Today – along with twenty-five of Scotland’s finest – the extended Spanish stag weekend begins.
The appetiser is an overnight stay in Edinburgh, before flying off to the Andalusian coast tomorrow morning for the much-touted entree in Malaga. I just hope – after a heady night of alcohol and deep-fried-anythings on the cobbles of The Royal Mile – we all make it to the airport for that ill-advised early flight.
It’s not my stag do, of course, and I am under strict instructions from The Wife not to do anything stupid. She did, of course, immediately appreciate the futility of her request, and promptly withdrew the caveat. I did however, as a compromise, promise:
a) not to swim on a full stomach
b) not to urinate in public, unless suitably shielded by at least two other stags, and
c) to look away should there be any potential strippers in the vicinity.
…yeah. Sure thing, honey. I promise.
I have never been to Spain, so – as a bit of a travel geek – I am looking forward to the sights, sounds, and smells of such a historically and culturally rich location. When I mentioned to my fellow stags that Malaga was the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, and I hoped to find time to visit the famous museum named in his honour, they looked at me as if I had told them I was joining the Spanish Inquisition.
One guy had never heard of Picasso, and another asked me which team he played for.
So, with that in mind, I will be checking my thirst for knowledge in the departure lounge, and swapping it for a temporary thirst for inexpensive Euro-beer, and maybe a stripper called Sangria.
See you on the flip.