Post edited 22:57 – June 14, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Monday 6th June

Handy was admitted to hospital last night with severe sunstroke. The doctors had to peel his mankini from his blistered oozing skin, and I reckon you could probably hear his shrill piercing screams back in England. Never has the Portuguese flag looked so rank. The first signs we had that something was wrong was on our return from the beach last night. Handy became delerious, screaming he needed "some pussy" and leering at Fifi. He even groped her bum as she walked past him, giving her a lecherous wink muttering "oh yeah" under his breath.

The doctors have kept him in for observation, which is probably wise because his reply to that news was "observe this love" followed by him exposing himself to the nurse. Still, on the upside I managed to nick a defibrillator from the hospital and we had great fun late into the night back at the apartment playing Casualty. After another jug of sangria that game deteriorated into doctors and nurses, but I'll keep those details to myself as this is a family blog after all. Well, minus the daughter obviously. There you go, there's the first child abduction gag of the day- I knew you were waiting for it…

Before all that excitement we had headed into town yesterday evening and ate delicious fish soup followed by seafood stew at a little restaurant in the old town. My initial thoughts are that this resort isn't the type of place to have banging house music blaring from it's bars and my optimism at blagging a set somewhere has faded already. I'll certainly do my best though and maybe my best bet will be a new club called the Palace that's opened up in town.

Well, can't stop as I'm getting ready to go for a run. No, you read that right. I've declared this a fat neutral holiday you see. That is to say I'm determined not to put any weight on after a month or two where I have immersed myself into a strict regime to lose my blubber before going away. It's an addiction in itself, and I'm actually toying with the idea of taking up an eating disorder to speed things along. Now then, bulimia or anorexia? On the whole I'm thinking bulimia- at least I still get to eat that way. I'm off to make a collect call to John Prescott for some handy hints and tips. Catch you later y'all…

Post edited 18:18 – June 18, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Wednesday 8th June

Handy, Sandy, Mandy and Fifi were all arrested last night in a sting operation by the police targeting crime against tourists on the Algarve. Later on we discovered that the police had first attempted to catch Handy in a honeytrap sting by sending an undercover police woman in a skimpy bikini to seduce him, but mystified at his complete lack of interest quickly sent in the feds to swoop on everyone. 

I'm not sure exactly why, but the girls were released by the police after only half an hour, the policemen waving them off with smiles on their faces, whereas the twins were kept in the local prison overnight and I had to go down and bail them out this morning. Sandy came out with a number of dodgy new contacts and Handy came out with a smile on his face. 

So it looks like our hustling is over for now, but no fear because we're all well into holiday mode and have been enjoying an afternoon on our terrace with the tunes blaring and the drinks flowing freely. Sandy passed around one of his saggy joints and we all laid on our backs pointing out clouds that looked like things, which quickly deteriorated into clouds that looked like body parts. Then Mrs Muck served up her special sangria and things have been getting progressively messier ever since. 

After bailing the boys out this morning we headed up to the fish market and I can't wait to fire the barbie up later. No part of that sentence was a euphemism before you ask. We've been living on seafood since arriving here and have some tuna and dorado to grill later and a fridge full of drinks. We've invited some of our neighbours so hopefully will have a nice little party going on later. A simple mix of alcohol, random strangers and Handy and Sandy. What can possibly go wrong? 

Our apartment is fantastic, overlooking Dona Ana beach, a stunning cove with sandstone cliffs which hide secret tunnels that are only revealed at low tide, and limestone stacks and arches that litter the coastline, eroded away from the land over thousands of years. Truly a sight to behold, especially first thing in the morning. Sorry, slipped into Judith Chalmers mode there for a minute. To tell you the truth, after a bong of Sandy's Lisbon Lights sensi (which he actually scored while inside last night) I'm not quite sure of who I am at all anymore. Anyway, the point is that it's beautiful here, and so far (apart from some of the antics) we're having a great time. The food and drink are superb, and it's pretty cheap. It's only a couple of hours to fly here, and there is no time difference and no jetlag.  

We're disappointed though just how quiet the resort is. It is quite literally dead, and the Palace club was firmly closed when we headed down there to check it out last night. I'm starting to think that our apartment is the only place in town that's playing house music, and boy are we playing it loud! The apartment is furnished with some hefty speakers and a sub-woofer that gets the job done nicely. We had some old skool trance pumping earlier, and I'm not too proud to admit that I broke into some spontaneous running man when Darude came on. Nothing wrong with a bit of Euro-cheese when on holiday mate. Hell no. One day I'll tell you about my secret eurobeat fetish and Spagna back catalogue, but we'll save that for another time I think.

According to my Lonely Planet guide, Lagos is meant to be the party capital, so I can only think that I must have picked up the Nigeria guide by mistake, because Lagos on the Algarve is quieter than Handy after he's Rohypnoled himself. (You should know how hard it was not to insert a sneaky child abduction gag there as the metaphor. I'm quite pleased with myself if the truth be told.)

The main strip (apart from Fifi's late night show she's performing at the party later) is a cobbled pedestrian street in the old town, with a few bars that it's claimed get busy "later on" but never seem to. I feel sorry for the poor girls out here for the summer whose job it is to stand outside the bars and get punters in to spend some money, their forlorn line in the street for the world looking like a row of unsuccessful hookers who never get picked up. Well, sod that, our apartment is where it's at tonight. It's going to be the social event of the…. well, ever here in Lagos by the looks of this place, so I'm off to fire up the barbie and marinade my pork. Again, not a euphemism. It promises to be a good evening…  

Post edited 23:45 – June 14, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Friday 10th June

For the first time this week we woke up to glorious sunshine, and even at 9am it was scorching outside. Until now it's been overcast in the mornings, brightening up later on, and cool in the evenings. The forecast is for things to hot right up in the coming days, which is excellent news, however I'm not sure how much I'll want to go running if the humidity increases too. So far I've run three times, and have worked out a nice circuit of about 8km, through town and out past the marina. Normally by this stage of a holiday I'll have gorged so much that I'm forced to ditch my mankini for a muumuu, but so far I think my fat neutral holiday is on target because the mankini is hardly cutting into my crack at all at the moment- a sure sign of when I start chubbing up. It's uncomfortable I tell you.

