Searing heat combined with massive hangovers.

The morning game was rough. I started due to Emu blowing out of his arse for the previous one. Cressy was well out of it with a hangover. The little spotty virgin could barely handle it. Luckily, Marky’s Missus, Bianca, was on hand to record the games. To be honest, had she not been there, it likely we wouldn’t have recorded the footage we had, so many thanks go out to her and also a medal for suffering a bunch of fuckwits making an arse of themselves. Ironically, she was much better at recording than me, because I tend to look up and bollock Emu, while play is going on elsewhere.

Cressy had to go off for Emu, but then I was blowing out of my backside after seventy minutes and we dragged Cressy back on. The eventual loss was 4-0. After the game we spent a bit of time at the stadium with a few drinks where I managed to meet Pierre Azzopardi, the person who’d arranged the perfect tour.

Back after the game, it was fun time. Macca and Cressy crept into Emu’s room and doused him in shaving foam. Completely fast asleep and all recorded on camera.
The big shock of the day was Dixon’s new look. The closest we could say was a sort of candidate to assassinate Obama. A red neck, yokel with a straw in his mouth. “Just call me….Digga,” he growled during the night.

We also went to watch the SAFC match at a local pub where Emu was demonstrating the microcosmic version of the English Lout, shouting and balling at the screen when Sunderland lost. Actually, when Defoe scored, he shouted, “I hope you die, you gap toothed twat,” while Greenwell was sitting next to him. No consideration whatsoever.

Then it was the night out. The place was St. Julians, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it was wall to wall pussy of the finest kind. The problem was that they were all so fucking miserable, there was no chance for any of the single lads. I think you’d need a subway sized cock (and make it a foot long) encrusted in ribbed diamonds and balls the size of Emu’s head to get any joy. Cressy did actually snare a young un, but like his passing and link up play, the thick cunt lost her in the crowd. Also, apparently he was nearly in luck with another girl, until someone told her he was only 14.

We actually started off in Fuego to see Ken Camilleri the Manager of XFM, Malta’s local radio station and also the manager of the bar. We got a full set of free drinks and spent a good hour in there smoking the pipes of peace and generally pissing off the locals in for a “quiet” drink.

It was then to the bar where Cressy got (and lost) his bird. Ironically, it was the similar pattern to his facebook relationships. He announces he’s in a relationship, then when you press CTRL and F5 around four times, she’s dumped him. This was the bar where the birds were dancing on the table and where Scott Hembrough was bumping his arse with a fine looking one in denim. Yet, when he turned his back, he was bumping it with a fat heffer and nearly shite himself when he turned around five minutes later. Scott also nearly revealed his thong, but it was way too dark.

A bar later, we all crushed Emu as he was seating in a comfy chair. I then tried to give him some Vodka and coke, but because I was rapidly getting drunk, poured it into into his eye instead. Greenwell’s chat up line was, “How you doing?” in the manner of Joey from Friends. He actually sounded like Watto, the flying slave trader who looked like a turd from the first Star Wars film – Episode One.

Then, the infamous lap dancing bar. I saw a taxi rank and it being 2:30am, as well as me drinking more in one night than I have in five years, I decided to conclude the night. Marky Mark and Bianca had left just before me as well. In the club, an anonymous person spent around 60 Euros on three lap dances. He then asked the fancy bird for a suck which cost an extra 30 Euro. This resulted in three sucks before she fucked off with his cash. Arse!

Another bright spark spent around 40 Euro on champagne and a flat chested bit of stuff on his knee. “like an ironing board with two cherries on top,” was his description. Finally, everyone chipped in around 20 Euro each to get Scotty an on-stage dance. He did all the Sassco lads proud when he dropped his pants for the bird, exposing his thong. Apparently, the look on her face was priceless. Not that I was there to see it.

They all went into some strange dingy bar where Emu was banging his head on the wall as well as all of them writing on the wall before realising there was a CCTV camera in the top corner watching them.

The trip back to the hotel for some of the players was scary, as they got in with Ridge Racer, who was blaring out some loud music while driving a tad bit too fast. Ironically, Paul McConville nearly caused a fight at the start of the night when he ordered two taxis by mistake. Both the taxi drivers nearly laid into each other. When Muers and co came back to the hotel, it was partially locked. They managed to creep in while Greenwell did his “Manuel” impression behind the counter while dishing out the keys. The hotel porter eventually came down and Dave Smith called him a “dirty, perving bastard,” as he was probably sneaking in and out of someone’s room.

Cressy and Macca, being quite clever, locked their door before the night began, but being thick as pig shit, left their key at reception, where Muers and Greenwell asked for it and sneaked in and shaving foamed the entire room, their boots and all. Greenwell was ready to take a dump in the cushions, but Emu stopped him for some reason. I’m really worried that I’m going to get a call from the Hotel when back in England, saying that a shocked cleaner found a steaming turd in the third drawer from the left. It wouldn’t surprise me because the room was lifting.