I knew I was going to be in the casino on Friday night, but I had no intention of playing in a poker tournament, mostly because I didn’t fancy staying until the early hours of the morning… but having arrived there at 7.57pm with an 8pm start, I figured it was a good enough sign and bought in anyway. I’m easily swayed when it comes to poker, you see.

It was a rebuy tournament though, which I generally stay away from as I usually don’t play well under that format. I always think it creates a much looser game than the style I like to play. So, as expected, I lost my initial £10 quicker than I would have liked and grudgingly bought in for another… because I was just damn unlucky that time. That’s what I told myself anyway.

A few hours later I was in for a total of £35, and – despite having to leave the table for twenty minutes unexpectedly when there were only eleven players left – I came third and left the casino with £300. So sometimes, it seems, spontaneity takes home the spoils.

And you never know, maybe I can fall back on my poker skills if this writing stuff doesn’t work out.

…stays on tour.

And it is probably just as well it does.

I saw a lot of sights in Malaga that the brochures had not detailed, drank enough alcohol to scare even the most hardened alcoholic, and laughed so hard at the requisite visit to the strippers on Saturday night, that my throat is still recovering four days later. Yeah, those girls sure know how to use a belt.

People are strange. A guy stopped me outside a bar and said: “Charlie?”, which I thought was a little odd as I had never met him before, so I said: “No, Brian,” and walked on. He seemed surprised. But then the next guy he spoke to did speak to him, so I guess his name was Charlie. Small world, eh?

So yeah, a lot of new experiences… and I have never seen that done with a test tube before.

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.

Sigh.

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.