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Friday 24th June
Handy- Kenneth Williams (obviously)
At this point I would like to remind you of the Muck FM disclaimer, and point you towards the small print, which clearly states that we are covered in the case of any breach of the laws of the land including libel, slander, treason, and cussing your friends. As we have paid for the deluxe disclaimer on this holiday, I’d also like to draw your attention to the clause that states “that by reading this blog you forfeit your right to indemnity, and have been cussed because you love it, and deserve it.”
I’ve digressed again haven’t I? I’ll stop alienating myself from everyone and get on with the story. Now, where was I…?
Anyway, as I was saying…
I had left the dead and the dying back at the apartment and strolled into town as I was feeling strangely hungry. I went back to Joao’s to eat, a little restaurant whose titular owner is a gruff but very welcoming chap, and the food exquisite. I was pleased to have some time alone if I’m honest, and I sat at a table outside and reflected on our holiday with a sense of satisfaction.
I sighed, and sat back in my chair. I had feasted well, and as I was finishing I was surprised to get a call from Mrs Muck who had finally risen from her sickbed, like a phoenix from the flames of Barry Island. She told me she was on her way into town and asked where she should meet me.
As I came round further I asked her what had happened. She told me that after I had left the apartment she had managed to rouse herself from her sickbed because she could hear a commotion out on the terrace.
Mrs Muck was about to go back to bed, when her instincts told her that something was amiss, and that the scene that greeted her sleepy eyes was even a little crazier than usual.
Well, Mrs Muck is my hero, because despite still feeling horrific she got changed immediately and came looking for me, concerned for my welfare, and unconcerned for her own. By finding me so quickly she managed to prevent an Uncle Jamal type incident, and although I embarrassed myself, I wasn’t arrested, committed, or worse.
She reassured Joao that we’d be fine, and managed to guide me to Luis’s house, holding me at the elbow, as if leading the blind. Well, apart that is from the last hundred yards which I apparently crawled like a caterpillar, while making squidgy noises to indicate the slime trail I was (in my mind) leaving behind me. I’m glad I remember none of this, for I would die of shame.
On opening his front door, Luis had found the whole thing hilarious and made some hot sweet coffee for me, once I’d been persuaded to sit down and stop pacing around his flat muttering under my breath. After some time Mrs Muck and himself decided that I was calm enough for us all to venture back out into public without me causing some kind of scene, and by the time I started to come round we were, I was told, all on our second beers.
After that I perked up surprisingly quickly- I’m still hardcore you know- and we had a really cool last night with the others. Our friendships were cemented and we all left vowing to see each other again soon.
It’s now about half past five in the afternoon, and we’re all on the train from Lagos to Faro, to the airport and a flight back to reality. It’s really hot and we’re all sleepy and subdued.
If you discount the arguments, fights, illegal hustling, spiked drinks, hospitalisations, weapons, drug binges, international smuggling, manic episodes, attempted assassinations, all day hangovers, deportations, arrests, and lashings of fermented camel sperm, it’s been a pretty good holiday really…
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