All righty then!
The easiest thing is to do this...
Wednesday- Regressa me! Concert amazing, 14000 people screaming- my friend and I are smiling and passing binoculars back and forth.
Suddenly the spanish singer (baritone) interrupts concert to say Barcelona have scored a 'GOALLLLLL'
Place erupts. I frown, glance crankily at watch. 'get back to the blasted singing' I may or may not have shouted. The woman beside me is shrieking.
Moments later or so it seemed, he holds up his hand and informs us of a second goal.
13, 998 people stamp their feet and sing 'Champion-es champion-es wo way wo way wo way!!!!!!' forever. After what seems like two weeks of this they finally quieten down. Il Divo sing their version of 'My way' and it is good night and good luck.
We leave. I accidently on purpose kick the shin of the woman beside me as I walk past her. She yelps, I feel better.
Outside 14,000 people stand around. 13, 998 are singing and the noise of car horns is unbearable, 'parp parp, parp parp parp, parp, parp, parp BARCA!'and not a single fucking taxi from Palau Sant Jordi. They are all in bars drunk, the bastards.
Finally we find the one taxi driver in the town who-luckily for us -had been to the concert. We ambush-er, flag him down and plead with him to take us. He says he is not working. I beg and plead. He relents, but we have to listen to him scream out the window and parp his horn all the LONG way back to town. Motos are weaving in and out of traffic, flags hanging from windows, A man with cruches yells 'Yarrrhrhrhrhhrxx' in the window at us. Cops are everywhere. Smoking and doing exactly nothing.
Drink copiously, fall asleep, wake up ten minutes later feeling ill. Stumble to bathroom, vomit like Linda Blair thrice. Hey, aren't those the mussels I ate earlier?
'Hello there' I say, 'fancy meeting you again.' or 'Belarrrrgghghh'
Back to bed.
In the distance fire works explode and that fucking Barca song duke it out to see which can be the most annoying sound in the planet.
Next day I travel some, meet paramour. He is glum and sad. But his arms never looked better. I am sympathetic and agree that yes, if they'd had eleven men they would have won, and that the referee was on the BCN payroll and yes, we hates them precious. I tell him the riot police shot loads of BCN supporters with rubber bullets and that I bet it really hurt a lot. That cheered him up.
Spend day together, there is a great deal of kising and so on. Later that evening over a glass of wine the Paramour says.
'You know something? As bad as I was feeling earlier, just being with you has made it better.'
'Ah.' I say and paw him some more.
'Marry me.' he says.
'What?' I say, laughing.
'I want you to marry me.' he takes my hand in his. 'Will you?'
I blink. 'Are you serious?'
I laugh some more.
'Well I don't know, 'I say oh so slyly. 'You would have to ask me properly.'
'Okay' he says, and lo, he did get on bended knee in the middle of a very crowded pub and took my hand in his. People start nudging each other and pointing.
'Miss Cat, ' he said, red faced ' will you marry me?'
''I surely will.' I say
We kiss. Then he falls to the ground clutching his hands to his ears as the glass shattering squeal alerts nearby dolphins that the jig is up and we humans are on to them.