Missing out on mischief

By James Stone

Though hardly the most highbrow of my global travel experiences, a university football tour to Spain would certainly rank as one of the most memorable.

Not only did the trip commence with a coach journey that seemed to last a year - even longer for the boys who'd boarded the bus at my North-East university - but when we finally reached the town of Calella, on the Catalunyan coast, it was hardly the mecca of Iberian culture that I'd been hoping for. Alright, "hoping" is an exaggeration, it was a football tour after all - but I had at least anticipated staying somewhere than resembled a beach resort more than a building site.

Still, culture was not exactly what we'd made the trip for. Neither, it turned out, was football. Upon arrival, we were instructed by our tour rep - who mysteriously vanished for the rest of the week - to head to a nearby bar to pick up our wristbands. For just €120, we were guaranteed entry into Calella's four main clubs, and with free drinks in all and 3,000 British students having descended on the town for the week, I don't think I need to elaborate on the kind of week we had. Needless to say, we scored a solitary goal in our four games and conceded 10.

Though my trip was markedly less likely to feature on a Yobs Abroad show than that of many of my team-mates - as I was happily coupled up at the time - it still turned out to be an eventful, if frustrating trip.

The night before the scheduled day trip to Barcelona, our squad embarked from the hotel for one of the many theme evenings. A foam party followed, two of my cigarette packets got ruined, and I distinctly remember seeing a guy crawling around the dancefloor wearing only foam and underpants, searching in vain for a lost contact lens. That should have been where it ended.

Unfortunately, one of our number - Andy - decided that a normal night of revelry wasn't good enough and he was going to raise the bar. When the rest of us decided to stumble back to the hotel at around 4am, Andy declined, saying he was getting on well with some lads from another uni. As sceptical as we were about these 'others', he was in no mood for discussion, so we left him.

Andy crashed back into the hotel around 90 minutes later and though he could barely stand or see, still managed to spread insults around the group. My roommate and I decided that bed was the best place for him, and so tucked him in and locked the door. Seconds later, he came climbing through the patio window of the next-door room - on the sixth floor. Clearly, he was in a suicidal mood, so we took a group decision to call it a night, rather than let Andy play the daredevil.

That should've been the end of that. Unfortunately, myself, my roommate, and the one fluent Spanish speaker in the squad were forced to miss out on the day trip to Barca for a riveting day sat in the local hospital and the hotel bar. A quick glance at our ensuite bathroom revealed a 50p-sized hole in one of the bathroom tiles - Andy had crashed into the wall, presumably when performing the unsavoury but necessary art of the tactical spew and had fractured his skull.

So, while the rest of the squad enjoyed Las Ramblas, Sagrada Familia and the Nou Camp, we sat in a Spanish hospital waiting for Andy to be released. Helpfully, he'd borrowed my mobile, as he couldn't find his in his dizzy state.

He never did pay me back for the £60 worth of frantic calls he made to England that day.