Ibiza Blog Day 10: The one where I stay awake for 70 hours

So Friday morning springs itself upon us, and by ‘us’ I mean a very groggy me and Beefa boyfriend. With zero hours sleep and a room change already (6am swap to his) he  decided now- 9am in the morning, on the morning after no sleep and the day he has to leave- to ‘take charge’ of his stolen phone situation and drags me, unwillingly, to the local police station. By local I mean ‘same Island’ and a rather large Island as San Antonio appears to be miles from anywhere in Ibiza! Shuffling down to the taxi rank, the sun already melting away the hangover, we hitch to the Police station where we sit like idiots until one of the rather nice looking (armed) officers takes pity and asks in broken English “Why are you here!?”

I shall take this opportunity to remind the readers of Beefa boyfriend; A rather stacked Welshman who may not be able to handle his beer (understatement) but could definitely handle himself if it came to it. Lets say he’d bust a grape in a fruit fight if need be.

He was, as previously described by my Dad, ‘As wide as Emily is tall’ (5ft 5ins) So when he answered the officer with ‘I need an incident form as I was pick-pocketed and had my iPhone stolen’  there were stifled giggles and raised eyebrows all round. Someone actually pick-pocketed a man who could potentially win an arm wrestle with David Hayes!? Must have been one cocky thief! After what seemed like ages, all documents were signed and we were free to go- at this point it was 10am and 100 degrees outside. I was wearing last nights’ outfit which included a day glow bra that could be seen in my backless dress. I was feeling worse than I looked and needed to sort my life out, immediately, so back to the hotel we went- missing the turning on the way and extending the journey, in turn making me feel even more groggy.

Breakfast was the next important decision made when we got back and as the cafe had just opened (10:30am already) we had a ‘romantic’ cooked breakfast (for him) and toasted cheese sandwich (me) whilst trying not to throw up on each other. Fit. We decided to dip in the pool one last time after breakfast and soon it was time to wave goodbye……

Note: Holiday romances should always, with no exceptions, end at the airport. Fact (in an ideal world, anyway) *An update will be blog material to come*

The rest of the day was spent barely moving and trying not to fall asleep after being awake for 38 hours at this point, skittles were kindly bought to aid the hangover (Thanks Max) and talks around the pool had led to finally have dinner at the very famous Cafe Mambo with the rest of the Welsh boys as it was their last night.

18 of us embarked on the very famous (but surprisingly small) Cafe on sunset strip and ate delicious food whilst watching the ‘very famous’ sunset. At this point the sensible thing for me to do would have been to say ‘Thank you and goodnight’ to the Welsh as they went into the West end for their last night in Ibiza. I was so so tired at this point, felt dreadful and needed the comfort of my own bed for the first time in many nights. Of course this didn’t happen and mob mentality got the better of me as I was ushered, unwillingly to the boys’ rooms, forced to drink Pasa-something-with-pineapple whilst listening to Otto Knows in a darkened room, lit only with a strobe light. I had survived the meal and now pre-drinks, but as midnight approached I was a gonna….. 50-something hour exhaustion makes being drunk so much more effort!

Delilah’s was of course destination of choice for the Welsh boys’ last night and despite previously sharing a pitcher I could stomach no more than a glass of a grandslam, which was still too much. After a few blurry hours’ shuffling about the West End I needed to go and lie down so I grabbed a KFC on the way back and literally crawled into my hotel room at 5am, alone and very drunk. I was promptly aided into my pj’s and spent the next hour with my head down the loo chucking up whilst my gorgeous cousin held my hair back. I had done it, I had finally become the ‘Mess’ I was so often being referred to and joined the ‘Xtra’ club by chucking up, after nearly three day’s being awake and 10 days into Ibiza, I was spewing. Ugh.

It didn’t matter that I had got sick as I had finally got my own bed back and banked some well needed hours sleep (at least 5 that night)

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thoughts please..

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