The plan today is to chill on the terrace and beach, then head out a bit later than normal, to check out the Palace club which opens at midnight. You know, case the joint, give it the once over, have a shufty. Even if I don't get a set there it's about time we saw if Lagos has any life at night at all, and it is the weekend after all. As Mrs Muck put it we're going into town "to see if it's got a pulse." I'm just worried that this place flatlined a long time ago… 

Goddamit, I don't need Ibiza but without a little slamming house music in the evenings I'm starting to twitch a bit, and my doctor said that's never a good sign. He told me to double my medication if it starts up again, so I'm double dropping everything just to make sure. From coffee to wine to those suspicious diet pills Sandy's been handing out this week I'm quaffing twice the recommended dose. The combination of a stimulant overdose with too many of Fifi's Valium seems to have evened itself out and I feel totally sober. I knew it would work- I'm a doctor too remember.

We've just left the terrace to come down to the beach, which we haven't done for a couple of days because of the sheer comfort of our balcony, with sun, music and refreshment on constant tap. I'm glad we have though because the beach is full of slim, scantily clad young ladies. When did they arrive?! It looks like a Lynx advert and I've had to put the sunglasses on to perv unnoticed. I couldnt help but notice that Mrs Muck, Mandy and Fifi also put their sunglasses on. Interesting. 

Handy snorted in derision and headed off to the bar, while Sandy  has perched himself on the edge of a sunlounger next to a group of ropey orange girls, accents already thick with drink, and it's still not even lunchtime. Easy prey for Sandy. I should really warn them but their loss is most definitely our gain, as any time away from the twins is good time. I can overhear snatches of conversation carried on the breeze from the group, with Sandy's rasping sneers and laughs reaching my ears, and the jangle of his bling chiming like warning bells, if only people would listen. He's trading on the good Muck FM name again, using it for his own immoral purposes. He's name dropping too, and I can see the impressed looks on the naive faces as he reels off JP's name, along with tales of hanging out with Ray and Ecaked. He's shameless, he really is, and not once have I heard him mention me, which sticks in the craw a bit after I took him in after his crack-snack-and-blackjack addiction and nursed him back to health, when everyone else (including Handy) told me I was mad, and that putting him down would be the kindest thing to do. Trouble has followed him around from the start, and it's only that he knows some compromising details about me that he's still around, surfing the blackmail wave, and having a bloody good time at my expense. After everything I've done for him! If I'm going to contemplate getting rid of him I may have to file for a super injunction, and I don't really fancy my chances against the Twitter brigade if I'm honest. So it looks like my purgatory is set to continue indefinitely. Will I never be set free from the never ending parties, the endless supply of questionable substances and the stream of cheap, moral free starstruck women just out for a piece of Muck FM ass?  

Now I think about it he's not such a bad egg really…

Sandy! Sandy! Fancy a drink old friend? Oh hi girls, I'm Doctor Muck, how you doing… 

Post edited 15:54 – June 18, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Sunday 12th June

My legal team (Handy, wearing his half moon glasses that he peers over to read his papers because it gives him an air of being erudite) has advised me to remind you of the Muck FM disclaimer which you can read here: http://muckfm.com/muck-fm-disclaimer Please pay particular attention to the part which states blog entries are fictional, despite the fact they may be based on true events. You decide where reality starts and ends (my daily struggle) and don't bother suing my ass for libel cos I'll be safely tucked away somewhere in Panama.  With that in mind, let's begin…

I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but the more I think about the Palace, the more curious I'm becoming. The club was virtually empty again last night, and several things just don't seem to add up in my eyes. The club was bought recently, and reopened under a different name, but no one has bothered to change the huge sign at the front which still bears it's former incarnation. Unlike all of the other bars in town the club has no one promoting it in any way, and Aldy seems totally unconcerned and unmoved to do anything about it.

The only customers other than ourselves in the club for most of last night were a group of older, flashy  locals who for all the world looked like Essex gangsters. The men were well dressed, cautious and confident, and women brassy, sleek and sure of themselves. The older of the two men appeared to be either the owner, or someone else to be respected and deferred to. If he was indeed the owner then he too appeared completely unconcerned about the lack of customers and stood quietly at the bar watching as the ladies danced together and took turns to partner the younger man. It was all very reminiscent of the film The Business, but instead of an 80s soundtrack we were accompanied by two middle aged men playing African lounge music. The keyboard player resembled the lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals (maybe it actually was, having fallen on hard times and forced to scratch a living on the Algarve cabaret circuit) and played a relentless bossanova beat alongside a balding, bearded man who delivered a throaty sax in mournful tones. They looked as if they had been plucked straight from the script of a comedy sketch show, and as my (shamefully libelous) imagination runs riot, in my mind they're gay lovers who struggle to make ends meet playing to empty dives, and who spend their free evenings in their small Algarvian villa practising duets and squabbling over petty musical points, such as whether a second refrain in a lounge tune is simply indulgent and vulgar, or in fact retro, knowing and post modern? …and "why didn't you put more stress on that C minor in the second bar? For God's sake Nuno, Mother was right, you're lazy, unsuitable and tone deaf!"      

So anyway… why would anyone buy a club and then neglect it completely? How can they stay open without customers and remain apparently unconcerned? Maybe the season hasn't started yet? The resort is very quiet it's true. In my imagination it seems clear to me that there are two possibilities at play here. The first is a money laundering operation, or front for some type of criminal activity.

If we assume that this is indeed the case here (they say you should never assume, but let's in this instance just for curiosity's sake) then it's quite easy to twist totally unrelated events into a growing paranoia that you're playing out a real life plot from a Hollywood thriller. Read on… 

A young couple turned up to the club later on last night, the girl stunningly beautiful. She was dark, very slim, with brooding eyes and dark curls that fell over a feline face. She was dressed in a tight mini dress that was very slutty, and you could tell she knew it. From the moment she came in I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her beauty was captivating, and her manner confident and deliberate. You could say it was almost professional, and it wouldn't have surprised me in the least if that was indeed true in the euphemistic sense of the word, because she was assured and comfortable throughout. She knew how to dance too, effortlessly gyrating as the bossanova rolled into the small hours, flashing bright smiles in my direction as her glance caught my helplessly captivated eyes.

Much to our amusement (and my delight) it only went and transpired that the young lady in question was a Romanian, a compatriot of Mrs Muck, leading to a happy and unexpected introduction. They quickly fell into conversation in their mother tongue and she went on to tell Mrs Muck that the man she was with wasn't her boyfriend ( although she claims to have one) which just added to her mystery.  She danced freely and unselfconsciously with other men throughout the night while her date stood watching patiently at the bar.

