Torremolinos in the Dark Ages

Hurry up and invent sunscreen and DDT

Tis time for the annual war band excursion to Torremolinos in Iberia. Oh me and the lads do look forward to our two weeks away. We take a leisurely longboat, stopping off at a quaint little village on the west coast of France. There is a little patisserie which serves the most delicate and melts in the mouth pastries. The filo is divine and to die for. Which is just as well considering the exchange rate between the Tipton groat and the frank- I blame the Saracens and Blackamoors myself, and their ongoing strife contributing to worldwide instability in the international monetary markets. Not all bad news, because who wants to pay 40 francs for 12 sweatmeats? Being disinclined to pay we usually kill the owner and burn down the premises. Now you might think this represents the policy of folly considering we return to the same place every year. But you would be wrong. It seems that when one proprietor ascends/descends to Valhalla, another takes his place. Thus is the nature of commerce in the Dark Ages.

From there we cruise along the French and Iberian coasts, pass through the pillars of Herakles, before eventually alighting on the golden, flagon bestrewn beaches, of Torremolinos. After such an arduous/audacious journey, and after beaching the boat, we usually hit the local taverna: 'Mr Patel's Authentic West Saxon and East Jute, Pub'. Here we feast mightily on fish 'n' chips and quaff deeply on Tipton, best mead. Honestly, it's as if we haven't left home, except for the sun (and the flies). When folk, back home, ask me what it's like, I say it's hot, bloody hot.

Back to the taverna.......Usually, the place is filled with doe-eyed, lithe (wait to they get older), raven-haired wenches. For 20 groats they will gyrate on your lap and inflame your senses and manhood. The inevitable, merciful relief, will cost a further 20 groats or a brace of rabbits.

Next day, at noon, we plunge in the turquoise, turd bedecked, seas. In truth, the locals are well-advised to dig midden pits rather than squat and squeeze upon the headland overlooking our beach. Then we lie on the scorching sands to top up our vitamin D levels and to transform our livid forms into vivid purple. Some of the lads catch crabs, but nothing that can't be cured with DDT and paraffin. Then time for more Tipton mead. And so the cycle goes on, until on the final day we burn and pillage the environs. Lastly, we erect a pyre on the sands and immolate a snake-hipped bartender to Woden and Loki to appease the gods and ensure a fair wind for the passage home.

Next year, I think we might go to Margate. Torremolinos is attracting too many uncouth Jutes. Not only do they hog the sunbeds, but they have the annoying habit of talking loudly in restaurants. And they have the cheek to call us barbarians! No wonder we are driven to express ourselves by burning, pillaging and indiscriminating smiting.