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Published: September 21st 2009
The Shirt
The prizeEventually everything builds up inside, it builds up until the right moment arrives and then…
If you go through all the happenings of JP4 you will see that eventually something had to give. The police punches in Kyrgyzstan, the interrogation questions from the mullahs in Iran, the being caught innocently in Tajikistan whilst (accidently) walking in the middle of a military zone on the Afghan border. I took all those setbacks on the chin - there was no point in retaliating. But this time… This time it was an even contest.
As I entered the ring in the drunken hours of 3am at Madrid’s old city backstreets - My biggest fear (since being robbed at knifepoint in Brazil 2 years ago and the Caracas police robbery of the same year) had surfaced. This time, I was to retaliate
I arrived in Madrid after barely surviving the carnage of the Tomatina Festival the previous day. In a town called Buyol around 30 km west of Valencia, it promotes itself as the ‘worlds biggest food fight.’ At the end of it all I lost my shirt, my drivers licence, my 50 Euros and it saw the end of my shirt, shorts,
mobile and underwear. The food fight is down a narrow street where your body feels like it’s a tomato itself. So tight there is no room to move and you are about to burst your insides out. This was confirmed when I felt a warm water sensation on my left foot. The group of north shore Sydney girls in front of me start chatting, where one goes “I just pissed in my pants!”
I lost my thongs too, which was an idiotic thing to wear. But I’d take that option instead of this Perth guy whose toenail lifted up and needed to get first aid. He was staying at my hotel so I gave him my hand whilst a needle was protruded from his big toe. I’ve learned from this experience, I will never be holding the wife’s hand when she gives birth. Christ my hand almost folded!
All these events made it a rather eventful yet semi-unenjoyable experience - Even the Sangria was ordinary. It was so congested that you can’t really do too much accept fight for stability. I threw maybe 6 tomatoes in the end. Comparing to Running of the Bulls its ordinary and I
would not advice anyone to come here unless you are around at the time.
What wasn’t ordinary are the tapas bars in Madrid. I had no interest to come here originally but with news Jay and Kirsty where going to be in Barcelona the day before I headed to Manchester meant Madrid made a good loop trip. Plus Real Madrid were playing football at the Bernabau!
I actually hate Real Madrid, they just seem so smug, posh, rich, smart arse kind of team. But after this experience I may have a soft spot for them should they play another team I hate in the Champions League.
They were playing Deportivo La Coruna (what a great name.) It must have been 1000 seats below its 75328 capacity. It was the opening game of the season and the optimism expressed in the crowd was carnival like. To kick off the season Usain Bolt came out which was another bonus. But Madrid had two of footballs biggest stars in Kaka (who loves to shoot) and Ronaldo (that Portuguese pansy which stunned me by how quick he runs up a pitch.)
3-2 Real in the end and the play was brilliant.
Every time Real looked like they were going to put the sword through the opposition. The crowd would carry on like they were at a bullfight. Real’s winner was something special too! But the crowd weren’t chanting too much. It was all about appreciating attacking football, which is probably why I gained a soft spot for them. The crowd were booing when Real played possession football.
Speaking of possession lets go back to the bastard who pick pocketed me in the back streets of Madrid’s old city at 3am. I started the evening with a tapas bar crawl with this British soldier who showered with the door open, got changed in the dorm naked and the next day slept in his bed naked. Even after 4 Journeys - that was a new one. So anyway the tapas bars here are in real traditional buildings where you buy a beer and get a light snack with it. It was also a good way to practice my Spanish, which was not too bad considering I haven’t used it for 2 years.
From there it was off to a few bars and on the way to a nightclub I felt a
light rub against my right thigh. I make one step forward realised something was wrong and checked my pockets. I turn around and see this prick starting to run. I yell out “HEY!” and run after him.
Now I have to say for a brief second I thought ‘oh great I have to run now’. And run I did. I caught up to him around the corner of the second block. He dropped my wallet to distract me. My adrenalin was starting to pump but sanity prevailed. I talked myself (after a few steps) to go back, get the wallet and chase again.
