The quenching of thirst began in earnest, with many an ale and tequila (lemon in the eye, drink down the throat, salt up the nose). The ever excitable Mark, with colourful impressions of our very own ParaWidemouthfrog , becoming bored with convention quaffed a large bottle of the finest olive oil. Our dour web-geek, Danny, not to be outdone challenged the monkey-boy to a drinking contest; olive oil and vinegar were downed and the outcome - one up for the geeks.

The locals were quick to join in the fun and offered Paradodo to a game of darts. Our traditional, beloved game of arrows it was not to be. The rules appeared are as follows

1. Wave arms about gesticulating at each other.
2. Put a coin in the slot in the wall
3. Pace between the board and bar, posturing (sumo style)
4. Put another coin in the slot in the wall
5. Throw plastic tipped darts at the plastic board
6. Watch plastic tipped darts bounce off the board and land at feet.
7. The winner is the last player not to break down in despair.

The game, although played with vigor by both parties was declared a draw with each side on the verge of slitting wrists at full time. With the darts over, and national pride not yet satisfied, the Spaniards challenged the plucky Brits to a game of table football. The cause was well represented, with Dodo and Tony doing us proud. Unfortunately the superior technical skill of the Latino duo showed, the Spanish taking the honors and our lads left claiming a tactical victory.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, the stout chap that is Chilli received the attentions of Spains very own Daffyd Thomas. Dressed in 1970s style leather coat and 1990’s style fake tan, the bumboy of Seville whispered sweet nothings and promises of life-long devotion to he of the refrigerated derrier. Disappointed that the monica Chillibumcheek wasn’t an offer of openair sex, the poo-nudger moved on to victims new, his heartbreak barely disguised.

With the night drawing to a close the merry band made their way to their respective places of rest. Mark, pissed, burping and farting olive oil, was nominated guide to the Ranch. As with all the best pilots, he was never lost, although “temporarily unsure of position” was stretched to it’s fullest.