On the left we have a thin pork steak, buttery golden, and to the right, 4 mister prawns, texturally unbeatable. Crisps and salad complete the canvas. Muy bien, senor!
Tonight is something of a tapas tour. I think of tours as great because normally you go from somewhere rubbish (i.e Aguas Calientes in Peru) to somewhere dizzyingly exciting (Macchu Picchu.). Unfortunately, we started at a superb tapas bar so, no, it wasn't like that. It was like this.
Bar 2: Dessert wine, excellent calamari (albethey oddly stewed in a sauce with... what is that? Oh... chips.), meatballs with ice-y centres (but successful in a sort of savoury icecream way). Clientele: the sort of person that keeps a dog on a string.
Bar 3: once we had ordered (otherwise we'd have been out of there in a flash.. these things can be catching!), we realised we were in a homosexual bar. Yes. There were postcards of TWO MEN KISSING (!) on the wall, and, and the female cook had suspiciously short hair. But this wasn't the real problem: the wine tasted exactly like sweetcorn. On the plus side, a tapa (for that is the singular of tapas) of rice with vegetables sounds uninspiring but was like a four-part harmony in my mouth.
Bar 4: The best of the wines. Smelled like Chanel perfume in comparison to the last place. Tapas portions robust and served with an overwhelming monton of crisps. Tortilla plump and potatoed, but, as ever, thickly painted with mayonnaise, of which I am not a fan.
By this point I definitely do not want anymore tapas. Tap off. And I may well have a sizeable bit of meatball stuck in my throat.
We decide to head to the club. Granada/Spain is not excellent in this way. No one goes to a club before three o'clock. WHICH IS TOO LATE! WHICH IS WHEN YOU SHOULD BE IN BED WITH A BOOK! It is obvious that everyone is just sitting at home, silently on the sofa, watching their watches for three o'clock so they can go out. Well don't, knobflops! Go out at 7 o'clock like they do in northern England, and wobble home carrying a shoeful of vomit by 10.30.
In any case, we are essentially the first people to arrive at the club. Cool!
And we have not read the poster advertising the night carefully enough. We are greeted by these men.
Yes, all men. Even the one that looks a lot like Victoria Beckham in the spangly LBD. The boys in the cage (who are blurry here because their dance moves are so wild) have their nipples out. I can't get over the capacity that nipples have to shock me. I don't know what it is. They are just so perky and pink and private.
Anyway, for a good half an hour, it is just me and Paul Fox and the trannies, maxi-relaxing, pretending it isn't awkward, cracking out the odd 'wacky' dance move, thinking that actually, Aguas Calientes in Peru was a pretty nice place all things considered.
Dios be blessed, other students start to trickle in. (It was a student night, advertised to all Erasmus. We hadn't just typed "gay granada" into google - unless... had you, Paul?). It is fun to watch fresh Scandinavian faces liquefy as they see catch the sight of orange tanga panty on male bottom.
Soon, as Beyonce sometimes says to me when we're hanging out, the club is jumpin' jumpin'. A chiseled American boy kisses about 8
wildly unattractive girls, and some skinny plonker turns up with a cigar and a hat. It is always the same. But dance we do and by the time we get home, the birds have already got their whistle on.
(And we have no shoeful of vomit in our hands.)
Actually yes, I did. I typed 'gay granada' into google and chose the number one hit because I thought it would be funny. It wasn't. I was given flirty smiles by men in very tight policemans uniform then groped by a man in a cowboy outfit! One huge Village People themed nightmare. Excellent.
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