Spain: Barcelona and La Tomatina 2006

Spain Travel Blog

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4th September 2006

Barcelona, Spain

Current mood: Ill

Category: Travel and Places


Those of you who’ve been arsed to read my profile knows then I went over to Spain to pelt some local Spaniard with a tomato, preferably a hard one, but that stories going to be in another blog. This blog is going to be about Barcelona, or what’s left of it.

Barcelona has a beach, but its shit and not worth talking about. But there’s plenty of other mischief to get up to during the day, like cursing the locals for going on their siesta just when you're middle of a shopping frenzy. The shops wind into narrow streets and side roads and you cant help feeling a bit like one of those lab mice going round a maze searching for its cheese. Then there was the Nou Camp, home of Barcelona FC. I wondered around the stadium like a lost tourist, which I was come to think of it, and finally clapped my eyes on the European Cup they won last year. But my plan to sneakily switch the trophy for a brass egg cup I smuggled in my y-fronts and make a quick get away was thwarted when there were about 50 people taking photos of the thing. Honestly, are people really that sad they have people nothing better to do than take pictures of a stupid cup? So after getting a photo of it too I heading back into town to see what else I could get up to.

There’s also this big fuck off cathedral called Sagrada Familiar in the centre of the town built by this really really famous sculptor, whose name I forget. Apparently he’s spent something daft like 100 million years trying to complete the thing but didn’t get the opportunity to finish the thing cos he never looked left and right when crossing the road one day. So now we have modern day builders aiming to finish his masterpiece but after taking a look inside at the progress I’m off to make a bet with the bookies that Jesus returns to earth and wins Pop Idol before that thing is finished. But to give the man his due it is worth a visit. After wondering around inside for a while I notice this long, lame queue of people who look half dead trying to squeeze into a lift. The queue was 45 minutes long and I couldn’t see where it led to, so I couldn’t be arsed with the wait even if we British did invent the whole queuing thing. When I got back to the gaff I was crashing at I was told it went up to near the roof and the queue is worth the wait. So to save my embarrassment brings me to tell you guys this forthcoming big fat lie: I queued 45 minutes and went up to the top and it was brilliant, so good that Im now ready to get married, have kids and ruin my life.

At night an army of prossie’s come out looking to mug me of my semen. I tell them to get back or Ill find a big stick to hit them with and without giving them any money for it either. That soon scared the brasses off, though I think it was more to do with not getting paid rather than getting spanked with the big stick.

The variety of bars to go to is pretty good too. One in particular was decked out with a load of equipment and attractions from a funfair that had closed some years earlier. As you enter the door there’s a corridor of funny mirrors that make you fat / thin / weird / normal - which was nice, etc etc, you get the idea. So after half an hour of amusing myself, as well as amusing the locals who were looking at me, I finally got to the bar to order my beer. Inside was decked out with dodgems, hanging chairs and all sorts of things you expect to find in a funfair, but without the pikie’s.

So it was a busy holiday, with no troubles whatsoever. All I had to do now was get home. No problem right? At the train station to get to the airport the woman at the desk told me the train I wanted will arrive at platform 5. What the silly chicken nugget didn’t tell me was that multiple trains arrive at platform 5. So the train comes, I get on with a load of other people with suitcases and I’m thinking Forwards and onwards boys! Whilst pointing in a random direction. But these people with suitcases have just arrived into
Spain. So about 30 minutes and fuck knows how many miles later I arrive in Spain’s version of the Welsh Valleys, basically out in the sticks and more importantly, no airport. So I’ve gotten on the wrong train, seen more of Barcelona than I intended to, or wherever the hell I was, missed my flight home and ended up spending another night in Barcelona before flying home the next night.

Note to Thomas Cook: I’ve copy written this, so don’t even think about using this review in your next Short City Breaks brochure for
Barcelona. My lawyers are watching you, you turds.


4th September 2006

La Tomatina, Spain

Current mood: Red

Category: Travel and Places


Right then, The La Tomatina Festival ��" here's what happened. After a bloody long coach journey we finally arrived in Bunol, a small boring town just outside of Valencia. On the way in we passed a load of local nurses sitting by the side walk having their tea and biscuits, their pre-fight meal you could say. They were staring up at us and you could almost hearing them thinking to themselves: 'Ahh, fresh meat'

We steamed off the bus anyway like a bunch of Millwall football hooligans off to watch a friendly with Chelsea and made our way into the town centre where they're were a shit load of people. Loads and loads of people, and I'm thinking 'I'm going to get you, I'm going to get you, you too, especially you'. You get the idea. In the centre we were crammed in like sardines in a can, only less smelly bar the odd exception, and the locals living in the high rise buildings above us throwing down water and spraying us with their hoses (and no, I don't mean they were pissing on us) So I'm standing around waiting for the banger to signal the beginning of the fight when right then a tomato caught me square in the eye and me with no goggles on. I wouldn't have minded but the fight hadn't even started yet. And it was a full on hard tomato, probably still green too for added impact. ‘Who threw that?’ I wondered
but I couldn't pick out the culprit within the crowd. Right then, I thought. I’ll just have to have the bloody lot of you!

Finally the tomato trucks made there way and, er, that was it really. We all steamed in like Fathers 4 Justice on another field trip to
London. There was tomatoes flying everywhere, in my face, up my nose, in my ears, up my ar… did I mention my nose? I was hitting absolutely everything that moved, even the poor nun who took a wrong turn on her way to see the chaplain. Yep, she got it too. I made tomato soup of everybody, and they of me. What's great is that I'd bend down to pick up a tomato when suddenly I'd feel one skim the top of my head. Ha! I'm thinking, but then I'd stand up and get hit right between the eyes with another one. Well it would either be a tomato or a soaking wet t-shirt dripping of tomato juice. How'd it taste? Put it this way, it' didn't give me an appetite to ask what was for the main course. And check this out, I even saw a mate within the crowd. Unfortunately he also saw me and managed to spam me before I managed to get a fist full of soup.

After the tomato fight had ended I unwittingly found myself in a t-shirt fight against 50 or so other people. Actually, that's a lie. I saw the fight and said 'Fuck me, I'm having some of that!' Sides were drawn and for the next 30 minutes I was in a group of about 20 trying to spank and whip the hell out of a group of 50. We're going absolutely ape for ages with some Aussies randomly shouting 'Artillery!' and 'Reinforcements!' before steaming forward and coming out with some whip scars to impress an American soldier caught by Charlie's during the Vietnam war.

By the end of it I was covered head to toe in tomatoes, it was coming out of my eyes nose and I now have a tomato plant growing out of my left ear. They're top quality tomatoes and all and I'm selling them £
1 per kilo if anyone's interested. And that was it really, went to Spain, threw tomatoes, and got the t-shirt. No really, I still have the t-shirt, its hanging up on my wall as a trophy.


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