Lost in Mallorca

In Germany, the small Spanish island in the Mediterranean is actually considered German - at least amongst bowling clubs and hooligans and stag parties. So, three of my friends took off for a few days of excessive drinking.

It was one particular night in which happened this story. My three buddies of course started drinking sangria at daytime on the beach from a huge bucket with straws as every day. So, afer hanging out in the Spanish sun for hours they were already really pissed as they went back to the hotel. The only reason they went back was, I suppose, to eat and fetch another few drinks at the hotel bar. As far as I have heard, this is quite uncommon because most people prefer to head to the clubs right away - in their swimming togs and pissed as hell.

Finally they made it to the club and got even more drunk. I am not sure whether it was "Bierkönig" (German:"Beerking") or not - but this is an experience of its own. It displays everything that comes to your mind if you saw Eurotrip and think of European drinking habits. Sweaty, hairy, stinking drunks dancing on the tables and yelling schlager songs (kind of oldfashioned German pop music about drinking and partying). If you drink for twenty bucks you get a white Bierkönig shirt, for forty a green one and so on. I think the toughest guys are those with the black ones. Anyway, they got really really drunk.

So, after they hung out there they wanted to hit some other clubs but shipwrecked on the security who assured them they were way too drunk. The group landed in a club whose name noone can remember and were loosing sight. Mark, who told me this story seemed to be still a bit conscious. He said he was dancing here and flirting there (considering his condition I doubt that) and was the last to see Patrick this night.
He said Patrick was hanging out with some dodgy Mallorcines, but actually not even able to talk and walk anymore. Sometime in the early morning Mark carried Theo on bis back to the hotel, assuming that Patrick took off before them.

In fact he did, but not that he knew of. Patrick told me the last thing he can remember was these guys who offered him speed.

The next morning, as Mark and Theo wondered where Pat might be, he woke up 2 miles out of Palma De Mallorca in the ditch of a rurual road with nothing but his clothes. The funny thing is: he did neither know how he got there, nor which of the two directions to choose. It was the only glimpse of luck he had left that he walked into the right one.

After hours of walking he finally reached Palma again. In the hot Mallorca noon, three completely wrecked guys assembled in their hotel room and the only thing they could figure is this: These Mallorcine guys were trapping shit-faced Patrick, stuffed him in their car's trunk, drove out of the city, robbed him down to his clothes and threw him in the ditch where he woke.

I personally was never envious to go to Mallorca.