The first thing that struck me on my night out in Spain was that all the lads (and I use that term liberally) in our group were wearing shorts. This was something of a novelty for me. Having come of age amid the nightlife of Manchester, it wasn’t so much that the bouncers wouldn’t let you in wearing shorts, but that the weather wouldn’t let you out in them. No such worries on the Costa del Sol as we sat outside a bar in Nerja until about 1am – but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The night began, as all good things do, with a bout of pre-drinks. Giving a whole new meaning to the term ‘party bus’, we hopped aboard the local public transport service to Nerja, trying to avoid the looks of distaste from other passengers as we unceremoniously cracked open our tinnies and slurped on the regrettably lukewarm froth that burst forth. Several miles and several more units later, we stumbled off the bus and into the aforementioned bar, where I had to contain my disbelief and delight at the price of drinks. A couple of euros for a cocktail? It’d be rude not to. As it happened, I was incredibly polite that evening.
My politeness endured into Tutti Frutti Square, where we sampled bars and clubs until about 4am, when my politeness began to catch up with me. Wetherspoon’s had softened me with their watery Woo Woos, so the liberal Spanish attitude to cocktail ratios hit me like a party bus to Nerja. However, it didn’t all end in tears. I managed to make friends with an alleged ‘shaman’, who tried to cure my ailments by tapping my head and showering me with water. Now there’s something you don’t see in the queue for Bridge.