In my conspiracy theory/film plot/deepening paranoia it is far too coincidental to just happen to bump into a beautiful compatriot of Mrs Muck here, and it's obviously a set up. The beautiful Romanian assassin (the girl, not Mrs Muck, although I wouldn't be surprised) is sent to befriend the doomed couple who knew too much about the dodgy club, before seducing them and returning to their apartment with them for a night of rampant lovemaking. But instead of young Doctor Muck's wildest dreams being fulfilled (at long last) it in fact turned out to be a cold blooded execution, with a bullet between the eyes for both of our heroes, their  knowledge of the murky Algarve underworld clinically rubbed out by the beautiful killer, and the Palace free to continue it's dastardly deception. Their naked bodies would be found by the maid the next morning, a look of terrible disappointment at not getting a threesome after all still etched into poor Doctor Muck's staring eyes. 

The other, less worrying possibility is that this is a club doing so badly that it is in fact comedy gold. So, in conclusion, I've decided that I'm either going to pen the script to a Hollywood blockbuster, a thriller where an innocent English DJ on holiday looking for a set somewhere stumbles across a terrible secret concealed behind the facade of a nightclub; or a sitcom called The Palace, about a failing nightclub that never attracts any customers and has a camp and charismatic manager who's a bit deluded about the club being a success. Add incapable barmaids, a bickering bossanova playing gay couple, dangerous femme fatales and the "Manuel" figure- an innocent and bewildered English DJ who tries and fails to make sense of all the crazy foreigners, and I reckon I've got a hit on my hands! It'll be like a cross between Fawlty Towers and 'Allo 'Allo. I've got Scul lined up to play the manager after his Oscar winning performance in the Muck Clippers advert (still available on Muck FM's YouTube channel) was met with worldwide acclaim. I am pleased to say that he's broken off from rehearsals in the lead role of our remake of Weekend At Bernie's to read for this part. I'm pretty sure the role of a camp, middle aged man shouldn't be too much of a challenge for him…

In all this excitement and speculation I nearly forgot to tell you that I am playing a set at the Palace on Friday night! The DJ, whose name turned out to be Luis was there again, and we had a good chat together. He's around my age, with a similar DJing history, and due to having had an English girlfriend back in the 90s speaks our language perfectly. He travelled around Britain in a Volkwagen camper and has been to Brighton, which he loved, not least as he's a fan of big beat. He's a top guy all round, mucky material for sure, and when I asked him later on if there was anywhere in town I could try and get a set, he immediately offered to let me play alongside him next weekend. He went and spoke not to Aldy, but to a young guy that Aldy had said was his deputy (which was intriguing) and returned to tell me to come down on Friday night with my tunes! I know that I'll most probably be playing to an empty club (which no doubt is one of the reasons Luis is pleased to have someone else to play rather than slog it out alone for four hours) but I don't care- at the very least I'll be playing again on a club system (for the first time in about ten years) and I've made a new friend, who loves house music and is good company. The Muck FM tentacles reach far and wide across the globe, and are always stretching further, but you knew that already. I guess it really doesn't matter what I play if the club's empty (although if Danny Dyer and his boss are there a bad set may end with me getting whacked) but I plan to play some progressive breaks and dreamy trance with a smattering of old skool house. The Queen has told me to give them some donk from the outset, but softly softly catchee monkey- I'll lull them into a false sense of security, then blow their heads off on Saturday night. Providing the same thing hasn't already happened to me that is.

In the event of my death please turn this blog over to the cops… 

Post edited 10:49 – June 15, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Tuesday 14th June

Me and Mrs Muck were down on the beach by ourselves this morning, soaking up the sun, which is getting progressively hotter as our holiday goes on. The climate here is perfect- during the day it's risen to a lovely 28 degrees, and there is a constant breeze that ensures you never feel uncomfortable. At night the temperature falls to a very pleasant 16 degrees or so, meaning you can sleep without any problems, yet it's still warm enough to wear just a t-shirt when going out. There are no mosquitos, which for me is a godsend after last year's nasty bout of mosquito psychosis that very nearly saw me sectioned in Barbados. So far we're very impressed with Portugal, and Lagos is lovely, if a little quiet.

Last night was the nightmare I feared it would be, and more. Handy, Sandy and Jamal got progressively more drunk and wired on crack as the evening went on, and tempers started getting frayed as the banter started to become injected with malicious overtones. Handy and Jamal, who have a strained relationship at the best of times, started goading each other, culminating in Jamal calling Handy a "batty bwoy" to which Handy replied "I'd rather have anal sex than banal sex." (pronouncing banal so it rhymed with anal) You've probably heard the rumours about the girl who fell asleep during sex with Jamal, and he's never lived it down since- Handy makes sure of that. 

For the rest of the evening Handy called Jamal "Uncle Janal" so it too rhymed with anal, and blew kisses at him whenever he caught his eye. Jamal sulked, kissing his teeth and muttering in some unknown dialect, although I'm sure I made out a "bludclart" once or twice too. 

Sandy chipped in at various intervals with comments solely designed to stir things up, and waved the gun around recklessly while the rest of us looked on with nervous expressions. I really started worrying when he broke into his impression of the Vietcong in the Russian roulette scene from The Deerhunter, and just when I thought things couldn't get any worse Handy made a quip about Jamal's mum looking like Colonel Gadaffi in drag.

It was delivered with such venom, precision and comic timing that the rest of us couldn't stop ourselves erupting with laughter. I was in the middle of a big gulp of wine which I choked on and snorted back out through my nose. I sat there spluttering with red wine dripping out of nose and trickling onto my chin looking like I had just been punched in the face, and fearing I was about to be. 

There was a terrible silence as Jamal stared at me, and the air was pregnant with the threat of imminent violence. The sniggers from the others which had been completely masked by my choking sounds had died away quickly and had focussed Jamal's attention solely on me, with Handy's catalystic and incendiary comment somehow forgotten and overtaken by the fact I'd dared to laugh at it.

Jamal stared at me for a few moments then said simply "do you think that's funny Elephant Man?" 

Handy, who had been sat there with a smug expression on his face at the chaos he had caused sniggered and said "well Dumbo… do you?"

Handy's audacity at berating me for laughing at his own joke coupled with the cruel jibes from both of them about my plastic surgery left me confused and exposed, fearful that if I defended myself and retorted in any way it would make things worse still. I needn't have worried, because Handy was in full swing, and didn't need any prompting. Fuelled by drugs and cheap liquor he launched into a tirade towards me that was as poisonous as anything that has ever come out of his mouth. Well, apart from that awful story he likes to tell about having to have his stomach pumped after that night at Michael Barrymore's.

