Cracking Up by Harry Crooks

up two hearty full English breakfasts which we shovelled down our gullets, washing them down with mugs of PG Tips. Feeling fully prepared for a top session of relaxation I’d set off down the paseo to the beach, leaving Rez to network among the coke shifting inhabitants of the town. He would be nattering into one of his multiple mobiles constantly, making career busting moves and talking business with his drug cronies. The only business I had in mind was to get as much enjoyment out of the the rest of the holiday in the sun as possible before the inevitable return to the miserable, cold weather of grim Blighty.
    As I strolled down the promenade in Habaneros flip flops with a bottle of factor 2 and a newly acquired pair of snide Ray Bans from the LUCKY MEN, I felt fucking great and couldn’t get enough of it. The day was full of glorious sunshine, even though it was only the middle of January and I was looking forward to burning to a crisp in the baking hot scorch. I rented a sunbed on the beach, made myself comfortable and enjoyed the stunning views of the tasty bikini-clad birds topping up their tans, striking tantalising poses. I even tried to bust a move, chat up a few babes but received the knock back due to a combination of their sober state and, no doubt, the injuries I’d sustained during recent combat. I’d copped for the cauliflower ear, swollen jaw and, most recent, the nasty stitched-up gashes on my head courtesy of the Spanish kid wielding a bat. The physical injuries would quickly heal and cause no lasting damage, but the point I’m making is that my pulling power had suffered a major setback as a direct result of looking like a frigging Frankenstein monster.
    I’d have to curb my urges and wait until after dark when the ladies would have their party goggles on, after a night of binge drinking and coke sniffing in the toilet cubicles of the many bars and nightclubs on the strip. After necking shots and filling their nasal passages with the horny dust, these sexy bitches would easily mistake me for Brad Pitt.
    At night I had a fucking ball in the bars and clubs with neon signs above their doors, trawling them in the company of Rez. We were buzzing our tits off on booze and cheap coke, trying our luck for copping a bit of skirt. There were loose women everywhere, accosting men in every watering hole. Being in possession of an unlimited supply of dancing dust, suddenly, made us very popular with the ladies in the bars; all the fanny wanted to be our friends and line their nostrils with a shit load of coke. Pair of fucking pimps, or what? The birds were feeling double sexy after inhaling the magical dust, that’s all I can say. They were mad for it and would be frantic for a shag at the end of the night. We’d stagger back into Rez’s flat and have an full-on orgy. The birds were snorting for England, randy as fuck and banging like shithouse doors.
    The week long break was going over too quickly. The day before I was due to fly home I went down to the nudie end of the beach to work on an all over suntan and busted a move on a gorgeous German bird before she was taken by some slick Spanish cunt. Being in possession of first rate coke, I had become a veritable babe magnet. Copping was easy; all I had to do was suggest a crafty sniff, if she was into that, but not here, some place a little less crowded, as the Spanish authorities tended to frown upon public coke snorting. It was what she’d come away for and she invited me to go back to her hotel room with her. After a few cheeky bumps of the wicked lady up our nasal passages, we were at it like porn stars in a lustful, protracted fuck. Afterwards I let her know that I’d be heading off home the next day, we exchanged Facebook details and made tentative arrangements to meet up in Liverpool that summer for the Beatles Festival.
    Later that night, I was out on the town and took a shine to an anorexic-looking bird in a club, she only looked about fifteen and I