Lions go down to the Maori

The morning came far too soon but I made full use of the one useful facet of my hardcore hangover: I was only in a state to concentrate on one thing and, instead of doing something daft like going out in the bright sunshine, I stayed indoors in the air-conditioned cocoon of the condo and spent several hours adding more to the blog. During that time I managed to guzzle down about 3 litres of water and, by the time Ryan got his lazy ass out of bed, I was starting to feel human and (surprisingly) very hungry.
We headed down to a place called Chijmes, an imaginatively converted former convent and nunnery, where there were now several bars, pubs and restaurants. At Father Flannegans (Guess what? It was an Irish theme pub!) we found most of the usual suspects from the previous evening, a large screen and enticing menu…not to mention some of the cutest barmaids in recent memory. I scared Ryan and James a little by blasting through a full Irish breakfast and sausage ‘n’ mash in the same time it took them to eat their single meals…but explained that I still suspected I might have a tape worm and needed to keep my strength up.
After such a satisfactory start to proceedings, we were hugely disappointed to see the British Lions lose their first ever game to the New Zealand Maori. This was an ominous portent for the upcoming tests and seemed to confirm many of our fears that the squad lacked the experienced talent and leadership to overcome a formidable All Blacks team. The loss put the three of us in a crappy mood and we decided (probably rather fortunately for me, at least) that we didn’t feel like an all-day session and would conserve our energy for a long night on the dance-floor at Attica.
I blogged a little more that afternoon although the blissful embrace of sleep did manage to relieve me from the agonies of my hangover for at least one hour. By the evening – after a couple of visits to the local food court to eat my way through the pain – I was feeling ready for another night on the razz.
There were far fewer people around (after the night before, I wasn’t surprised!) and I had to put up with twenty minutes of horrendous live R&B at another quayside bar before we made the smart move and got to Attica early in time to claim a spot (so I thought!) on the dancefloor. What actually happened was that we staked a claim on a corner of the bar where Ryan assured me he’d have the best vantage point to see the talent as it entered. We then proceeded, in workmanlike fashion, to demolish a bottle or two of vodka while the place filled up. By the time Jim ‘Shaft’ Ryan came on I was well and truly wearing my dancin shoes (in my booze-addled little mind, at least) and tore up (probably quite literally!) the floor in my shiny new (white!!!) trainers. Lost in my own little world of music and vodka, I was completely oblivious to the fact that James (tired) and Ryan (pulled) had both disappeared and I eventually trudged out of the place with their friend Andy at chucking out time, sometime after 4. Without a tour guide, I had no idea of how to find a food court – but, fortunately, had Ryan’s address written down in my wallet and managed to get a taxi driver to take me back where Ryan let me in. Another stonking night out!