sir Flash’ for more details (April). For the first time some of my other friends (Johnny and his girlfriend Marta) finally get to meet her, thereby verifying her existence, proving that she in fact isn’t a figment of my imagination. For Addy is a delightful cartoon of a woman, where a laugh is never too far away. Judging the way she handled the barbeque that evening however, laughing was far from my mind. A streak of pyromania almost made me looking for alternative accommodation. Luckily however, The Valenican firemen didn’t have to be called out; come to think of it, I was at a party with 12 girls, so maybe that had been the plan all along. The night progressed with all sorts of delightful concoctions being poured down my Irish yap. One of her friends even attempted to teach me Flamenco dancing, but I assured her there was only certain clubs in Dublin where I would get away with that.
“They say that Spanish women have very strong wrists,”I said as I watched the twisting and turning of her flailing limbs.
“Que?”
The explanation which followed somewhat lessened the limited comedic impact of what had meant to be an off the cuff (no pun intended) remark. The merriment continued down by the beach, in an outdoor club. But the fun didn’t stop there, oh no. As six of us filed into the lift at typically late Spanish hour (7 am or so), the lift gave an ominous shudder and stayed between floors. The Movie of my life I had hitherto referred to as “Sorry: The Flash Bogi Story”, but now “Terror at Six-and a Half Feet” seemed more appropriate. Maybe they could get Ewan McGregor to play me? We managed to open the doors and we found a small gap, through which Addy’s brother was able to laugh at us. All at once, I found that the other five had found a spot on the tiny floor space, curled up and gone for a wee siesta, I was the only eejit left standing, pinned against the corner. I considered using the mass of bodies as a sort of Spanish chica mattress (a not entirely unappealing idea) but I realised that being steam-rollered by a potato-munching heffa-lump Irishman wouldn’t help improve the worsening situation. The police soon arrived, who, to my amusement had “Garda” written across their shoulders, reminding me that the Spanish were, after all, (very) distant Celtic cousins of ours. Then some firemen arrived, and they all stood around babbling espaňol for a while before deciding to hoist us through the gap. I could’ve bleedin’ done that meself. At least if I had any doubts (and before you say it, I haven’t) I now have proof that I’m not homosexual, having being hoisted to freedom by three burly firemen and feeling narey a trouserial tingle. It was 8 am when I finally found my bed, memories of my horrific ordeal quickly ebbing away.
So the firemen had arrived after all. Addy seemed to have got her wish…