TYSKAB # 1: you will meet psychopaths
The end of summer can mean only one thing: thousands of students about to go away for two months, or four, or twelve to far-flung places and meet brilliant new people, experience new things and come back with a skin complexion three shades darker than it used to be and a billion stories to non-gappers when they get to university.
Those brilliant new people might not be so brilliant, however.
I went to Madrid this summer. It was fun. I beat the owner of the hostel at Pro Evolution Soccer (twice), ate the best tapas at a local bar which was crammed to the gills with people then wandered down the street and stood in a square with lots of homosexuals dancing to Michael Jackson songs. They gave me free condoms
Unwittingly joining in with one of Europe’s biggest LGBT parties in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world was definitely a highlight; something to bore people with on cold Autumnal days back in Britain. What happened when I got back to the hostel probably wasn’t a highlight.
I’d been sensible, having a train to catch the following morning and gone back to get some sleep, deciding not to boogie on down with lots of hand-holding men and women, a vibrant DJ and a bunch of equally-puzzled, equally-enthralled tourists. Only I’d entered what could have been my last night on Earth..
An Englishman, an Irishman and an Australian walked into the hostel. Sounds like the start of a joke, right? Not quite. They’d been travelling separately for months but met up somewhere in Eastern Europe, got on quite well and decided to go along together for the rest of their trips. Initially all seemed well, until they got liquored up.
I was on the top bunk of my bed reading a book when the tubby Irish guy came in and punched the locker and shouted “Fuckers!” as loud as he possibly could. At that moment my life flashed before my eyes and I tried to figure out how to fight off an eighteen-stone drunk Irishman with a pillow, my mobile phone, a blunt locker key and a copy of ‘Maggie Cassady’ by Jack Kerouac. He sat down on his bed and was out of sight, which was slightly more concerning. (By now I’d decided that it was best to fling the pillow at him then try stabbing him in the carotid artery with the key, in case you were wondering). The fact that he was breathing like some sort of minotaur, squealing “those fuckers” and making a sound which sounded like someone punching themselves in the head didn’t help, either.
The Englishman came in and started talking the Irishman down from his rage, which was quite nice. It turns out that the Australian was only interested in collecting notches on his bedpost while the Irishman and Englishman (owing to their inferior genetics, presumably) were after a good time partying in the various bars of Europe. They only eventually realised I was in the room, holding my pillow in front of me like it was a bulletproof shield, when I couldn’t hold in a cough anymore. “Oh, hey mate. Dara, we’d better go. The lad’s trying to sleep.”
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