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Finally, Fake Dog Has Come Back to Barcelona, Spain!

Written by Gearóid • March 16 2008 • 4 comments

Well actually, not back to Barcelona, but for the first time. But it sounds better quote-wise this way, so there you go.

So, as many of you maay already know, I went to Barcelona last weekend with good old Young Fine Gael. It was quite the weekend with many a story to be told, but unfortunately I can’t be getting Fake Dog into too much trouble, so I’ll have to confine these stories (mostly) to those involving me.

We left Galway at 12 on Friday, and after numerous bus, plane and metro journeys, we got to our hostel around 11. To say it was anything but absolutely tiny would be like saying we have a reasonable explanation as to why we called it Fake Dog Films. We went out for some nice cheap Spanish drinks. On arrival back at the hostel, I found a random person passed out in the toilets, wearing only his jocks and his socks, and curled around the bowl. Good start!

The next morning it was very sunny and yet we spent most of the day in the pub watching various matches. That evening was spent wandering around Barcelona going to different pubs and having run-ins with various prostitutes, pick-pockets and drug dealers, before heading to a nightclub at half past three in the morning. Quite something, that. We left at 6 in search of a “missing” member of our party who was actually passed out in bed all along. Fake Dog was not best pleased and proceeded to hit him across the head multiple times with a sobering bottle of cheap, cold, Spanish water. On my travels that night, I came across one curiously (and hilariously) named Irish bar. I didn’t chance going in though.

It was then Sunday and I felt like someone had delivered all the Sunday Times in my head. I went to the nearest restaurant to get that horrible taste out of my mouth. You know that one where it feels like someone’s parked a car in your mouth? Yeah, that. So I found some place with some Spanish food that solved my problem to some extent. I took it easy for the rest of the day, and bought myself a nice cheap hoodie to keep warm that night. Outside the shopping centre was a big wooden submarine, so I just laid down on the grass beside it for about two hours.

That night was the Barcelona match. To keep it short, food was expensive, Barcelona lost, fans were angry, but most importantly … Fake Dog went to Camp Nou!

More socialising ensued, and the night finished (to some extent) with us getting food from a place whose name was even more hilarious than the Irish bar.

‘He doesn’t even know how to do The French Sandwich!’

Fearghal’s natural desire for alcohol led to him buying 12 cans off a random guy on the street, and then us getting offered “charlie” and also said person trying to pickpocket us. I was not best pleased.

After intervening events, we arrived back at the hostel and realised we had many too many cans, and so decided there was only one thing to do with all those extra ones … smash them together just like Stone Cold! Admittedly, it wasn’t Coors Light, but Fake Dog has already been down that alley.

The next day was all touristy, and so I won’t bother with all the boring details or photos, but just this one from the (admittedly amazing) La Sagrada Familia. And no, not the song!

Fake Dog was both amused and appalled at this terrible grammar. Mostly amused because I can see it leading to lots of great lawsuits.

The next day saw around 12 hours’ of travelling after 90 minutes’ sleep the previous night, and then a 9am exam the morning after I got back. Wasn’t that nice.

And that’s it. Apologies for the exceptionally long blog, but you made it to the end, so leave a comment.

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— Gearóid

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Finally, Fake Dog Has Come Back to Barcelona, Spain!

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