Like any addiction worth its salt (pornography, crack, pringles) I am in Spain yet tapping away on an internet cafe keyboard. I am staying in a marble floored house in the birthplace of this blog, Fuengirola, and life is good, mainly because my time is my own, I am not working, the sun is shining and I am, temporarily at least, a man of leisure.
It is bloody hot here. I have caught snippets of Wimbledon on the house TV (it has British cable) and have noticed with a fair amount of schadenfreude that several matches have been rained off because this UK summer is proving to be duller than a fiscal seminar delivered by Gordon Brown whacked out on Nightol.
Fuengirola by comparison is boiling; Deep azure skies, skin-bubbling sunshine, uncollected refuse cooking in the heat - it is paradise. And the women are stunning. My companion and I, the ever cheerful Nothing Man, have stuck mainly to Spanish bars and tapas restaurants, mingling with the locals (well, staring at their copper tans and fulsome breasts fighting their way out of their garish pastel coloured tops), and generally building up a vicious immunity to alcohol.
It gives me no pleasure to admit that last night we were completely unaffected by 3 beers, two vodka redbulls, two amarettos, two tintos, a gin and tonic, a rum and coke, and a pair of tequilla slammers that were given to us on the house because we were friendly Brits who were trying to converse in Spanish and not violent, tattooed guiris. We´d eaten quite wonderful tapas earlier on and, with two further beers at the classy and salubrious Tramps bar, we´d only spent 30 pounds.
We´re trying to have a day off booze tonight as tomorrow we aim to party in Marbella and Puerto Banus to stare at more gorgeous women who ignore us, and maybe revisit the ridiculously overpriced Eurotrash nightclub populated by hookers and golddiggers we visited last year.
Our first night here went quite well, with one young lady giving me perhaps the greatest single compliment ever slurred;
"I´d like to have sex with you - you´re quite attractive."
Bearing in mind that in the 10 months I´ve been blogging and - trust me on this - for the last 15 years, I have continually bitched about my lack of sex, this passing comment could, at least in my opinion, finally prove the existance of a benevolent interventionalist god.
However, she wasn´t my type.
I hate to dismiss this yet to be approved by the Vatican miracle with four vague words, but there we go.
How can I justify my actions? Imagine a horizontal scale of attraction. On the right is my Type: Beyonce, Kelly Brook, Halle Berry, Monica Bellucci, Tera Patrick. Curves, breasts, tans, Mediterranean, frizzy hair, womanly, pretty damn stunning, likely to see me as a walking incarnation of all they find evil and obnoxious about the world.
On the left is Not-My-Type; Extremely obese, dangerously thin, bearded, aloof, Neo-Nazi, desks, trowels, Men.
Being nice, as I refuse to slur a complete stranger, let´s just say that Not My Type lady had at least four of the above black marks against her, although it´s safe to say that she wasn´t a trowel.
I told her with a smile on her face that she should respect herself and not demand a shag from men she´s just pounced on, but she not unsurprisingly told me to ´Fuck off, then´.
So that´s that, a (non-sexual) orgy of clubbing, staring, eating surprisingly healthily, swimming, reading, doing 100 crunches and 50 press-ups a day, and excreting Luxembourg-sized amounts of sweat.
My god I wish I didn´t have to do things like work for a living in a cold, overpriced and miserable city. But in the meantime, there are four more evenings to enjoy...