He started by telling me that he was surprised that my plastic face hadn't already melted in the sun, and made some very unpleasant references to melted candles and plasterers' radios. He went on to tell me that no amount of running can ever disguise the heavy bones I inherited from my mother, and that I could start a soap factory with the amount of excess blubber I'm carrying on my thighs. He finished by telling me that I should feel at home playing to an empty club on Friday because that's still more people than listen to me on Muck FM. He made sure he held his gaze on me for a few seconds, his lips pouting, daring me to respond, then turned to Jamal and said "be a dear and do another pipe Jammy darling" and with that the issue was closed. Jamal said "innit" and started loading up the pipe and didn't say another word to me for the rest of the night, seemingly content with Handy having dished out my deserved punishment.

I sat in stunned silence wondering if I'd just imagined the whole thing, but one glance at the girls' horrified faces told me that most definitely wasn't the case. The boys continued as if nothing had happened and were laughing together again, the whiskey and crack party back in full swing.

I had been theIr way out of the stalemate as the cussing spiralled out of control. Turning on me had been their way of saving face. These boys are feral- wild and untamed, used to running together despite their differences. The phrase "thick as thieves" has never rung truer, their trade taught in the foothills of the Hindu Kush and the backstreets of Croydon. Neither of them had needed to back down, and they had quickly joined together against me in a classic pincer movement. It's a tactic that I've seen them use before, and knowing this Handy mocked me for the rest of the night, every time I looked over making lobster movements with his thumbs and fingers with a smirk on his face.

Bored of baiting me, and in an increasingly agitated state, the three boys started playing poker with a packet of obscene playing cards that Jamal had brought with him. We spent the rest of the night listening to their sniggers at the images on the cards and euphemisms about turns, flops and rivers (of spunk according to Handy) each time more cards were dealt out. 

Luckily the sheer amount of whiskey they'd all drunk slowly took over after the crack ran out and their game ended with each one barrying in turn. Sandy was curled up on the sofa, the gun tucked inside his arms like a silver teddy bear and Jamal was slumped where he'd been sat all night, snoring and a damp patch spreading down his trousers where he'd lost control of his bladder. Handy was the last of them to barry, and was last seen sprawled on the sofa with his sarong hitched up to his waist exposing a pink thong at the top of waxed legs. He had his eyes closed and was muttering something about cucumbers.

We woke up this morning to find them all in the same places and same positions that we'd left them last night. Mandy and Fifi were still asleep in the boudoir so me and Mrs Muck gathered our beach stuff quickly, and stepping over prostrate bodies, and a puddle of yellow liquid at Jamal's feet made our escape for the day.

We were interested to see last night that they've put a new sign up at the Palace at last. Mrs Muck actually believes my conspiracy theory and is fearful about me playing down there on Friday. She swears we're being followed and that everyone in Lagos is in on it. She told me to trust no one and has started peering over her shoulder in the street to try and catch out our pursuers. In her mind the whole of Lagos is one big crime syndicate, and we are indeed playing out a dance that will inevitably and inexorably lead to us getting whacked. She's unnerving me a bit and I found myself checking the door was double locked before going to bed last night, and nervously peering out of the window onto the terrace and down the street looking for hidden faces. I'm actually quite glad that Jamal's gun is here after all. I actually held Gunny in my hand recently and felt the surge of adrenalin run through me as I weighed her in my hand and fingered the trigger. I ran through the various stances while holding her, from 1950s Raffles refinement with the gun held near to my chest perfectly upright and rigid, to downtown L.A. where it's arm outstretched and swivelled so that the weapon is turned 90 degrees onto it's side. Give it the Ice Cube head tilt and the effect is complete. It takes me back to my days on the mean streets of south London. and hood life. There were some really nasty types that lived near us and you couldn't let your guard down even for a moment. I remember the time old Mrs Thorburn caught us scrumping from her orchard and wrote to the Daily Mail. The feeling that the chase is on again has left me breathless for more. It's been over a decade since I left the hood, but you know what they say- you can take the boy out of Croydon…

Post edited 16:37 – June 26, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Thursday 16th June 

I've been picking out tunes to play tomorrow night down at the Palace. I've brought a big case of CDs with me, a mix of mostly progressive and uplifting stuff. What I end up actually playing depends if anyone turns up there tomorrow, but I'll be kicking off with some dreamy breaks and tech house, with a few old skool classics waiting in the wings such as Gat Decor 'Passion' -a tune that I've been wanting to drop again for ages.   

I've got some flyers and CDs left, so intend to take a wander on the beach tomorrow to chat to a few people and see if I can get some of them to come down to the Palace in the evening. Mrs Muck is still worried about the whole set up down there, and is fretting about me drawing unwanted attention to it, in case I enrage the wrath of 'the firm'. I tried telling her that no club owner would be unhappy with punters streaming through the door, whether it's a front or a genuine establishment, and I'll be doing my best to get people down there to hear my set- even if according to Mrs Muck it could turn out to be the last one I ever play. 

Handy told her not to worry, and that if I get whacked he knows a host of far better replacements who would be only to glad to step in to my shoes and take care of a grieving widow. 

"I know some proper DJs dear, and some of them don't even need to stand on a box to reach the decks." he went on, uncaring that I was standing right next to him at the time.

"I'd have a go" said Sandy, winking at Mrs Muck, to which Handy replied

"It's about time someone did"

Seriously, who needs enemies with friends like these…?

The club is meant to be open again tonight, being Thursday, so after our barbie we'll trundle down there to see what's going on, and check it's still on for tomorrow night. 

Last night I left a CD and flyers at another bar in town, called the Iguana. Each time we've passed they have been playing soulful Latin music, and frequently have couples swaying to the beat together in the space in front of the bar which doubles as a makeshift dancefloor. The bar is decorated in a chic combination of white throughout and neon backlights, and exudes an air of class that some of the other establishments in town sorely lack. Far too classy for the likes of us I hear you cry, but we ventured in nonetheless last night, and I had possibly the best mojito I've ever tasted, while casting an interested eye over a pair of CDJs set up in the corner of the bar.

Despite being pretty sure that my tunes would be too pacey for this place I got chatting with the manager and asked him whether the bar had an exclusively Latin music policy throughout the week. He told me that it's more housey at weekends so I asked if I could leave a CD to see what he thinks. He readily agreed and told me to pop back in in the next couple of days. The way I see it is- don't ask, don't get. Maybe you'll ask and still not get, but at least you know. It's a policy I adhere to in all areas of my life, not just music, and you'd be surprised just how much success a simple question can bring… A few slaps in the face too, but that's just an occupational hazard…

This week we've done absolutely nothing except laze on the beach all day and either eat out in the evenings, or stoke up the barbie. I don't think I realised just how run down I've been and how much I needed a holiday. It's taken over a week, but I can finally feel the stress slipping away from me, like a snake shedding it's skin. We had talked of hiring a car and exploring the surrounding area this week, but have decided that sometimes doing absolutely nothing is the best possible medicine, so were once again sprawled under the sun on Dona Ana beach, sipping Lipton iced tea, which I'm developing a growing addiction to. For once the rest of the crew aren't bickering, and I've been enjoying relaxing, closing my eyes and letting the trance on my iPod take me away. 

