The Madness of Club Island

I swaggered up to the bar, slapping my hand down.

Whisky por favor, rapido.

The barman eyed me warily. He had a patch over one eye and the other looked as mean as a rattlesnake that's been mistaken for a tampon. He moved over, polishing a glass with slow malicious strokes before slopping something brown in it and sliding it over.

Cual es tu nombre, gaijin?

I had been in Ibiza for a mere few hours and had quickly found the roughest bar in town. It was something I did everywhere I traveled. I, like all Scots had a knack for it.

I spat on the floor, one of the patrons shouted in outrage but I ignored him, for now.

Mi llamo es perro prosciutto.
_{in his mother tongue I told him I was the boom dog. I pretty much had this Spanish lingo nailed just by watching shitty soap operas.}

The barman looked angry and motioned to a couple of his compatriots.

Ah this was more like my kind of language, I downed the rusty swill that passed for whisky here, slapped my hands together and turned to face them. It looked like things were gonna get a bit tasty.

We all turned and stared at the door. Silhouetted by the sun was the good lady and my daughter holding an inflatable giraffe shaped rubber ring thing. Uh-oh

Erm, just coming darling!

I shot a glance behind me as I hurried to leave, the barman and his cabron friends were returning to their places smirking. I made a fa fangoo chin stroking gesture and shouted.

Quiero comer algo mierda!
_{a dread insult that had something to do with their mothers I am sure.}

That seemed to shut them up. Maybe they will think twice before messing with a Scotsman.

I went off with the good lady and took our daughter to the beach. My reign of terror had only just begun on this forsaken isle.