Day One

Monday 28th October 1991.

Flew out the previous night, scum class, drinking Mudslides pretty much all the way and arrived fairly caned.
Loads of shit getting thirty-seven items of technical gear plus three big boxes of MBC sweatshirts through customs. A mere £1,700 short, which we had to pay. Luckily I have no credit card, so it was Geoff and Graham who had to pay the biscuit.
More shit at the Spanish end, but we finally got through without being shot or anything, spirits waning until we reached the hotel.
Turned up well late and got smashed while we listened to the good old 'pep talk'. Onwards to Dom T's room for more Mudslides without the Tia Maria and big, big hangovers. The shower in my room nearly killed me, it was like being gunned down. Flooded the bathroom floor. Haven't tried chucking the telly out the window yet. Bed at three forty-five. Ish.

Monday at breakfast I felt like shit on a stick, head full of cotton wool and major problems with balance as I navigated the breakfast room. The guy with the coffee kept ignoring us - fucking Englanders with attitude. Recognized the Frosties and the croissants, everything else looked weird. The scrambled eggs looked like someone had thrown up in there. No toast.
Packed into the mini-buses, turned south and headed for The Shit, otherwise known as The Press Centre. There were guns and sour-faced soldiers everywhere. The Spanish cops put the Americans to shame, all leather and mirror shades and big guns in low-slung holsters. You need a pass to get your pass. Everything gets x-rayed. Unloaded our shit-sized pile of techno gear, only to be told to take it around the back way. Of course, after loading it all back up it turned out there was no back way, so we sodded about, like you do, for an hour or so, before we got sent back to the front door. Unloaded it all again and finally got it through, then spent the rest of the day sitting around in the MBC room waiting for shit to happen.

Found a bar and drank some gin. The measures are huge, they just fill up the glass and there's barely any room for a mixer. Which is just fine. We got back to the hotel around ten, knackered from doing nothing on a long day, after Nidal insisted the bus driver took the scenic route back, to groans from the rest of us who badly needed the bar. I wanted to mention to him that he was a fucking twat, but thought better of it. After all, the presenter's always right.

Got there in the end. Big measures of bourbon at the bar. Hit the bed and blacked out.