I should have known it wouldn't last long of course.

A particularly noisy and irritating bunch of American teenagers invaded the beach today, and were swigging beer and getting progressively more obnoxious as the day went on. They were throwing around an American football which landed perilously close to our towels on several occasions. Then, as I looked on, the grossly overweight kid who'd been acting as quarterback attempted a wildly over-ambitious throw, which from the moment it left his chubby little hand had disaster written all over it. The ball looped towards us as if in slow motion, and as I followed it with worried eyes it landed smack bang on Handy, scattering his factor zero Hawaiian Tropic, make up bag, and various drinks, books and creams everywhere with a sickening thud.

There was a short pause, as if no one could quite believe what had just happened and I closed my eyes ready for the inevitable trouble. Thank God Jamal isn't here (he's still hungover after finding the owner of the kebab shop in town had some moonshine camel sperm stashed away). His kebab knife is even sharper than Handy's tongue, which as we all know is a weapon of mass destruction in itself.

Handy jumped up, stock upright, looking around with a scowl on his face to see who had dared disturb him in such a violent way. 

His body was taught with anger, the teak coloured, sun damaged skin rippling under his snow white Speedos, which as always were a size too small and sported a little pink bow at the front, above a monogrammed 'H' in fancy italics.  

His eyes scanned around and quickly saw the culprit, whose face had dropped and was holding up his porky hands in apology. 

"Oi! Spring Break! Come here at once!" ordered Handy.

"Shall I get the gun?" asked Sandy, his hand twitching.

"No dear, I can deal with this myself" replied Handy, who turned back to the unfortunate lad and clicked his fingers.

"I meant now, not tomorrow Uncle Spam"

Some of the other American lads called over to lay off him, as it was only an accident, to which they got a "Yank me, Yankees" from Handy and a raised middle finger. The group of lads erupted and started jeering aggressively.

Handy told us he'd had enough of this, and strutted off towards the group, only looking back to gesture to Sandy with his eyes to follow him. Sandy didn't need telling twice and picked up an empty beer bottle and followed his brother quickly.

The group of teenagers' faces changed from jeering and confident to crestfallen and silent as the boys approached. Sandy's chest had puffed out like a pigeon in heat and he had a menacing look in his eye. I mean even more menacing than usual. He tapped the beer bottle ominously against his leg and although out of earshot by the time they'd reached the group, the faces and body language told the whole story. 

Handy was standing provocatively with his hands in his hips, the Speedos bulging dangerously close to the faces of the unfortunate members of the Americans who'd opted to stay sitting down. He appeared to be holding court, wagging his finger, and Sandy stood just behind him, eyeing the group with a snarl on his face. The group had fallen silent, and most of their eyes were looking at the floor, desperate not to make eye contact with either of the twins. Handy appeared to point to the poor lad who had thrown the football, and after what looked like some hopeless attempts at concilliatory gestures from the group led the poor boy away as Sandy stood watching the rest of them, eyebrows raised and bottle still tapping. 

Mystified, the rest of us looked at each other and shrugged as Sandy made his way back to us with a grin on his face. As he plumped himself back down on his sunlounger we looked at him enquiringly.

"Only turns out when we got nearer that Handy thought blubber boy was a bit of a dish, despite being a fat bastard, so he told the Yanks that he's taking him for a drink to show there's no hard feelings, but told me that he's really taking him back to the apartment to show him the real meaning of ball control."

Well, better than a punch up I suppose, although not necessarily for the poor boy. It may be a while before he throws a football again. Or sits down. He'll certainly think twice before putting anything hard and inflated in his hand next time…

Well, the barbie is roaring and the wine flowing. I'm just about to put some tunes on and am in the mood to party.

A night at the Palace I think…

Saturday 18th June 

Well, what a great night it turned out to be down at the Palace last night. We got down there just before the club opened and met up with Luis. I got set up (in the DJ box, I don't mean I finally got whacked) and played the first hour to an empty club, but when I came on later there were a few people dancing which was really cool. I really liked the set up in the DJ box, despite the crossfader not working, and thoroughly enjoyed playing. I couldn't thank Luis enough and was delighted when he asked me to bring my tunes again tonight. Wicked! 
The ravers from last week were there too, and I got chatting to the manager of the Palace (another one… how many do they have?!) who's called Tommy and does the trance parties with them. He asked about Muck FM and told me about the psy-trance parties which are held outdoors in the summer, and the after parties back at the club in the morning. They sound amazing and I'd love to go to one. He's another top guy, and as with every single person we've met here he made us feel very welcome. I actually think the Portuguese are some of the friendliest people I've ever met. Or maybe they're normal and it's just that everyone back home is miserable. Must be the weather. Which reminds me to mention that it's forecast to reach 39 degrees here next week (phewww!), and also reminds me to laugh about the terrible weather you lot are having back home. Don't worry, I'll bring some sun back for you I promise!
Anyway, I digress again.

All the crew had a good night, and even Handy behaved himself. He was last seen leaving with a new acquaintance at some point before midnight, which was a huge relief to me Whigfield-wise, and has meant he's had a smile on his face throughout today. Mrs Muck had a good chinwag with the lovely Brazilian barmaid, and while I was playing the beautiful Romanian assassin glided in and headed straight onto the dancefloor to move hypnotically to my tunes. It made my night, made my tongue hang out, and made me fuck up the next mix. Totally worth it though.

