The Orange Mocha-Chip Frappuccino Years by Paul Howard

Author:Paul Howard [Paul Howard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781847174420
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2012-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

The D4s were soundly beaten in the final of the water polo competition. We were all too hungover to keep scores, but Andy – our asshole of a tour rep – said it was a record defeat.

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and there’s this, like, banging on our door and all this shouting in Spanish outside, and I presume it’s the hotel security guard, wanting to know who focked a box of Frosties off our balcony into the swimming pool a few minutes ago. I don’t even know why I did it. I’ve had a few scoops but I’m not, like, ossified or anything. Probably just boredom. I answer the door, roysh, and the goy’s there, like, screaming his head off and, like, pointing at me. He’s got a sort of, like, truncheon thing hanging from his belt, which he keeps pointing to as well. I’m just like, ‘No focking comprende.’ And then, roysh, I’m pretty proud of this because it came to me, like, out of the blue, I just go, ‘They’re grRREAT!’ and slam the door in his face.

It probably isn’t the end of the matter, but then again, roysh, I think the management have pretty much given up on us and are, like, counting the days until we basically leave. Looking around the gaff, you can’t really blame the maids for refusing to clean the place. We’ve basically wrecked the apartment. There’s, like, beer all over the floor, the toilet’s blocked, thanks mainly to the chef at Salmonella City, and the bed sheets look like they’ve been through a focking dirty protest. It’s like being back in Ocean City on a J1er. I’m like, ‘This place looks like a bomb’s hit it.’ And Christian goes, ‘If a bomb hit this place it’d cause thousands of pounds worth of improvements.’He can be a funny bastard, Christian.

I don’t even know how the place got into this state. Me and Christian are basically the only ones who are ever here. Fionn’s basically moved in with the two Spanish birds. He sleeps there every night and comes back in the morning to get, like, clothes for the day. There’s only his suitcase left here now. When he comes in, roysh, he just, like, looks around the place as though it, like, disgusts him. I’ll say this for the focker, though, he’s looking well. Tanned, well-fed, the whole lot. The two birds are probably cooking for him as well as everything else. No all-you-can-eat-for-seven-euro shit-holes for him. I’d probably have a good tan myself, but I’ve had the serious Leon Trotskys for a week now, and the colour is running out of my face quicker than I can get it in. I’ve storted, like, calling Fionn ‘Jack Duckworth’ because of the sticky tape holding his glasses together, but then he just storts singing, ‘Whenever, wherever, we’re meant to be together …’ I made the mistake of telling him that Rosa looks like Shakira. On his way out, he always goes, ‘Buenos noches,’ which probably means loser or something.

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