Time to leave

Wednesday 20 June

Languishing for much of the day at the hostel, only to venture out to eat some crap Chinese.  Or was that yesterday?  I’ve firmly decided to move on tomorrow, as much as I’m really enjoying Santiago and it’s inhabitant(s).  Unfortunately this also means the end of Paddy and Jameson’s adventures together, as he has foolishly chosen to stay in Chile.  I don’t have the luxury of time anymore, so I must move on to Argentina, while he mooches around the coast here.  He’s already managed to replace me, taking a sneezing, sniffling Brazilian along for the ride.  The mans nose needs putting down.  He’s having fits in his bed, and sounding like his pipes are being cleaned with acid.  I don’t envy the Irishman.

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More football booze

Tuesday 19 June

Waking up in a strange bed is pretty standard when you’re traveling.  I basically do it every day.  Waking up in a strange bed with someone else in it though is pretty decent.  Unless of course you’ve been off your head the night before and turn to stare aghast at the behemoth you’re lying next to up, and you beat a hasty retreat as silently as you can, hoping she doesn’t wake to see you sprinting down the street.  Yes it has happened.

Not the case here, which is nice, and she’s not told me to get out so I’m doing something right.  Still, the football calls once more, and before long we’ve found a decent Irish bar and once again we’re tackling heavy pints of dark ale among ex pat, English banker ‘ya’s” and a crazy ex SWAT team Chilean who for some reason eats Paddy’s paper napkin chicken.  Before long the heavy stout has totally gone to my head induced both by the England win and me throwing it down my neck, and I’ve managed to message my date to postpone our arranged cinema meeting.  I basically wouldn’t make a decent husband because I’d just be saucing it in the pub with my mates and casually tell the wife I wasn’t going to make the dinner.  She seems ok about it, but if a girl I wanted to see turns up at my house a couple of hours later at the early-ish time of 8pm and the passes out on my bed I’d be raging.  She wasn’t.  I wake up fully clothed sometime later.

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Let’s talk about sex?

Monday 18 June

Talking about sex on a first date usually isn’t the way I’d go, but it appears that this is the course the conversation is taking.  I’d imagine it’s up there with the dating no-no’s such as moaning about an ex, drinking far too much or slipping them a rufi.  Now I’m not complaining, because if someone is open enough to have this chat right from the off, then it certainly bodes well for the rest of the evening.  Is this one of those times where you’re distraught you only have one condom?  Let’s have a couple more of these pitchers and find out.

We’re in Barrio Vista once again in the heart of Santiago‘s bohemian drinking district.  It’s all very lovely with wooden decking, candles and patio heaters.  The problem is as beautiful as the girl sitting in front of me is, there are about a million others scattered around the various bars in the vicinity.  This is certainly not Bolivia, which is ironic considering my companion hails from there.  Apparently Paddy and myself didn’t go to the good looking part, which I’m reliably informed is Santa Cruz.  Mental note to self.

I like to think I’m usually pretty decent on a date.  Much like an interview.  I enjoy interviews.  This one should pretty much be X-rated.  I can’t work out if she’s a nymphomaniac, not met a guy in a long time, or she’s doubled-dropped Viagra.  Either way it’s made for one of the most entertaining, relaxed and informal dates I’ve had since I can remember.  It sure beats turning up painted bright red with a coat hanger tail, dressed like Beelzebub, only to find a future ex girlfriend wasn’t in fancy dress.  Memorable to say the least, although she was impressed by my eyeliner.

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Sunday 17 June

I’ve discovered to my surprise and indeed amazement that the girl I shouted “FACEBOOK” at on Friday has added me and is a rather talkative young lady.  This makes a pleasing change.  I’ve therefore been lying on my bed drinking plenty of water and chatting to her for much of the day, as I don’t have the feeling in my legs to move.  Paddy too is immobile, but unlucky for him he has no nice Chilean to arrange a date with.  This I manage swiftly, and before I know it I’ve organised to meet the girl tomorrow night.  The duck might well be broken.  Paddy is secretly raging.

We’ve recently been laughing our heads off at an E-book that a friend of a friend of a friend has written.  He’s basically scribbled a how-to dating guide with reference to using facebook as your weapon of choice.  What he’s actually done is rip off every known strategy when it comes to picking up women and attributed it to the social network site.  As a result you have a hilarious albeit unintentionally so work of staggering ineptness.  I include a small example below:

“The highways and byways of the information superhighway”

“M is for MANAGE.  You will be chasing multiple targets,  DON’T get confused.”

And other such nonsense that I forget now but will add later.  Written one would presume to fleece the total inaugurated, naive individual, so clueless with dating rituals they still douse their hair in brylcream and use a whole can of Lynx without showering.  A fourteen year old boy for example.  Or me at twenty.

