Written by Skoob1999
Rating:

Share/Bookmark
Print this

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

image for Martin Shuttlecock's Letters From Barcelona - Day Six - Usain Bolt And The Magic Fountains Not Tonight Josephine!

Barcelona - El Raval - Sunday:

Another hot sunny Sunday in the Catalan capital. For the Shuttlecock clan, there was much to anticipate, for Sunday evenings are traditionally the best times to see the Magic Fountain on the olympic hill of Montjuic in all their spectacular glory.

The whole clan were raring to go, and wallow in the Magic Fountain's musical lightshow.

All that is, except Martin Shuttlecock.

"I wasn't all that keen," he said. "I've seen it before. It's all right I suppose, if you like that sort of thing, but to be honest with you, I'd rather just go down the pub."

Which is exactly what Shuttlecock proposed to do.

"I told 'em I'd meet up with 'em after the show at a bar, and they seemed happy with that. I got a bit frustrated in the afternooon because they all seemed quite happy to lounge about in the apartment, so I popped out to the tabac around the corner, but it was closed. Then I went to Bar Marmalade, which was almost empty with it being siesta time, and I had a pint. Then I went back to the apartment and had a siesta meself."

The evening was to prove confusing and extremely irritating by turn for Shuttlecock.

"They were just fannying about, and I was getting a bit pissed off. I just wanted to get out and enjoy Barcelona. Then talk got around to the Olympics and the men's 100m final. All talk of the Magic Fountain was forgotten, and it was decided that the Shuttlecocks would postpone the fountain trip until the following day, and stay in the apartment to watch Usain Bolt on the telly."

This left Shuttlecock in a bit of a pickle. No tobacco, no beer, and no prospect of going down the pub. Witnesses described a furious Shuttlecock's evening stroll to buy beer and cigarettes as an act of aggression as he stomped through El Raval past all the hookers, pimps and small time drug dealers, starved of essential alcohol and nicotine.

"He was stomping around like a madman," one observer reported. "If anyone approached him, he told them in no uncertain terms to 'fuck off!' In quite an aggressive manner."

"Yeah, I suppose I was a bit narked," Shuttlecock said later. "I hate sitting indoors when I'm on me holidays, even if there is a roof terrace. So I stomped off to buy beer and ciggies. Eventually I got ciggies from a machine in the Cafe De L'Opera and beer from the shop a couple of doors down from our apartment building. I watched the race, which Bolt obviously won, and then went out onto the terrace with me laptop while the others went to bed. Fan-fucking-tastic - Barcelona's waking up for a night of madness, my lot are all in bed, and I'm sitting on me fucking laptop on the roof. That was the night I exchanged messages with former Spoofer Duncan Whitehead. Which was interesting. Ah well, one day and night to go. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Could it?"

More as we get it.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

If you fancy trying your hand at comedy spoof news writing, click here to join!
Print this

Share/Bookmark

Go to top ^