Drunk Tales 2

I was in Spain on a gents’ holiday.  For reasons since forgotten, our group had been split up.  Me and a chap called Stephen spent a few hours having a dance-off in a Magaluf club, failing to amuse anyone but ourselves.  Some hours later we exited.  Ahead of us we noticed a low roof and decided to incorporate it into our journey home.  As we walked the roof we heard shouting in some unintelligible tongue (that a clearer head would’ve recognised as Spanish).  Then we realised that the roof was connected to a set of flats.  The lowest flats had patio doors which opened onto this roof.  So essentially we were in someone’s back garden.

A less-than-impressed Spanish women had spotted us wandering outside her house.  She came out to confront us.  We just laughed.

And then she unleashed the hounds.

She screamed back into the house and some things barked a response.  Two dogs came bursting out of the house after us.

Sausage dogs.

We ran away, already laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.  It quickly got more absurd.  Towards the edges the roof took on some small curves, like little hills, only two feet high or so.  No problem for us to clear.  Not so much the sausage dogs.  We were almost hysterical as we turned to watch the dogs try and fail to jump these obstacles, while the increasingly-angry woman screamed in the background.


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