The ever tranquil Pete, never loosing his faith in his bestsest friend, prompted the monkey boys memory with such gentle cues as “If you don’t get us there now I’m going to rip your fucking head off.” After some persuasion of a physical nature Mark was removed the car to find his own way. Pete and His Lordship of Gordon, giving up on a good thing, made their way to “the other house” and the other intrepid travelers slept in the car.

Mark, undeterred by the sudden eviction, searched for a place of rest and found a likely looking wheely bin. Despite the smell, cramped conditions and company of feral rats, Mark shoe-horned his monkey-like body into the bin and journeyed to the land of dreams. The dreams, however, were troubled by visions of bin men and large bin lorries that crush rubbish; waking in a sweat (encouraging more flies) our intrepid adventurer sought new lodgings to see out the rest of the night. Sighting a JCB, Mark determined it a fine place to sleep and promptly installed his worn, drunken, smelly self into the seat and fell asleep.

Picture the scene. The sun rising over a sleepy Spanish village, workers rousing from their slumber to prepare for the forthcoming festivities, and an unsuspecting JCB driver, out to catch the proverbial early worm, opens his cab to a dribbling, smelly, drunken Englishman. “Hay un hombre en mi máquina” exclaimed he, translating to “Hey, there’s a man in my machine.” 

Mark, unrepentant, proudly went forth from this place of repose. And henceforth, for the remainder of our stay, the surprised Spaniard and Mark would greet as brothers as they passed each morning.