See he could have dropped my wallet after going through all my things and there wasn’t enough time to check. So as I chased him again, I knew I had him. By the 3rd block I grabbed him by the back of his shirt, around the collar. He tried to get away so a scuffle occurred. I tried to yank him back, trip him from behind and slam him to the ground. I have to say it was at this point this guy was going to be pretty f***ed.
But as I pulled him back
his thin quality shirt ripped and he ran bare chested up the street. So I still chase. Now the only conclusion I have come to (for still chasing) is that I needed to vent my anger out (from previous experiences) on someone. So as I caught up to him (again) - it was tourists payback time. Within arms reach, rounding another corner, I slam into something that stops me dead in my tracks.
See the streets of Madrid are cobble stones and have about thigh high posts along the footpath. So this is what I hit flush in the middle of my thigh. Breathing heavily I retreat to the 3rd block where I talk Spanish to this couple. I am hurting slightly but adrenalin makes me feel no pain. I say to them “El regressor” (He’ll return) I walk down to pick up his shirt as a souvenir. I knew he’d come back hoping I didn’t find my wallet and to pick his shirt up.
As I walk back to talk to the Spanish couple (sitting at the corner of the street) I see this bare chested guy at the top of the street. He looks at me
in the distance as if to indicate. Oh shit is that him (his head slightly raising). I go “Fuck that’s him!” Profanities followed from my mouth as I was making easy metres on this now poor bastard.
This poor bloke was so frightened it was as if he was going to cry by the time we reached the 5th block and as I was about to grab him… Fuck me I hit the same bloody posts leaving me on the floor again. It was so disappointing, I knew I was drunk and moments before I hit the post for a second time I said ‘now careful, the posts are coming up’, than Woshka! And it was this hit I think that did the most damage.
I pick my sorry arse up look up the street and the bare chested guy looking back at me out of breath and wanting the whole ordeal to be over. I didn’t but it was. I picked up this stick and whacked it on the ground and yelled out “TENGO TU SHIRT” (I HAVE YOUR SHIRT!) “VAMOS!” (LETS GO!) But it was over for him. He lost out in the end losing a
shirt, which I would have kept had it not been for his cheap watered down cologne he bought off the street clinging to his now shredded shirt. Instead I took a photo of my prize and threw it in the hostel bin.
For me, I didn’t lose anything but gained a great story and two deep, deep bruises in the middle of my left leg so deep that after 2 weeks the dead leg feels like it is up to the femur. My left knee also enflamed causing me to be limping and getting little sleep for the past 2 weeks. My bruises I feel will last with me till the end of JP4 I’m afraid.
My limp was so bad I would get people looking at me all day whilst walking the streets of Barcelona. I didn’t like Barca too much the Gaudi stuff is okay. The La Sagrada Familia is simply stunning it was his unfinished cathedral and is a clear standout. But the tapas bars are shithouse. English seems to be spoken all the time and because of the Catalan stuff no one seemed to be interested in Spanish.
This was another thing I
missed out on. One of the great highs is to pick up someone whilst talking a different language and as the pain and uselessness of my left leg was so bad I couldn’t go to a club or popular bar. Even when I was on a 4 day bender with my great JP3 mates in Manchester a week later - I was still in pain (alleviated somewhat from the alcohol).
On my first night in Manchester we went to a nightclub and I started chatting to this girl and then we started dancing. Dancing on one leg is really hard to do. It got to a point where I had to traverse to the other leg to show some variety and as I moved to the left leg, the leg gave way. I turned soon after to my mates and said “Well that’s it, there’s no point now.”
I am typing this blog 21 days after the event and still I am in pain. Still with a dead leg, knee still slightly bruised and days left till JP4 concludes. I am battle weary from this trip. It was my rumble in the Madrid street jungle and I was
humbled. Humbled by a bloody street post - then in the return bout it happened again… Oh well, such is life.
****************************
I have provided a few links from the Real Deportivo game.
Choose which highlights package you want:
Spoken in English
Hablar Espanyol
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Hem
Hem Tripathi
well u should have worn his shirt and kept on wearing it as a interesting reminder of this incident!