Thursday 23rd June
Our last full day here in Lagos, and Mrs Muck is spending it in bed groaning softly, (and not in a good way) punctuated with trips to the bathroom to continue ralphing up anything she tries to eat.
Food poisoning..? Sunstroke..?
No, we went out with Aldy last night. This is a grade A hangover.
I warned her over dinner last night “that you know it’s going to be a shot-fest don’t you?”
She replied confidently that she wouldn’t be doing any shots because she doesn’t want to feel ill today, and ruin her final full day. I’m afraid to say that lasted all of two minutes on our arrival at the Three Lions bar in town, a rowdy backpackers’ hangout where industrial amounts of alcohol are consumed by hordes of crazy Antipodean teenagers, served to them by Hells Angels lookalikes and men wearing women’s underwear. The house speciality is pouring two or three pints of lager into what looks like an oversized enema kit. The funnel leads into a long plastic tube held aloft by the barman standing on top of the bar and the tube leads down into the victim’s mouth who attempts to down the beer in one. If he’s unsuccessful then the remainder of the beer is blown into his face through the tube by the barman, soaking all those in the vicinity too.
Good clean binge drinking fun all round.
Aldy was there already and informed us proudly that he’d just arrived too, after drinking two bottles of wine to himself over dinner. Before we’d even sat down, three shot glasses were on the bar in front of us, and the evening began in earnest.
I’m not a big drinker, and after the night of cocktails served in pint glasses fiasco (each with a free refill) knew that to order anything on the happy hour menu was effectively signing your own death warrant. I joined Aldy in a bottle of local beer, but Mrs Muck fatally ordered an ominously and prophetically named drink called an Annihilation Mo Fo. I have no idea of what it contained, but it was sweet and blue and came with an umbrella sticking out of it.
I’ve decided that if I ever invent a cocktail it will have to be a similar night-ender called a Beautiful Assassin, after the mysterious girl at the Palace- it looks pretty but go near it and you’re gonna get whacked man.
Aldy’s camp ratio seems to multiply directly with the amount of alcohol consumed, and glided mincingly around the pool table, where he proceeded to wipe the floor with everyone. Aldy can play pool rather well, and whispered in Mrs Muck’s ear as I played him that he was giving me a chance- which he did, and he gracefully accepted an easy victory that he drew out to leave me with some pride in defeat.
As the evening went on and the shots kept coming, even Aldy was too drunk to continue playing, so I had several games with a couple of blinding Aussie lads who are here backpacking through Europe, and a crazy local lad called Tommy.
I seem to remember winning one game as the Jagermeister started making things a little hazy, but my standard is so low that the teenage girls who were hanging around the pool table quickly melted away once the cue was in my hand. Ho hum.
Still, my quips about “that’s why the crowds are flocking back to bar room pool” everytime I fluked a pot seemed to go down well, although I suspect the smiles on faces were more out of sympathy for my play rather than mirth at my jokes. Still, I didn’t care, the Jagermeister took care of that, and as things deteriorated further I seem to recall that I asked one of the Aussie lads his name about three times in ten minutes, much to his amusement and lots of back slapping.
At least I had Mrs Muck there cheering me on I hear you say, but that’s not the way Mrs Muck does business I’m afraid. She prefers to give me tough love, and heckles me rather than cheering me on. How she thinks this will help my self conscious lack of talent in the prescence of strangers I’m not exactly sure, but my failures seem to keep her amused- and if she’s happy, I’m happy, even if means taking a public cussing.
However, after a couple of games of constant abuse from the touchline I decided I had had enough and told Tommy that the winner of the next game gets Mrs Muck.
He won of course, but politely and shyly declined his reward. He looked genuinely scared, although in fairness that may have been because of Handy, who was sitting next to Mrs Muck in leather chaps making catty comments about Portuguese spring chickens while leering in the direction of the pool table.
And then, after one more game of pool with what’s-his-name, I returned to the bar to find Mrs Muck alone and Aldy gone. He’d given us his phone number, but something tells me we won’t be seeing him again. He’s a real character who has brightened up our holiday, his fantastic stories fuelling his colourful and welcoming personality. I hope I’m wrong about the sadness I detect in him and will definitely look him up again the next time we’re in Lagos. Or Jersey.
After that it got a little hazy, but I remember -vitally- getting a kebab on the way home, whereas Mrs Muck did not, and it may just have been that the unidentified meat inside the pitta soaked up enough alcohol to leave me feeling totally fine upon waking this morning.
I went into town, bought some cheesy souvenirs, had some lunch, and have spent the rest of the day on the terrace chilling with the twins and the geishas, sipping sangria and letting Sandy intoxicate us with his Lisbon Lights.
No such luck though for Mrs Muck, whose tolerance to alcohol according to Uncle Jamal is roughly the equivalent of a five year old girl. How he knows a five year old’s tolerance to alcohol is rather worrying, but the point is that it’s now coming up to six o’ clock in the evening and Mrs Muck is still in bed.
We’re meant to be meeting up with Luis and Carolina again later, but there’s no way she’s going to make that by the looks of it.
I’ll leave Mandy and Fifi looking after her, and instructions to the twins not to, and make my way into town alone later.
Home tomorrow night, which gives us a few bonus hours on the beach before leaving for the airport- as long as I don’t get on the shots later that is…