Turning up at Stansted airport, still absolutely wasted from the Wednesday night at 6:30am on 45 minutes sleep should have really, in hindsight, been an indication that the next two days in Pula (a small town on the coast of Croatia) were going to be out of control. The touring party consisted of myself, Jack, Wayne (mate of mine from Manchester) and Danny.
Having somehow got through customs in pink cowboy hats, Wayne and I turn around to see Jack having his bag searched. The security man starts looking through his stuff. First thing he pulls out: a tiger print all in one. A slight smirk comes across his face. Next: a fluffy pink wig. He bursts out laughing, "these lads are out for some harmless fun" he thinks to himself, and lets Jack through, wishing him all the best for his boozy weekend. He has no idea.
Wayne and I have been suckered into some baileys tasting at quarter to 7. The next thing I know, we have bought two bottles, and are chinning shots between the three of us. Hazlenut? Sure. Only the best for the boys. Is this the right thing to be doing? Probably.
On the plane, we have finished our first bottle and are cracking into our second. Things are going down hill. We are all shattered, but no one dares sleep for fear of what the others will do.
Clearly, we have not booked anywhere to stay, so after landing, the sensible thing to do, is clearly to walk through the centre of Pula in pink cowboy hats and fluffy pink wigs, looking for a bar. We sit at the first one we see, it's 11:30am, but it's a scorching day. So scorching, Jack kindly purchases every tourist a pair of flair sunglasses, something we are all more than happy to wear. Sitting there in our love heart shaped sunglasses, chinning beers, waving at local honeys and talking nonsense really gets me going. I'm excited, a little too excited for the next few hours. Looking around, all the locals are smoking. So as not to disrespect their culture, we all decide we chain smoke in Croatia. Danny gets the first round of cigs in. A 20 pack, gone within 30 minutes, some pretty epic smoking.
All of a sudden, the only sensible decision of the holiday gets made-we should probably eat something as we don't want to be so pissed we can't talk by 4pm. We spot a lovely little place up on top of a building where we can sit in the sun, eat, chin beers and stare at the local clunge. Our waitor, Igor, was a lovely chap. Recommending us meals, bringing us beers on demand. Having stayed for 2 more hours, we are all comfortably full, boozed and ready to go find a hotel. We realise we have no way to stay, so we ask Igor and he points us in one direction. We trust him, it's Igor for Christs sake! Bad move. He's pointed us straight at a casino. Cheers Igor. No one had to be told what would happen, we all knew. We don't even look at each other, not even an affirming nod.
We start playing 5s for bets. This is clearly not the first game of 5s we've played, but I honestly can't remember too much about the holiday. Wayne looses and places £50 on red. A loss. We all casually lose about £100 each, but no one thinks anything of it. It's monopoly money! A few beers in the casino and we are ready to find a room.
Further up the street is a delightful little hotel, thankfully they take our passports as we walk in-my ticket home safe, we head up to the rooms. To celebrate our passports being safe, Wayne and I decide to have a little wrestle. He's 6'5' and built like a brick shit house. I'm not small by any means, but within 20 seconds of walking into that room, I had been slam dunked into the cupboard. Wanting revenge, I dip my head and charge at him. 6'5 of timber falls onto the bed, which instantly snaps in one corner. Classic move. Satisfied we've broken enough in the room, we head out, not to find dinner, but to get ink.
Earlier in the day, we had made a pact of ridiculous proportions. We were all going to get either ink or a mohawk. The sensible men (Jack and Wayne, well, Jack only went for the mohawk as he already has ink from the last time he lost a bet read about it here) choose the mohawk-granted you look like a cock for a day or two, but after shaving your head, hair grows back and in a month, no one will know. The not so sensible men (Danny and myself) viewed this pact a little differently. See, we both like sex. We are both having regular sex, and although we a both very much unattached, having the regularity is something not to be sniffed at. This for me was the difference between sex the following week, and no sex the following week. So I took the short term view, and went for ink.
We had seen an ink parlour earlier in the day, and head there. It's shut. A sign? No. We jump in a taxi and head 20 minutes to the next town over, to a run down resort where everything was shut. Apart from one ink parlour. A sign? Yes. We should go through with this. A woman was lying in there, naked getting her back done. He asks us to come back half an hour later, so we do head out to find more beer. After chinning a pint, we head back. Danny's up first. He chooses to get the nuber 76 inked on him inside a black circle, on his inside ankle. A testament to the house he lived at whilst at university. “All the lads will get one!” he proclaimed. (Upon returning to the UK, none of the lads are getting one). Whilst Danny is getting inked, Wayne has clearly had enough. He has passed out. Granted, we are 26 hours into what will turn out to be a 36 hour bender, just taking a breather. I take the opportunity to stick my cock in his ear. It's funny isn't it? Why was that so fun? Why did everyone get so much enjoyment out of watching me put my penis into another man's auditory canal? Either way, I got one over on him.
Danny's done. I'm up. What do I get? Esteemed readers, now is the time you cross my mind. I want to get #goodegg inked on my ankle, for you lot. I spend 10 minutes deliberating over the font, and get it done. Although it looks a little like #goode 99, I'm pretty pleased with it, I must confess.
We jump in a taxi back to Pula, inked up, and search in vein for a restaurant. Nothing. This town is tiny! We all know where we are going. We head back to Igor. He's happy to see us. He brings us out four meat dishes, and shit loads of wine. Now this is where we start to hit it hard. Really hard. We nail a bottle of wine, very quickly, each. On top of the 27 hours previous, this tips us over the edge. Igor has brought us some B52s. We are sucking fumes through a straw. We are chinning pints. We are having a good time. Danny and I head out for yet another cigarette. When we get back in, Wayne and Jack are chatting to Igor.
Wayne: “where's good to go tonight?”
Igor: “what you want? You want to fuck Croatian girls?”
He says this very aggressively. Emphasising the fuck. Then he does something strange. He spits in his hand and slaps it against his other one.
YES IGOR! This is what we want to do! We want to FUCK and SPIT! YES!
Igor: “Go to Ulyesis, I see you in there later, we fuck Croatian girls”
He spits in his hands again, classic Igor.
The time has come, we are all wasted. We tip Igor probably more than a week's wage, and leave. We have vague directions to Uleysis and start following the noise.
Uleysis turns out to be in a disused factory. It's 1am and it's empty. We start talking to the limited amount of clunge in there. Nothing. We need a new tactic. We play 5s, losers had to befriend the skin head lads in the corner, and get them to introduce us to some of the honeys. Wayne loses and off he trots, only to return having had death stares. We are going to have to do it the only way we know how. A dance off. Danny and I go for it. We are pulling out all the moves. Danny has decided he's done enough to score. The best way to approach a Croatian girl: lick there face. Foolproof. Only if they don't have boyfriends. Danny gets slapped! Slapped by a man. Shame on both of them really.
We see Igor, and he introduces us to some clunge. I nosh one, Jack and Danny get one each. Wayne is no where to be seen though. They are all hideous. Do we care? Of course not! It's 2am, and they open up the doors to what turns out to be a giant rave. It's packed. The rest of the night is a blur.
On leaving at 6am, we can't find Wayne. We look everywhere. No one has seen him for 3 hours. We head back to the hotel, but that bugger the Casino catches our gaze and we head in. Upon walking in, Wayne chants his own name. We run over. He got kicked out the club after he pissed in the sink.
Bouncer: “would you do this in your own country?”
Wayne: “actually, yes”
He was out and had been half gambling, half sleeping since. We head back to get some much needed sleep, tomorrow will be a big day.....
Happy hunting
Peter
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