Now I understand many of you won't have asked for this; indeed many won't have had any idea this was a distinct possibilty given the impeccable narrative thus far but the "artist" has thought it is high time the readership comes to terms with the inevitable coupling of free mojitos and reasonably priced pina coladas...a Victor Mildrew-esque rant against prices in Madrid's cocktail bars and the inaugral drunken blog. Hang on I've read over that sentence and it lacks oodle foodle tapas whay-hey!!!!! There, that should set the tone... Anywho...
Last week, Madrid woke up one morning and decided it was autumn. Tuesday you're prancing around in Tshirts laughing at Spaniards in their winter coats; Wednesday you've woken up to grey skies and golden leaves skittering around everywhere on a gale that just blew into town (ahaha, weather related humour.)
The problem with this dashed weather is that it leaves one unable to walk out the door without serious thought to the consequences...that is mere days ago I could wander down to Dia to purchase several bottles of wine and brandy for a fiesta, in my flip flops...a feat that lead to Que tienes fiesta este noche, no? (Are you having a party tonight?) Since my Spanish wasn't equipped to deal with my normal response of "Yes, Hercule Poirot, we are having a bit of a shingdig as it happens, how did you ever work it out?" I come out with "No, no, its all for me!" in a joke that not so much flops as leaps suicidally off the Empire State building...apparently I now AM capable of downing two rosés, two bottles of brandy and some decorative cinnamon sticks on my own thank you so very much Día's checkout finest...don't tell my mother, I probably could if dared...
Despire the perpetual drizzle the artist did manage to make it out this very night it the spirit of science and enthusiastic research (I can now freely find free mojitos, shots and sangria anywhere in the city at any hour of day...I believe that ability alone should be enough to earn me a place in Heaven...) The bars were lively, the restaurants packed, the tapas flowing and the fine tradition amoung Spanish men of verging on sexual harrassment alive and well...thus it may be time to indulge in a little renditon of Madrileno nightlife...
It begins with Día, that holy place where a carton of wine costs 55c and a bottle €1. This is to be drunk at leisure..savoured as it were, with a little music in the background. I have a penchant for Sinatra followed by Jay Z; some find this a little like tuna and chocolate, I leave it up to your gentle judgement.
Now I say the next is heading out...this is a Northern Irishism which means killing the sound, groping for coats and jackets and striding purposefully into the night hellbent on causing some mayhem... or finding the nearest MacDonalds...all previous intention seems to fade away on Gran Vía when you see the Golden Arches and remember you can play the "Spot a Prozzie!" game. Record stands at 25 in one night.
After that you can take it two ways...you can wander in and out of bars, freebies in each, until you inexplicably end up at the Fontana de Oro, the "Golden Fountain" Irish pub which seems to attract aimless party-goers like a black hole attracts matter and in which you should never EVER dance with Columbian men. I'm only telling you for your own good, they're no Fred Astaire...
Or you may gravitate towards one of Madrids many clubs; open til six thirty, guaranteed to offer music to make you move til the wee small hours of the morning. Also damn fine measures in the mixers...
I apologise for the concentration on the tipsy wonders of Spains capital...hey, it's what you do to keep the punters amused...but also of greater merit is the food in the tucked away eateries dotting the fine city. Three courses, wine and complementary bread for €10 and everything tastes like a stereotypical Goodfellas mob boss cooking for his nephew. You know, like;
"Tony, whassamatta you? You look thin! Here, sit down, I get you something to eat...what you mean you don't want nothing? You tastes this. I swear is like the angel Gabriel hisself, he make the pasta. You crazy, you know that...you eatta this sauce, you go to your maker happy..."
And so forth...I can't promise they'll say exactly that but I'll surely have a go at Marlon Brando's Sicilian accent.
Now, first blogging under the influence complete I have to admit its not that shabby...mainly because I have been tracing every sentence with one wobbling finger and conducting my disjointed train of thought with a cup of Tetley's, occasionally the tea will make a spirited leap for the freedom but I have thus far managed to contain the bugger; which has made me absurdly pleased with myself.
Toodle pip chappies and as I promised you a "One Foot in the Grave" type rant you should now imagine me and you; linked arm in arm as we wander home through the leaf strewn, breezy Madrilenan night; wending our way past treelined streets and late night tabernas, waving a "No, gracias" to promoters handing out club flyers. And as we stroll under delicate balconies and sculpted stone a Norn Irish voice echoes into the night;
"€10 for a pina colada? €10!! I don't believe it! I could have flown to Cuba for a rum based cocktail and felt better about the damn waste of money...unbelieveable, next they'll be telling me a ham sandwich costs enoughto bail out the Greek banks..."
xo
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