Eight Smelly Boys and a Small Apartment

Eight smelly boys and a small apartment.


Eight smelly boys and a small apartment is definitely a recipe for many things; mess, hilarity, hangovers, and this first week out here has definitely has had all that and more, but it’s not quite so amusing when it’s your house (that you can't get into) that’s getting trashed.

I arrived in Spain on the 19th of July and it was only last night that I actually managed to sleep in my mum’s apartment, slightly defeating the object of coming to Spain for a rent-free summer… I booked my flight enthusiastically and then discovered that my twenty year-old brother was already going to be out there, with seven of his friends.

Now, I’m not blasting their personal hygiene, BUT this is a two bedroom apartment, and although it is fondly known to many as “Millers Villa” it is definitely not a villa. Having unpacked at the apartment I temporarily rented, I arrive at the patio door to find boys in various states of dishevelment on every soft surface; beds, sofas, airbeds. I think I even saw one having a siesta in a cupboard. My extremely tolerant mother has no qualms about the week, but the neighbours do. In a big way.

The police have been round most evenings, and arrive generally speaking to a scene consisting of a small patio with people squashed into every corner, with a plastic table in the front stacked high with empty beer cans. From what I can gather, by leaving them all on the table to stack up creates a mirage of a trophy cabinet, the achievement of male drinking on show for all the neighbours to see. The supermarket is selling crates of Dutch beer for 3 euros and so the boys bought as much as they could physically carry, building a beer tower in the middle of the kitchen.

The neighbours have not been big fans of ours for many years- we are the only English family in the street, and it shows. Me and my brother have enjoyed so many great summers here and the neighbours know us not by name but by the pikey-looking appearance the apartment takes on when we pile in all our friends. We BBQ on the street, park various Essex-boy racer style cars on it, play loud music, the washing line lives in the street, and there always seems to be at least one member of our little gang that is left to sleep outside…

To avoid the neighbours and police, several evenings are spent in the next town: “One euro night” is a growing legend in itself and deserves a separate post, in short- every drink in this particular bar is one euro, and they don’t skimp on pouring. The boys take on the challenge in style, ordering FOURTY vodka redbulls at a time- the bartender passing over a crate of energy drink and forty plastic glasses filled over the half-way mark with vodka.

Then comes the disaster of the male ego + shots. One of the boys start ordering himself shots that consist of half tequila, half vodka with salt and tabasco sauce. I look on pityingly as I have had the misfortune of drinking such a vile concoction a few years previously, and it reappeared momentarily in the bar toilets. It was the bar next door funny enough.

His performance is impressive- he takes four of these shots of death, each time his face screwing up in agony, mouth burning, stomach eroding. He roars and bangs his chest, genuinely shocked each time at the velocity of such a gross mixture and proud at his endurance levels. His pride drowns approximately 15minutes later. I watch his face change; it glasses over, he looks a slightly anxious shade of green and swiftly moves away, tequila vodka and red Tabasco sauce splashing all over the street. And his shoes.

God Save the Queen and all her subjects who represent her in foreign countries; British spew feeding the Spanish soil.

Right, I hear my brother say- let go to Pacha. Shot-boy is on all fours on the floor and I see him raise his hand into a thumbs up towards the rest of the boys, and to the coach that has just pulled up.

The coach arrives outside the bar at 4am to take all those who dare off to Pacha- a large club in Torrevieja with an infamous foam party. I have a vision of shot-boy falling unconscious in the corner of the club and drowning in endless foam, while other dance on unaware frolicking in the bubbles. An urban legend of a Sweedish man suffering the same fate many years ago comes to mind and I manage to stop them as they drag shot-boy towards the coach.

I get grateful pats on the back for freeing them of such burden and between me and my remaining group of friends, manage to carry shot-boy into a taxi. We take him back to my rented apartment as it’s probably unwise to leave him on his own in such a state and my mother would probably not appreciate sick-stained tiles. He writhes around on the floor for 30 minutes, the agony of his head and stomach already beginning, before passing out. We do the obligatory “mess-with-the-drunk-unconscious-friend” dressing him up in sunglasses, funny hat, beach towel and take various photos before we fall asleep.

I’m woken at 8am with crashes and bangs in the kitchen, and all I can hear is “that was immense. Yeh immense.” After 10 minutes of the ‘immense-parade’ not shutting up I stumble into the kitchen to find my brother and his remaining friends all sitting in my apartment, (some of them sitting on shot-boy) congratulating themselves on the immense night they’ve had.
It turns out I went home with their door keys, and by some miracle they remembered which apartment I was staying in- but by the time they came in and sat down they forgot what they were there for . I send them on their way swiftly, noting silently that there are still two of them missing.

The week continued in this fashion, the boys providing much entertainment, while at the same time I feel guilty for enjoying such loutish stereotypical British holiday-maker antics. I make a note to myself to enjoy more Spanish culture next week. The boys all inform me that none of them have brought cameras, not one between the eight of them, saving them from any trouble with various girlfriends and parents back home. My camera on the other hand, had a very busy week, and seems to be full of photos of their white bums jumping in the sea at 5am, a particularly crazy member of their group pretending to be a turtle and burying his head in the sand, and talking to himself. There is also the matter of the obsession with a bottle of ‘toning oil’ that one of them received free with their subscription of Men’s Health. The oil was distributed generously, stinging their stomachs and giving them an excuse to rub eachother’s belly’s in a peculiar fashion. It was like been a spectator at a zoo…

They all managed to book different flights home and so disappear in dribs and drabs towards the end of the week, my mother’s apartment looking slightly less like a refugee camp for smelly adolescents.

There’s finally space for me to move in when I see a huge van parked outside with the words “Dial-A-Rod” splashed across it. My brother is looking slightly sheepish on the sofa with his head in hands (due to a hangover, not guilt) and the man who has appeared from the van kindly informs me that my “pipes are fucked up”( the gentlemen is from Romford, I swear to God that town just follows me around.) Various hoses and pipes appear from inside the colossal vehicle as 'Mick' attempts to fix the problem, the neighbours are looking over their gates with what I can only describe as a smug look splashed across their tanned faces.

My brother meanwhile informs me he’s off to pack. He’s leaving for England that afternoon- i.e, leaving me with the shit. Literally.

Spanish pipes are not known for their endurance, and eight boys who bought ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTY toilet rolls on their first day here, had no chance against the Spanish sewage system. 140- That’s one toilet roll EACH per day. To me that sounds like insanity and the description of ‘number 2s’ coming out of the tiles makes me want to batter my brother and run a mile. But I stay and endure Mick’s huffing and puffing, the neighbours huffing and puffing (we needed access to their pipes too, to which the reply was, ‘well my toilet’s fine.’ My friend had to politely tell them in Spanish that it was fine, they could just call us back when they have excretement all over the floor, or just let us in a fix the problem now.)

With Mick paid, pipes clean and boys gone, I spent the afternoon cleaning and nesting. I think that was enough British hilarity for one week… My new job in a Spanish beach bar with 'Juan' should defiantly provide some enterntainment, starting with the ‘Melon fiesta.’ watch this space…..