THE TALE OF SIR FLASH: PART TWO

Tuesday 17th

Now I was approaching my quest: Avid Flog-readers will already be aware of my failure to find the Holy Grail, famously located in the Catedral de Valenica. To fully understand my pain, a revision of “The Tale of Sir Flash” may be worth doing. All I’ll say is that the Grail was the only thing I had told Addy I wanted to see. I think you can see where this is going.
We entered the Cathedral again, and I oohed and Ahed and eh?ed at all the appropriate moments. I was impressed by the reliquary of St. Victor, but I was impatient to see the Grail. In my mind’s eye, I spied the Castle Arrgh in the distance. Addy guided me out of the Cathedral and into a beautiful Basilica behind, where Addy pointed solemnly at a shining golden tabernacle.
“There lies the Holy Grail, “ she said, suitably Merlin-like, “you see you can’t actually see it…”
“Wow.”
And I would have returned to Ireland, convinced that I was shown the last resting place of the Cup of Christ. Yet it was not to be.
Now, my Spanish isn’t even up to first year pass level, but I can understand it better than Addy thinks. In the gift-shop, she talked to some `aul ones who told her that the Grail was actually in the cathedral. And it was now closed.
“We’re in the wrong place, huh?”
Wide-eyed she regarded me.
“You understood that?”
So she tried to fob some other yoke in the hope that would satiate my thirst for the Grail. Like so many knights before me, I had almost been duped, fooled by a demonic temptress determined to sway me from my quest.
“Ye tried to fool me!” I pointed accusingly.
“Keveeen, what do you think who I am?”
Next time - I thought – next time…
I had written on my birthday that I should flee to Spain, to rid myself of evil Estonians. Now I’ll try the opposite to see what happens. Eesti here I come!

FART ON... AND YOU'LL NEVER FART ALONE

Ah! This is the life! Somehow an all-day trip to an outdoor pool didn’t leave me scalded like the bejaysus; probably `cause I spent the maximum amount of time hiding from the big bad sun under a palm tree. So I had a great time soaking up some lovely shade, avoiding the spray of vitamin D, and opted to soak up some glorious chlorine instead.
The next day it was back to the beach, where I took great pleasure in introducing to Addy a new English word: “Jellyfish”. Addy then introduced me to a strange Valencian drink called an “Horchata”, which was a weird yoke with milk and chufa (whatever that is), it was soft, smooth, and sweet like the bejaysus: so much so that I felt my teeth disintegrate as I sipped it. You had to eat it with something called a “farton”; Addy’s instruction that I must “farton” the Horchato could have resulted in an enormously hilarious yet embarrassing moment, yet thankfully I did realise that “farton” was, in fact, not a serving suggesting. Mind you, it may have given the flavour an added earthiness, which may have been quite pleasant.

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.

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…

I'LL TAKE MAJAHONDAS

Madrid, Thursday 12th
I was gazing thoughtfully at the Madrid beige-belt, when our pilot came on the intercom. There was no doubt I was no longer in Ireland; today I had exchanged the rain-soaked green pastures of home, for forty shades of brown. The pilot was telling us we would be landing shortly - how shortly I did not know - but he had the untimely misfortune of informing us as the plane was dipping into huge infertile beige Madridian mountain; a mountain that looked for all the world like a godzilla turd. However I was anxious to get off as soon as possible as we had been late taking off. They had given us all sorts of standard tick-the-box excuses, but for all we knew it could have just been the pilot trying to dislodge a very difficult piece of snot. After I’d landed, and after I’d met my old pal Johnny Ramos, all I had to endure was a short trip to Johnny’s folks’ place in Majahondas, which Johnny playfully referred to as Manhattan (and just like Manhattan, it could be bought for a few dollars worth of trinkets, I thought). Johnny delighted in telling me along the way how many people had died on each road the previous weekend, which was not so much disturbing as it was splatter-pantsingly scary. Feck it, I thought, at least a mountain-crash would’ve been a scenic death…

THE UNUSUAL SUSPECTS

Well Flash recently hit the big 26 folks, and a mighty shin-dig was had in Ron Black's in my honour. As ever with this time of year, a lot of the usual suspects were away on holidays and stuff, but so many old face crawled out from the woodwork I half expected Michael Aspel to give me a big red book at the end. So many faces...so many Flog episodes... Rocky was there, my provider of medieval pornography, as was Davey, The Tullamore mucker [Getting Medieval on your Ass], as was Jimmy, the transsexual-sympathiser[Look Away! She's a Tuck-away!], as was Sarah, my companion in Cork [Romancing the Stones] as was Butterfly, who has been in too many Flog episodes to mention. Butterfly met my brother, and said to me "Your brother is very good looking..." and almost within the same breath, said "He's nothing like you!" Ah thanks a million. Happy bloody birthday to me! I'm going to piss off to spain now, to get away from all these nasty women!

Crapman is feelin a little blue these days. And to top it off, Awnya decided to tye-dye the Crapsuit(tm) and the crapmobile(tm)'s bell broke off. So this is for him, hope it raises a smile!

Grrrr Great days!