Aldy wasn't there last night, so thankfully there were less shots than usual going round, which I was avoiding anyway because I'm not a good drunk (DJ).
I found it a bit of a challenge playing to an unfamiliar crowd who I had no idea what they thought of the genres of music I play. Luis and the other DJ who played last night play mostly minimal, tech house and techno in the Palace, and Luis's eyebrows were raised when I upped the BPM to 133 in my second hour. He told me that's a bit fast for Lagos, which worried me, as my main set consisted of tunes a couple of BPMs faster than that! It's difficult when you only have a small bag of tunes with you, and not much room for manouevre if a change of direction is needed. Luckily, as it turned out, another DJ arrived to play so I didn't play a full second hour and my problem was solved.
I've had a look through my tunes today and have more than enough tunes to get by tonight. I'm not sure how long, or what time I'll be playing, so will play it by ear later. I've picked out a combination of tribal, tech and progressive tunes that should go down well, and have chosen a couple of (what I think) are suitable trance tunes to gauge their reaction. To be honest, it's cool whatever happens, because we're having a fantastic time and the Palace has turned out to be the centrepoint of our holiday, with the people who work and play there as mucky a group of people as you'll find anywhere. It's a wicked little club, although it looks as if we're here a little too early in the season to really appreciate it fully. One thing's for sure- if it is just a front then it's the best fake club I've ever been to…     

Monday 20th June

Uncle Jamal went mad and was deported back to England last night. The authorities escorted him in handcuffs to the airport, and didn't leave until the aircraft was pushing back and they were satisfied that he was on his way. Muck FM is slowly but surely becoming the St Trinians of radio stations (unfortunately minus the slutty schoolgirls though), a notorious pariah causing havoc wherever we descend. Or more accurately wherever the boys descend. We're already banned from Ibiza, and if we continue alienating ourselves at this rate we'll be holidaying in Bognor for the rest of our lives.
 
The day had started so promisingly too. We had chilled on the terrace, then as the sun went down headed into town to have something to eat. We ate Thai and everyone was in high spirits. The wine and sangria were flowing, and by the end of the meal everyone was feeling merry. For once the atmosphere was jovial and even the twins were in good humour. Handy was holding court, telling anecdotes about his time in the navy, and the summer season a few years back where he understudied Denise Van Outen in Chicago. 

Sandy was busy flirting with Fifi, much to the consternation of his little Portuguese cutie. I say cutie, but as the week has gone on in Sandy's company the bags under her eyes have multiplied, and her looks have faded noticeably, each day looking like a new progression in a crystal meth awareness campaign. To be honest, this is what happens to anyone who spends any length of time with Sandy. The poor girl is starting to look like a cross between Keith Richards and Alice Cooper, and Sandy's only still keeping her around because he's got her hooked on crack and is making a fortune selling her rocks at inflated prices. He's told her that if she can't afford to pay then she'll have to start working the streets, and that he'll be her pimp. He's started wearing flared linen trousers, wearing a wide brimmed Panama hat and walking with a cane. He keeps saying "who loves you baby?" in the mistaken belief that it was Huggy Bear's catchphrase, and his faux Croydo-Jamaican patois has slipped effortlessly into a generic US ghetto drawl. He went on to announce that he's thinking of changing his name to Snoop Sandy Sand and releasing a duet with MC Check. 
At this point Handy chipped in, saying "I wouldn't bother darling- I've had several duets with him and let's just say they are less 12" remixes and more three minute radio edits. There's no intro and the song finishes terribly abruptly. Very disappointing all round really."

The girls were all looking as glamourous as ever, and Jamal was sitting next to Sandy, practising his ghetto accent and kissing his teeth continually, so that it sounded as if the crickets had sprung into life in the long grass as dusk settled around us.

I actually started to relax in the company of the others for the first time this holiday, and for a short while everything was right with the world. I know what you're thinking- how can someone as streetwise as myself (I went on Sandy's Street Talk And Bling (STAB) course remember) be so naive? How could someone so down with the word on the street, and who is so hip, cool and dope (I think I need the STAB refresher course) be lulled into such a false sense of security? It must be those joints that Sandy keeps passing round. They've kept me in a semi-catatonic state all week, like a chemical cosh- which as we all know is Sandy's weapon of choice.
Whichever way you look at it, I hadn't reckoned on the J-Factor, and it wasn't long before things started to deteriorate.

The first sign that something was wrong was when Jamal started giggling uncontrollably for no apparent reason. Soon he had slipped off his chair and was on the floor of the restaurant in fits of laughter. Just as we all started looking at each other not knowing whether to be amused or alarmed, Jamal sprung up from the floor, like a jack in the box and stood rigidly upright, his legs slightly bent at the knees with his arms outstretched as if surfing, and his nose pointed up into the air sniffing like a bloodhound. He turned to us and told us with glazed eyes that "it is time." 
I don't think that in all my years on this earth I've ever heard a more ominous sentence, and was immediately prepared for the worst. Before I could worry any more he ran out of the restaurant mumbling incoherently about "our alien overlords" and giggling insanely. 
I caught up with him almost immediately, because he hadn't gone far. I actually nearly fell over him because as I turned the corner of the street outside he was crouched on the pavement on all fours, with his head pointing forward, once again sniffing the air intently, this time like a gun dog.
"It is time!" slurred Jamal, his eyes darting all around him and a little trickle of drool escaping from the side of his mouth. His moustache sagged down over his mouth while his eyebrows were raised so far above his eyes that it gave him a look of slight mutation and complete insanity.
If I'd seen the state of him I wouldn't have approached him, but as I had stumbled over him as I came round the corner here I was face to face with him- or at least I would have been if he'd been standing and not on all fours. Not for the first time on this holiday I felt in danger in Jamal's prescence, and nervously and ever so slowly started moving backwards.  I was sure he was about to start baying at the moon, and by now a small crowd of interested onlookers had gathered round to see what was going on.
I was torn between self-preservation, public duty and curiosity, but of course I stayed. More to rubberneck than save necks if I'm completely honest, but stay I did.

Then, like some awful recreation of An American Werewolf in London, Jamal, still on all fours, did indeed start howling and began to strip his clothes off until he was quite naked. The crowd gasped, as if at a firework display and the elderly woman at the front looked like she'd never seen anything like it. Not for a few years anyway. 
Jamal stood up, exposed and shameless, and proceeded to  wrap his yellowing Y-fronts around his head until he looked like a very poor Middle Eastern Rambo tribute act. 
Instead of a rampage, or indeed a spree, he puffed up his chest, stretched his arms out wide and started singing offensive and obscene football chants at the top of his voice. At this point I still didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or what action, if any, to take. I'd heard mutterings from the crowd about "policia" (from the locals), and cries from a group of drunken English lads at the back "oi, get 'ere sharpish John, someone's gone mental!"

Jamal continued chanting, and moved on to a rendition of "You're going home in a Muck FM ambulance!"
Oh shit.
It was down to me. The time had come to confront Jamal at last, and to save what was left of Muck FM's reputation. 
I had to take Jamal down. As you all know, I'm a lover not a fighter, and this was going to be the first time I'd thrown a punch since that time Handy got pissed on absinthe and started touching up Mrs Muck.
I steeled myself and wondered what type of punch to throw. The more I thought about it, the more sceptical I was that I was capable of knocking Jamal down. Even at the best of times that would be unlikely, and in his current deranged state I guessed it would be almost impossible.
 
