There's no moment in a mans life when he's more vulnerable than when he's got his dick out and is about to have a piss. Therefore this is the worst possible time to get your head slammed against the urinal by a coked up English thug in Costa Del Sol. Its my fault really, i mean who in their right mind drinks in an Irish pub called Shenanigans? Be you English, Irish or Spanish. But what does one do against a steroid fuelled fool out to prove a point. Knife? No, too Crocadile Dundee. Gun? No, too gangster. Mace? Yes, it's quick, quiet and i'd happily mace any poor bastard that tried to take advantage in the private sanctuary of the gentlemen's toilet.
So what is it about the South coast of Spain that attracts the rich and ravenous? Well, there's Puerto Banus in Marbella, the extravagent port, whose beauty is only exceeded by its extortion. And of course we have Morocco about 40 miles towards the horizon which allows anyone with a life sentence death wish to smuggle high-grade Cannabis and Columbia's finest cocaine over to these shores. Why come for the weather, which to be fair, is noticably declining thanks to the gaping hole in our o-zone layer. Or you could come for a hike through areas of rich, vibrant landscape with crystal clear water-falls surrounded by every lushous shade of green imaginable. Or the rustic, rural towns in the hills of Granada where the Spanish actually, God forbid, speak Spanish! Yay!
But no. It would appear that people come here to promote good old fashioned English patriotism, with football chants and talking to under-age girls with their crotches. Long live London pride. Sigh.
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