Gaudi? Who The Fuck is Gaudi?

There is no real point in boring anyone with the details of the three and a half hours taken when we crossed from the southern Vanencian extremity of Catalunya into its Barcelonan heartland. Well maybe there is. I drove a little blue convertible with myself a stuffed four foot panda named Amanda and a stoned Guatemalan and a stoned Melbonrnian. Of course i wasn't stoned but being the day after the night before i many has well have been and im sure they derived many snail paced delights dousing my head with cold water at five minute intervals, lest i projected us in a flaming homosexual metalic heap off one of the stunning mediterranian highway vistas. Nevertheless we got the job done and after parking on the highside of town we went into the belly of this Catalonian beast for a Giro, a tinny and a pint. After that the general consensus was bed, funny how a life lived at its festive extremity can induce a natural state akin to the injestion of more the recommended weekly dose of valium in one line, but thats what happened and nightmares ensued for the next six hours, not stirring once even though the wolds most vibrant full time party city was throbbing just one open balcony door away....

But then you wake up with an all consuming thirst.

Lets have some fun.

So after doing some menial SiroWak housekeeping chores and making sure our existence was validated by something other than merely being at the top of our party game, we took a liquid lunch slash team meeting in the infamous Travel Bar (i once put a raw egg in my bottom in this bar but thats a completely different story). Fast forward eight hours and one of the team members is being an uncharacteristic prick to his Gallic girlfriend with the built in systic earring and all of a sudden Penos is bestowed with the new nickname sez pest, and we are off to do the pub crawl, five pubs one club nine monsters. (Ed's note: Don't believe the angelic ramblings of the author, rest assured that he was as bad, if not worse than the others, it's just that the evil Warren is on a concerted campaign to end the lives of both Gravy and Wayne, beginning with the memory).

What i do remember is that i woke up on a two seater lounge to Ring-A-Ding coaxing me out onto the streets and in my continuing state of intoxication the most perfect thing in the world for me at that hour was Sardines, Calamari and Crayfish. What to wash them down? A glass of red, for sure and didn't i know just the place, the bustling fresh food market in the middle of La Ramblas and further more the little seafood restaurant right down the back. It's not the cheapest place, but when you've spent all your money the night before why not drop twenty euros on Crayfish. I left myself with a grand life savins total of eight euros, with which i purchased a cute little penny turtle promptly named Shelby (as he has a shell). Once the team saw him crack team beta went and bought him a mate (named Shelly) and we left them to get acquainted and set off in search of an Indian restaurant. After a wet lunch we wiggled through the winding cobbled streets of the Gothic Quarter to the infamous Travel Bar for a few million more beers. We were party to some interesting information - namely that tonight at Barca's best club, Razzamataz, would be host to Australia's best party band, The Presets, while some of Australia's best partiers, Us truely, were in striking distance.

Upon entry to Razzamataz I promptly lost my shoes and my shirt and begun popping Supermen on the empty dancefloor until the prudent bouncers ejected me shirtless and shoeless into the street. The guys told me that the Presets were fantastic, all that i know is that thanks is due to the two lovely and very pretty girls who tok me home, by which i mean literally escorted me home-no mean feat when Warren is at hos most stubborn. Upon making appartment fall i realised that I was lacking some keys - an essential ingredient to an entry pie. What I did find was a three quarters full can of beer, which was promptly launched up and through the open balcony window, through the room right down to the back and onto the sleeping dutch girl in the bunk bed. I didn't remember this until she reminded me in the morning, and my dear i sincerely apologise on Warren's behalf, though for sure I can't be held accountable.

The Day of the Party.

We were in Barcelona, afterall, with a job to do and that was to put on a party. So on the morning (2pm) of the party we got together at a cafe and after a pep talk and some beers we hit the streets armed with a handful of flyers, a burgeoning bellyfull of beers and bloody high spirits. We wandered around for a while, spreading the good word of demographic diversity - not just giving flyers to young travellers but to all and sundry from young kids to old bums, Morrocan acrobats and Senegalese illegal immigrants. I am convinced that the Senegalese guys are some of the coolest people of the world, leaving their home continent and language behind in a rusty tub towards a completely foreign land and idea. Kind of doing what i am trying to do, but really bloody well, just getting y selling sunglasses and handbags and constantly physically running from the police. We set up shop on the world famous La Ramblas with all the street performers and did our own version of a circus gig, coaxing a decent crowd into our party. At the end of the night the party was a success, we were all again hammered, I made out with a really good looking Estonian lesbian (i was her first man lips in five years) while her fuming jealous lady lover looked on. One of the guys was treated to a night of extremity with a smoking hot Swede and another was whisked off to a hotel room only to be brought back to the party and introduced to his most recent lover's boyfriend. Once it was all said and sone, i went back to pass the night with one of the many loves of my life and then it was up and at them, we are off to Paris.

These god times are killing me.