For those of you that enjoyed the "Twister" tale, I am infomed that the game is still available from major stores and, of course, from EBay.
Also, many of you have requested the full story regarding the use of fire-eater fluid to create a very special effect that literally took her breath away! However, I am saving that one for a later blog, once I have the photos to include. Also, I intend to use this new site to include some other material, much of it dating to the era before I discovered sploshing and not all of it relating to my sexual adventures.
Previous readers may recall the absurd happenings at the Valencia hotel when I was over-refreshed and got stuck in the lift with a bullfighter and a waiter. We were there for almst an hour, and I had to pee in the corner. When I looked round the bullfighter and the waiter were holding hands!!
But, I omitted to tell you the happenings of earlier that day, and how I came to be in that state: I had spent the afternoon eating Tortilla in a pavement cafe before visiting a local bar. I had intended to eat Tapas, but found that the really good ones didnt open until evening, those that were open catered largely to tourists, with prices to match. In the bar, some people were watching bullfights on TV, and others were listening to Tina Turner on the stereo. I was trying to speak bad Spanish to the bartender, and mistakenly ordered Ricard pastis. (I thought he said his name was Richard, but he was just a Dick). This foul smelling liquor, similar to Pernod proved to be slightly addictive and I ended up having several. Outside, it was as hot as it can be in Valencia in July.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote that you do not know what hot is until you've been ill in a Valencia boarding house. Fortunately, air-con has been invented since Ernie's day, and was in action in the bar, and also at my hotel.
The street, though, was another story. The soles of my trainers were almost melting into the hot tarmac as I staggered to La Bota to catch the 6 o'clock Happy Hour. It appeared that most of the population had turned up at once, and it took me a while to get a few beers to sooth my ravaged stomach. At 7.30 (Spanish Happy Hours have extra time), the place semi-emptied and I was left with a few drunks, some bemused tourists and a couple of fed-up looking bartenders.
I ordered Bacardi, and sat at the window looking out onto the street. Within an hour, the street started to fill up with the evening crowd, heading to the restaurants and trendy bars around the Old Quarter, and down on the Blasco Ibanez. Slowly, the bar started to fill agian, and I found myself next to a small group of young ladies who informed me that they were aircrew from a British airline. Having delivered another plane load of screaming children, shell-suited mothers and shaven headed drunks in a variety of football shirts, to the hoteliers and bartenders of the Costas, they were now ready for a drink themselves.
As we chatted, I became aware that the youngest, a dinky little blonde with perky boobs, was leaning against me and attempting to identify the strange smell from my breath. So, I told her about the Ricard, and, of course, she wanted to try it. Thinking that I might be onto a good thing, I got her a large one from the bar. By the time she had finished it, she was sitting on my lap squirming, and her riends had departed with knowing smiles. I asked what she usually drank and was informed that she normally drank vodka with blackcurrant cordial (Yes, I know!), and stated that would be her preference for the rest of the stay. Unfortunately, the bar did not stock blackcurrant cordial, and the bartender compensated by pouring blackcurrant liqueur into the vodka.
After three of these drinks, I decided to make the move and suggested a small snifter at the hotel. She smiled, and agreed.
Time was short, so I decided to splash out on a cab, and we moved outside onto the street, followed by an anxious bartender with my bill. Having sorted him out, I bacame aware that the heat of the day still lingered, and that this girl was sweating profusely, too early in my opinion!
Suddenly, she looked up, looked down, then vomited this horrible purple mixture all over my shoes. And, as women do when they have been sick on booze, she announced that she was very unwell and wanted to go home!
I was tempted to give her a few pesetas (Now you know that this not recent!), and point her to the bus stop but, an unexpected twinge of conscience set in and I had fork out about six hundred to get her back to her hotel.
Having deposited this drunken, vomiting slapper in the foyer of her hotel, I then had to walk two miles to mine, in a less expensive part of the city, near the docks.
Checking my funds, I realised I had enough left for a couple of wines and a cheap cigar at the local bodega, so I stopped off there, before getting back to the place that I shared, as it turned out, with a gay bullfighter and various other riff raff.
After the incident in the lift, I awoke to find that not only my white trainers were ruined, and streaked with purple, my good denims were too! It had proved to be an expensive evening and a deeply unsatisfactory.
So, think twice before trying to get young girls drunk, and stay away from Ricard!!
A similar thing happened to a friend of mine in Newcastle, only she waited until they were inside the cab before throwing up. Apart from the trauma, he also had to deal with an enraged cab driver who demanded money to clean his upholstery!!
Have to finish now, my local barman is calling me. More soon!!