I was weighing up a kick to the groin instead when thankfully the police arrived, just as Jamal broke into a chant of "you're just a small country in Spain" 
They don't take any nonsense here, and Jamal was swiftly and professionally dispatched with a baton to the back of the knee at the same time that one connected brutally to the back of his head. His wrists were cuffed and he was thrown, still naked head first into the back of a police van waiting with flashing lights on.
I spent all night down at the courthouse waiting to bail him out, but was informed in the small hours of this morning that due to Jamal already having being convicted of camel rustling ten years ago in Lisbon he was going to be deported immediately. The judge issued papers forbidding him from entering the country again for twenty years, which means at this rate Jamal will be getting a Butlins loyalty card sooner than we thought.

On one hand I'm quite relieved that Jamal is gone. I'm not going to miss his unpredictable moods and violent temper. As much as the twins are nightmares, they aren't (as) violent as Jamal, and we don't need to hose down the bathroom with Dettol after each time they visit. Unfortunately the smell of his moonshine camel sperm is still lingering in the apartment, and the acrid tang pervades everything. I didn't bring my Fabreze "Anti-Camel" with me- it's the only thing that will get the smell out of upholstery, although I've been told that Mr Muscle "Camel Out"  is pretty good too.

On the other hand, tonight's episode was manic even for Jamal. I saw him through the peep hole into his cell at the police station, and he was foaming at the mouth playing "pat a cake" with an imaginary friend. I'm not sure what happened, and have never seen him like that before, even after copius amounts of camel seed. Maybe there's a rogue batch going around, or maybe the stuff he got out here was so much purer than the heavily cut shit he buys back in Croydon. But he brews his own, so I don't think it could have been that, as that's pure and he can usually take industrial amounts of all camel related products. Maybe years of borderline personality disorder finally caught up with him, and his medication gave up and admitted defeat. Maybe it was sunstroke. Maybe he's just a crazy bastard and we shouldn't be in the least bit surprised. Or maybe we should- that he has never been deported before now.
 Whatever it was, one thing is for sure. Jamal is gone, and I pray to  God he doesn't try and smuggle himself back here before Friday.
Now as long as the twins behave themselves everything will be fine. Only three days left…          
   

Post edited 16:32 – June 22, 2011 by Doctor Muck

Wednesday 22nd June 

We met up with Luis and Carolina yesterday for a quick drink in town, and were taken to Ana's bar, where we also bumped into Tommy, the new manager of the Palace. I had noticed that he was different with me on Saturday in the club, after his friendly introduction on Friday. He was rather distant, and my instincts told me something had changed in his mind about me. It was him that I gave my CDs to that Ana complimented me on, so they must have listened to them together. Maybe he wasn't as impressed as she was, or maybe it was something else. Certainly last night there was nothing more than a polite greeting, which told me that my suspicions are probably right. Oh well, you can't hit it off with everyone, and if what I've heard is true, there's an expensive reason behind behind his air of superiority which is probably best avoided anyway.

Luis and Carolina have confirmed our earlier suspicions that they are a lovely couple and mucky as hell. They are real hippies, and well known and liked here in Lagos. They have made us feel so welcome, and we were very honoured when they invited us to their home for lunch today. They prepared the most delicious feast for us, and Carolina's home made sushi was amazing. 

Luis is a real character, and we listened with smiles on our faces as he told us tales of scrapes he got into when he was younger, while putting Sandy to shame with his immaculately rolled joints.

We're going to meet them both for a drink tomorrow night, our last in Lagos, and will be keeping in touch with them for sure. Luis told me that Brighton is one of his favourite places anywhere in the world, and I hope they visit soon for us to repay their wonderful hospitality.

Earlier last night, myself and Mrs Muck had taken a walk towards the marina and eaten at the restaurant where Aldy works. It was really good to see him again, and he looked after us impeccably. When he's not drunk he is so funny, and great company. His camp, flamboyant nature is so welcoming, and you could see that all of the customers in the restaurant loved him. It's hard not to, and we're going to meet him in town tonight to have a proper farewell drink when he's not working.

After leaving Luis's earlier we grabbed our stuff and legged it straight down to the beach. My contentment to shadebathe for the last few days has been left behind in a blind panic that in two days time it will be all over and we'll be back in the not-so-sunny UK. Dear God, what weather you've had back home! I'm half expecting to check the BBC weather website later and see plague and pestilence forecast for tomorrow, it's been that bad. It's certainly going to be tough going from lazy days on a sunkissed beach to a post apocolyptic hell hole, but I dealt with the fact that I sometimes have to work in Luton a long time ago…

The girls have also started panicing about their tans fading as soon as they hit UK airspace, so have decided to get some extreme tanning in. Fifi sent Mandy to the shops this morning to get some factor zero tanning oil, (Handy was all out) but instead she returned with a brightly coloured bottle of factor four. Fifi went mad, and berated Fifi for choosing 'pwetty cowors' instead of some 'real sun juice'. Oh boy, she's a real minx when roused, and not the head of the geishas for nothing. 

Like Mrs Muck with me, Fifi runs a tight ship. She's the boss all right, and acts as everything to the geishas, from madam to matron- if your idea of matron is less Hattie Jacques and more slutty japes. That was a bit tenuous wasn't it, and I apologise, but for those of you who've never met her, Fifi closely resembles Salma Hayek in 'From Dusk To Dawn', and has the feisty vampire attitude to match. She is the head Muck FM geisha girl, and also the head  pole/lap dancer up at the Camel Toe club in West Croydon. To see her writhe on a pole is quite something- and I speak from very personal experience, if you know what I mean- and I think you do. She's quite a girl, and a very good friend of mine. She often stays over with us in the studio back home and… well, I've said enough I think…

Plumping up her bikini angrily Fifi said that if you want something doing right etc, then stormed off to the shops and came back with twenty gallons of Hawaiian Tropic olive oil, dragging the industrial metal drum behind her on the pavement. 

"Now get this on you" she barked at Mandy, and started rubbing the young geisha girl down from head to toe with olive oil as me and Sandy looked on, tongues hanging out.

Fifi glanced at us and gave us a wink as she slid her hands over Mandy's budding breasts.