For some reason then I’ve procured myself a date using the facebook method.  Don’t speak to the girl the whole night, yell at her for her details, once (if) they’re add you then you’re at liberty to move in for the kill.  Remember; you’ll be chasing multiple targets, don’t get confused.  This is bound to happen to me and I’d send “you’ve got an amazing arse” to a friends mum.  Not that I have friends mums on facebook, nor am I chasing them, but you get the idea.  I wish I did have friends mums on facebook, because I reckon some of my friends mums would be pretty hot.  I could just play the “sorry I’m drunk card” after I asked for dirty pictures.

What the hell am I talking about?!  Right, back to the date.  I’ve got one.  Happy days.  Next time you’re out trying to pull birds with no luck whatsoever, push one into a corner, scream “phone number” at her face and see what happens.  Best dating advice I’ve ever given.  It helps if you’ve just eaten fish, and don’t forget that can of Lynx.

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Forcing it

Saturday 16 June

Paddy’s come in eventually after coping a feel with one of the Norweigens, however he was told “I think you should leave now” when he tried to reach third base.  He did a hell of a lot better than I did last night, and all I have to show for it is a sore head.  Nonetheless after a day of hangover recovery, and in lieu of our poor efforts, I’ve convinced Paddy to do a tour of the block to see if anything’s about.  It is a Saturday night in Santiago after all.

“I fuckin’ hate reggae and ska” I mumble as we pass the only club in the area hosting a reggae and ska night.  Twenty minutes later and we’re paying in and dancing to reggae and ska.  It turns out to be semi decent, with two live acts playing some dancible tunes.  It’s an absolute hole of a place though, and one visit to the toilet proves I need to nip back to the hostel to do the business.  There’s no loo roll, no door covering the cubicle, or any form of lighting.  However there was plenty of vomit on the floor, some seriously dodgy cleaning (if any) and numerous members of the public crammed in for a social coke session.  A return to base gives me a chance to swap my four day old jeans for the kilt.  I wasn’t going to let last night happen again.

Or was I?  I’ve been accosted by plenty of nice girls, many wanting to see what I wore under the thing, and at a given point I’ve said to Paddy we need to slow down with the booze to maximise our chances (of more rejection).  Once again though we’re rattling through the stubby beers, jumping around to ska music and not getting anywhere with the locals.  The Irishman brings another blinder out of the bag when he starts playing noughts and crosses on a girls arm, I write my contact details on another, and we both go home alone in the rain wondering what we’ve done wrong.  Paddy is then fascinated by an orange hat adorning the head of a brunette in a cafe, who rightly beats a hasty retreat from the odious foreigners freaking her out.  Two nasty burgers later and we’re tucked up in bed without so much as a kiss to be thankful for, and I point blank refuse to give Paddy one.

A day off is required.

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Friday 15 June

I understand this is getting repetitive but it will do when the football is on and we’re in a capital city.  Gone the discomfort of wearing several layers of clothes and enduring a shriveled penis, here to remain piping hot showers, good looking locals and entertainment galore.  It’s the turn of England today, needing a decent win over Sweden, so we’ve taken over a gringo bar in the centre of town and spend the next couple of hours yelling at a big screen.  A cracking result bodes well for a decent night out, but as ever, by the time we return to the digs to prepare, I’ve had my fair share of sauce.

We’ve hooked up with two Norwegian girls and an odd little Ecuadorian guy as we make our way to a recommended bar called Constitution.  It’s dead at 10pm, so we head to the seated area of Barrio vista, which, as I’ve learned by now, is everywhere.  Chile doesn’t seem to do pubs, and most watering holes are stacked out with chairs and tables.  Nobody stands, everyone sits.  It’s a bit disappointing to say the least and feels more than a bit pretentious.  In San Pedro we were actually told by bar staff to sit down.  I don’t want to sit down when I’m drinking.  I like to stand up and case the joint.  Nonetheless here we are in Paris.  I mean Santiago.  Supping drinks covered with outdoor table umbrellas and heated patios.  It’s alright I suppose.  Better than a kick in the teeth.

As ever I’m talking absolute mince within fifteen minutes, steadily becoming more and more emaciated, adding to the level of alcohol already swilling round my gut.  I’ve lost the plot by the time we’ve reached the club, and I’m not alone; Paddy has no idea what’s going on, as he’s rinsing his tongue round the mouth of a mess of a girl.  A bouncer approaches me and whips my Sghian Dubh out of my sock.  “Falso” I protest, and he hands it back after careful inspection, but only on the strange condition that I don’t show my arse for the whole night.  I then spend the next half an hour lifting the kilt to one girl, who is having none of it.  Next thing I know I’m using my new found chat up line on a pretty girl by yelling “FACEBOOK?!” at her face.  She obliges.  Following an attempt to get one of the Norwegian girls back to the hostel, I demand the Ecuadorian take me home as I’ve no idea how to get there and I’m in a huff.  I’m pretty sure a load of other hilarity ensued, but I have no recollection whatsoever, and I’m embarrassed to call myself a human.

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