Seville

A week after being back from Sri Lanka and I was off again – this time to Seville. (And to think I was once called a 'parochial motherfucker' by a colleague.)

The reason for this trip was to celebrate the impending nuptials of our friend, Reesy. Reesy and I have known each other for years, both having played as substitutes for our local football team. He was the back-up left-back and I was the supporting right-back. Unfortunately, our manager did not have the same policy on defensive rotation as Mauricio Pochettino, so most of our Sundays were spent watching piss-poor thirteen year-olds play kick and run. Despite the neck ache we endured watching adolescent hoof ball, our time on the sidelines did us good, informing our punditry, making us excellent readers of the game. Wenger, Mourinho and Ferguson weren’t great players but they went on to become successful managers … now I’m not saying Reesy and I could necessarily manage a top 4 team, but I’m surprised no Championship team has taken a chance on us yet.

There is no more loyal player in the whole of football than the thirteen year old substitute.

The Stag Do started early at 8am when a mini-bus picked us up from Watford Junction. A lot of the lads going on the trip were old school friends, which was nice as it gave me a chance to revisit playground handshakes, nicknames and anecdotes. Such was the level of nostalgia on display, I recorded it on my phone to sell to Peter Kay fans at a later date.

Arriving at the airport, I sat my liver down to assuage its fears. I explained that it would soon be killed by alcohol. That, yes, it would hurt. It would take hold. But in time it would find green tea again. Stoic to its fate, I told my liver I'd never been so proud. Midday hadn’t even arrived and I’d had two pints. I had said to Scott that I could murder a coffee, but when the round came I ordered a pair of pints, fearful that holding just one would disrupt my balance.

Pair of pints.

Ben was responsible for the accommodation, and he did a great job. We had a huge apartment with big living area and rooftop terrace. Some of the boys had already arrived, meaning nibbles and drinks awaited us on arrival. Unfortunately the lads didn’t maintain these standards for the whole trip; consequently my cries of ‘waiter!’ fell on deaf ears.

We then headed out into the night to get buzzed. Maquiila was where we went to, which is located in the upper/lower/middle/somewhere part of Seville. (I never knew where I was in Seville. Like a Mail reader, I just went where I was told.) The food was just how I like it: constant and continuous. The beer was refreshing, possessing that vital ingredient: sun. The company was good too. Son Brewing are a great corporation. (Just a pun there to misdirect my friends into thinking I was complimenting them when in fact I was complimenting the cerveza..) Putting foreign words in italics makes you smart, right?

After the meal I shamefully headed home at 12. For the record I did this because I just thought the lads were going for a nightcap. If I knew they were going on an all-nighter I would have continued to fight the good fight, fending off lethargy in the name of stag. As it was I went to bed, awaking a clear-headed man.

I thought this is what the boys meant by 'nightcap.'

The next morning I made way up to the living room where I was given desayuno. Some people might argue that, given I was one of the flaky dropouts, I should have been on the mixing desk early to bang out some scrambled egg. What I would say to that is … yes, that is a completely valid point. However, Steve - on a hangover- made a Spanish breakfast so well it put pay to the idea that men can’t multi-task: Alka-Seltzer in one hand; whisk in the other, the boy can do it all.

After the breakfast of Gods, we left for a spa. Yeah, that’s right we went to a spa. We put the spa in Spain, motherfuckers. I had never been to a spa before because as a skinny jean wearing, tahini seasoning, romcom watching male, I’m far too alpha for that shit. Fortunately, the other boys aren’t. Before we got the relaxing massage though, we had to go through the fraught business of administration. On arrival we were given blue plastic bags to slip on our feet – like we were heading into an Ebola Zone. Unsure whether to put the bags on as we went in, or when we got in, caused an outbreak of panic amongst staff. Quickly, we were quarantined in the changing rooms whilst our translator, Benjo, established whether we could uncouple the bags. After being checked by the manager, we were given the all clear to dive bomb into the waters.

There were three pools: medium, hot – and freezing cold. As someone who isn’t an elite athlete, I saw no purpose in the Alaskan waters. But being on a stag I jumped in because I’m all about the bantz. Rejoining the warm pool, I had a chance to reflect on my life, and after much contemplation I decided that Watford should sack Walter Mazzarri. After this epiphany, I was called up to have my massage. Before having our bodies basted in oil, we were ordered into the jacuzzi, where we were put under strict instructions not to talk. As an introvert I find not talking easy, but the outgoing lads found this experience an ordeal, resulting in them using sign language, semaphore and eye blinking to communicate.

After the health spa, we immediately headed outside to the neighbouring bar to kill off any oestrogen we men may have acquired. Struggling to get a taxi, we paid the local bartender to take us back to the apartment. (This isn’t something I recommend in England. Our cabbies have it hard enough with Uber without John at Wetherspoons muscling in on the market.)

Cabbies: this man is coming for you.

Back at the apartment we played a pub quiz game, where one of the rounds was all about Reesy. At the end of the ten questions, I came to the conclusion that I’ve led a dull, tedious life. If someone had to write ten questions about me, it would be stuff life: ‘In 2015 what did Ryan have two glasses of that made him sick? Answer: Non-alcoholic fruit punch.” This quiz was one of my highlights of the weekend, sitting there with the boys laughing at Reesy’s – sorry, Smelly Pop’s - escapades.   

In the evening we all went for dinner at El Mero’s. A great restaurant with an even better waiter. At first we weren’t sure where we were going to eat, but then the aforesaid collared us. He had a vision for us. He saw fish. He saw meat. He saw laughter. He saw alegria. He told us that he could make all of this happen if only we gave him the chance. We liked the sound of his vision so we commissioned him to make the picture. The final film surpassed our expectations. If you go to Seville, then head to El Mero’s; there a culinary director waits for you, ready to shoot a technicolour he calls: Tapas! The Movie.

Following our feed, we headed to Feria, which is Spanish. The fair is quite the institution, dating back to 1847. I’d been before when I went to visit my friend Phil, but enjoyed it just as much the second time. Having enjoyed a feast for the stomach, feria is one for the eyes. The lights are bright, the dresses are bright and faces are too. It’s a joyous occasion, a collision of sound, drink and food that really is quite wonderful.

The next morning I woke up early and did the washing up. Doing the washing up for eighteen lads is something of a task, and how I didn’t earn a Boy Scout badge for my efforts is something of a mystery. Mum, put the needle and thread down: your son’s efforts have gone unrewarded. Taking the rubbish out was something out of sitcomland: passing into the city square was a group of British men, all carrying a bag of empty beer bottles; it was like we were satirising our own drinking culture – only shamefully we weren’t.

And so home. And after a two and a half delay, which Ryanair described as ‘a bit of a hold up,’ we arrived back in Britain.