Fuck yo donkey

Yo Spain! Yooooo. The last week or so has been spent trekking round the south of Spain - our journey took in Madrid, Seville, Cordoba, Granada then back to Madrid for the final furlong. There were 'nuff olives to shake a large donkey at. If we had seen any donkeys.

We masked our disappointment at the lack of el burros by taking in cable cars, numerous bars and eateries. Madrid was chocka full of beers, football and a particularly gruesome queen dubbed Fernando who we had to run away from. There was Catholic culture, drawing on doobs in Spanish streets and a partridge-based meal in Tony Blair's favourite Cordoban restaurant. I'd like to go back immediately. These are a few crucial images from the week away... Just for grazing on natch...



Quincey in Spain - RIP



First beer on Spanish soil - an insulting thimble - Are we not men?



Travelling essentials



Breakfast on day one - not stella - huevos got murked



Lichtenstein's take on Spanish culture



Small bear




Wifiiiii on the roof



Yellow and black cock



Picasso on a balearic tip - note sandals, chinos and stripes - wardobe on point




Fridge



My gawd



Crabbing



Slag



Sampling the best of Spanish cuisine



Big Mac sans olives



Classic Madridian breakfast - hot wings and beer



Cheese flex



Cheesecake flex



Recovery session post cable car fear



Fear inducing breakfast - Madrid station - day 4



Spain caters for all sizes



Travelling kit



Catholic take on contemporay history



Much needed roughage



High octane road thrills in Seville park



Smoke up brother - We're on road

Shrimp carpaccio can get tae fuck

Scene of last beverage as a 28 year-old - Drink? Blood of Christ. Obvs.

Sweating over birthday breafast business

Too much churros

Phallic games

Beast recognises beast

Cordoban gifts kill people - not wooden lazers

Birthday partridge in Blair's favourite Cordoban street easy

Lads

Pished

Pondering

A man's bedside table - empties, rizlas, garlic, body spray and David Niven biog

Birthday feet

Protestors in the square - Breakfast fuck off flex

Cordoban hotel business - This was our ashtray

The digs

A moving Cordoban tribute to a dead, cartoon egg

Sauce and potatoes - Brace

Mad, Spanish kiddies hell bent on destruction

Half cut and surrounded by children with sticks

Darkness, children and the pinata

Give it one bitch

Yesh

Gwan gel

Children flex

My dinner

Craggsy's dinner

Darkness

Debating whether to 'Grind' or not

Fuck. Yo. Couch.

Croquettes - delicate

Cat getting a feeling

Moorish

Alhambra -Moorish

The rolling vistas

Dogging fish

Afternoon sherry

Sherry - note underage drinkers being perved on by randy cops -

Drinking soup out of shot glasses - Ole

One more olive

Goats cheese Granda-style

It's the sound of me shoes

The Alhambra

Cod salad

Balloon seller gonna get murked

Train bin got murked

Powerful Spanish advertising

Beer 8 of the 5 hour journey - long tings

Just another beer

Childlike shoes totally fucked by Spain

I love to dance

Shortstuff

The last Madridian meal pre-extra herbing

Cheese, egg, ham and weed sandwich - a Spanish delicacy

Man with pan pipes gets on tube - it's too much...

Get your Bank Holiday murk on

The last few weeks of August were a lot. Almost law breaking in their 'lotness'. Bank Holiday weekend included getting wonky in a field in Andover, Notting Hill and a pair of flats. It proved to be so messy the life of a shy monk held serious appeal come Tuesday morning. Crawling to the bathroom on your hands and knees does not a strong look maketh. Wearing a gown and chanting? Maybe.

There were no tears when work was taken down on Wednesday but it felt like everyone and everything had it in for moi. Even the fruit bowl, which usually shines like a beacon of health during chemically depleted times, seemed to be flashing daggers. Grapes should never be trusted on principle but the ones in the office kitchen looked ready to leap out with their fangs bared. The self loathing levels were so high, sanctuary even had to be taken in the comfort of the family bosom. Mumsy!

Friday started off all nice and relatively safe - Pints in preparation for Barnival, which was a rural do in a barn near Andover. After a vaguley fraught journey, where the car boot got murked and time was spent searching for a pink house, we arrived at a field full of fancy dress, tents and cakes.

It was idllyic and featured some serious skiffle and guitar-based action. As Kiss the Fist, one of our roles was to play some records sometime after midnight. But, after beginning proceedings with two bottles of bubbles while resplendent in card-based costumes and drinking helmet, we/I lost the plot completely between then and a brace of jerked sausages. Memory of playing any records whatsoever is much like many recollections of my twenties - blank.

However, despite the catastrophic levels of consumption, inbetween the swathes of silence there was music, dancing, more music, balloons, music, balloons, balloons and more fucking ballooms. So many balloons. We had/were having such a great time all the records were left outside the tent over night proper exposed to the raw, country elements. Good freaking job it didn't rain. This Womack and Womack slab is the only thing I can pretend to say I could even possibly say we dropped. Either on the floor. Or on a turntable.



Due to the fun of the previous evening, Sunday started slowly and involved a life threateningly large meat injection somewhere mid afternoon on the way back to the smoke. Notting Hill was taken down on the Sunday afternoon and proved to be immensely bashy in spite of the shadow cast by the night before. It was overflowing with mad vibes - bogling, smoke, chicken, red stripe, chicken, smoke and more smoke. 1Xtra's Rampage soundsystem was real chaos where an unhealthy amount of raw spirits appeared to be getting tanked and gun shot salutes were thrown. They ended on this and the place went buck wild.

The evening continued at the London Fields boozer near our gaff where shit seriously went down. 5 hours after entering the pub I was awoken by a man in a garden somewhere near Dalston sans spectacles. This bald dude was hopping mad and, when not spraying death threats in my general direction, said he had called the cops who would really sort me out. He'd also locked us up in the garden so there was no chance of escape until the sirens and blue flashing lights arrived on the scene. The federales lettuce go after taking one look at my bedraggled and highly intoxicated look - but it meant sleeping in by a million years and missing the Major Lazer Red Bull party on the morrow.

As a result, bank holiday Monday was spent staggering round Notting Hill looking for people before randomly bumping into one of my new chums from the night before. The murk continued into a boozer and beyond. And, just over two weeks later, I got my glasses back. They'd been removed during a little sleep I indulged in while at an after party ting on the Sunday. Thanks to Ben for slipping them in the envelope below and looking after them for me...