A Slice of Americana in Madrid


a slice of Americana in Madrid

I met another American girl (they should rename Madrid, USA, cos’ it’s rife with Americans). I would send a few feelers out on the old Whatsapp but I’m genuinely still wiped out from a nuts weekend of binge drinking that I had with Luke, who had been visiting from England.

Drinks. Another and another in celebration.

What are we celebrating? The start of every fucking night!

This alcohol-fueled wonderful life of irresponsibility, wrecklessness and identity seeking? I partake in it four nights out of the week, drinking and chasing the weekend. Ever cheating: taking off, well before the shotgun to signal the start of Friday night, has even been unsheathed. Tuesday, run! Wednesday! Run! Thursday! Fuck it! Quick you’d better catch that elusive last beer, last rum, that last glimpse of yet another gorgeous Spanish girl you glimpse down the bar. Perhaps it’ll lead somewhere, perhaps you’ll get a number, get something going on Whatsapp or Twitter or Facebook or Instagram or a real text message, maybe even an actual phone call. Might even eventually meet up in real life? Surely not. Surely not soberly anyhow. At least not for long. Coffee shall have to wait, beers cubatas and wild nights first, thank you very much.

Well, my head is full of phlegm, weighing my eye sockets down, pulling at my teeth  from the roots.

My lips are swollen with cold sores, drunken cunnilingus, hot burns from zealous coffee mugs, and from the relentless and repetitive chugging of beers, rums and shots.

My mind is swirling with doubts, darkness, and an inability to return to the  glory days of two weeks ago, when all was under control.

The last thing I want to do is meet up with a girl I may potentially like, and suck the life out of her with my physical and mental erosion.

I remember these things about this girl:

I thought she was Spanish. She wasn’t.

She liked that. I didn’t.

She thought I was gay. I’m not.

She liked that. I didn’t.

From  what I remember I had been thinking that she had had nice eyelashes, and a nice side profile, as she had been standing beside me in a crowded bar, watching the Clasico. Sunday night, in a pub so rammed, even sardines would’ve taken out their ‘abanicos’ and complained. This is what it’s about! Sunday! Living the dream.

I asked her in Spanish what “eyelashes” meant. She told me. I said she had nice ones, she said no one had ever told her that before, and neither had they thought she was Spanish. How to impress an American. I was winning. 2-0 motherfuckas! Yet Madrid were clinging to a 2-2 draw, with minutes of the game remaining. Someone hit the post for Barca in the last minute I think. Fuck knows, I’d lost interest in the game at that point. A more interesting one had caught my attention.

She stepped outside, she was pissed off because the big macho dude who’d been standing behind her had spilt gin and tonic in her hair accidentally.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” I stated. Although I was fucking glad he had done it, one more competitor out of the game. He was hot and had better dress sense than myself. That sort of Mango, Zara, pretty boy chic. Cocksucker.

“But I just washed it today, God” she replied, in her mid-western drawl.

“I’m from Idaho”

“Potatoes!” Was all I could exclaim. Nice one mate, smooth. Spuds in there, givin’ it Charlie with the big potatoes pun pun pun bla bla bla…Anyway.

So we were standing outside, she started tying her hair up. I helped her fix the bum fluff, y’know, the pokey up bits that stick out, and I ran a hand over her ear, to smooth it out, and then the other, “there ya go!” I said, “all neat and sorted!”

“Are you gay?”

“No. Just modern. Metro, I notice things.”

Ok, was this going into friendship territory? It was bold, but I had been drinking all day. I would get her number. I had already told my friend Luke that we would go for dinner after the game. Also, I wanted to leave while I was ahead. Banter, like my sober wits, was running terribly low on petrol.

“Hey so I’m off to dinner now, have you got Whatsapp?”

“Yeah sure, take my number”

“Great, what’s your name?”


“Fuck off, that’s my favourite song!”

“Oh like the 311 one”, she started to sing it. Not in a soppy retarded way, just in a matter-of-fact, this is the song I’m talking about, sort of way.

I showed her my shit 311 tattoo that really is a piece of crap (Thailand drunken bamboo job. Another one of those I’m afraid). I was quite excited!

We swapped missed calls and I left to have dinner. Maharaj curry house in Lavapies. 2 nights in a row, that’s how phenomenal the curry and peshwari naan is there.

I hope I see this girl again.

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