"Now you do me" she ordered Mandy, who willingly obliged, with a deceptively innocent smile. Needless to say we arrived at Luis's a little late…

Mandy is Fifi's protégé, and is being trained by her in the fine arts of geisha-ing and pole dancing. If you prefer your geishas loving as opposed to slutty, and warm hugs rather than hot tubs, then Mandy is the one for you. But don't be fooled by that girl next door exterior- she knows how to please, believe me, and as some of you know she doesn't come cheap. But without exception, everyone who's tried her has said she's worth every penny…

So here we all are on the beach, Handy and the geishas all sizzling slowly on the sunloungers, a heavenly smell of frying meat and olive oil drifting over into our nostrils. Sandy is fast asleep on a towel next to them after a noisy all night session with his cutie (they woke me up three times with all the groaning and crack smoke drifting under our bedroom door), and myself and Mrs Muck are relaxing with our books making the most of the unwanted pretty bottle of factor four. A siesta I think, then a night out in town with Aldy and the crew. The last couple of days of a holiday are always tainted with the imminent return to reality on the horizon, but I'm determined to make the most of our time here- and reality can always be blotted out for a while with a couple of puffs on one of Sandy's droopy doobies. Good times…. catch you tomorrow folks!

Friday 24th June

Bloody Sandy. 
Before I went out into town last night, we (not Mrs Muck, who was still a shade of green) took tea on the terrace. It was all very civilised, and Mandy was pouring us earl grey from a brightly coloured locally made teapot. Sandy passed round a tray of pastries that he said he'd picked up at the patisserie in town, and we all took tiffin together as if it were normal- and as if we were too. 
As always, whenever the word tiffin is mentioned we all think instantly of Sid James' partiality to it in Carry On Up The Khyber, and launch into our favourite running joke- our own impressions of the Carry On cast. We all know our roles, and slip effortlessly and obviously into them everytime, which always ends up with us rolling helplessly around with laughter. Here is a quick run down of our individual roles, including those absent:

Handy- Kenneth Williams (obviously)
Me- Sid James (hwah hwah hwah)
Mrs Muck- Elkie Sommer (the saucy eastern European Professor Vrooshka in Carry On Behind) 
Fifi- Barbara Windsor
Scul- a scarily true likeness to Bernard Bresslaw
MC Check- Charles Hawtrey (also scarily accurate. No need for method acting here)
Ecaked- imagine a young Jim Dale, but completely bald, and again, it's uncanny.
Sandy- Windsor Davies
And I'm going to get my head cut right orrf, but:
Queen- Joan Sims (….er, because they're both blonde. Yes, that's it, yes, blonde…)

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…?
 
Ah yes, Sandy and his pastries. The bloody bastard lied- it was his dodgy mate that grows the weed who made the batch of 'Lisbon Lights lemon lovelies', not the patisserie in town. Each one contained an eighth of genetically modified, hydroponically grown, mindbending local weed, picked, apparently, by virginal gypsy girls in traditional costume. I may have just added the virginal myself, but let's face it, Sandy's claims about the harvesting methods are hardly likely to be true anyway, so if I want to garnish them with my own sordid imagination I will, ok?

Anyway, as I was saying… 
I'd eaten two cakes which meant I had a quarter of an ounce of high grade, fucked up sensimilla in my stomach, that unknown to me was fermenting and about to launch my poor brain skywards, out towards Uranus (insert gag here. Or there, if you prefer…)

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 hadn't realised how much I had needed to get away, and despite the antics of the usual suspects trying to ruin everything, our stay here in Lagos ticked all the boxes necessary to make this holiday a good one. Our apartment was amazing, beautifully furnished in tradional wood, and a near perfect location overlooking Dona Ana beach. Lagos is beautiful, and now the season is picking up I have high hopes for the Palace, and that Luis will be rocking a packed dancefloor before long.
Which brings me on to the fantastic people we've met here, who have all made us feel very welcome. We've made some true friends, and intend to come back again sooner rather than later. 
I spread the Muck FM word, and managed to play a couple of sets in the local club, which was brilliant, and has left me hungry for more…  Add fantastic weather, food and drink, and it's been one of the best holidays ever.

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.
I told her I would see her at Joao's, and chatted to the proprietor while I waited.
 
I had started to feel a little lightheaded but simply put it down to the carafe of house red that had accompanied my lamb. By the time Mrs Muck had arrived Joao had a worried look on his face, and looked pleased to be able to hurry back into the kitchen as she took over.
I was wearing a expression so glazed that you could have dropped a feather behind my eyes in a gale and it wouldn't have deviated from it's path to the ground. Mrs Muck told me later that I had such bad red eye that she had had to prise my eyelids apart with a teaspoon which Joao kindly fetched for her from the kitchen. 
I started to become more incoherent, and apparently thought that Joao and Mrs Muck were my mum and dad who had come to pick me up from Xavier's. I've no idea who Xavier is, and to my knowledge have never met anyone by this name. Maybe I lived a past life in France, and in my deranged state regressed back to my Gallic roots. This would explain why I'm so partial to cheese I suppose..
  
Anyway, I remember none of this, and the next thing I can recall is finding myself at Ana's bar, with a beer in my hand and in the company of Mrs Muck, Luis and Carolina. It was as if I had been hypnotised and then woken up somewhere completely different with no memory of how I got there. I looked around, blinking, half expecting Derren Brown to slip out of the shadows with a smug grin and a microphone, and tapped Mrs Muck tentatively on the arm, needing some reassurance that this wasn't a dream, and that I wasn't losing my mind. 
She paused in her conversation, and asked me if I was "back in the room then?" with a sympathetic smile on her face.

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.
She went outside to find Sandy whooping, wearing a cowboy hat (Handy's I presume) with the gun in his hand riding Fifi like a rodeo pony, his free hand slapping her rump, which was as bare as the day she was born. Fifi was making neighing noises and loving every minute of it, and Handy was directing operations from the wicker chair in the corner. He was wearing nothing but a purple paisley cravatte around his neck and Mrs Muck's pink sarong draped over his thighs, which Mrs Muck said kept slipping down over his knees, exposing himself to all and sundry. Mandy didn't seem to mind and sat watching events cross legged on the floor with saucer eyes and a smile.

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.
After a few minutes of patient enquiries she finally managed to ascertain that they were all stoned out of their minds after eating one of the magic cakes each. Thankfully Sandy couldn't help but brag between snorts of laughter that I'd unwittingly eaten two and was now somewhere in town fending for myself as my poor brain was being launched into outer space.

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. 
Mrs Muck recovered quickly too once she had got some hair of the dog inside her, and was well (and hungry) enough to get a kebab down her on the way home- which isn't a euphemism, before you ask.

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. 
The twins are asleep, their heads resting together as the train trundles along, their peaceful faces a betrayal of their waking chaos. All the girls are looking as glamourous as ever and drawing envious looks from everyone as they chatter gaily and preen themselves in their make up mirrors.
And me? I'm feeling relaxed and happy, and actually don't mind the fact we're on our way home.

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…