Imagine the scene; my resident DJ Van Alen and I were tottering precariously along quiet back roads feeling considerably worse for wear but, strangely, not tired for some reason. We are the last of the few from our original disco platoon that started its mission of hedonism so many hours ago, one mate was last seen staggering drunkenly up the beach furiously cursing to himself and everyone else for a reason none only to himself. The others could be anywhere – face down in villa pool, their own vomit or floating out to see for all we knew. A cat darts silently across the road in front of us chasing a lizard while we enthusiastically and incoherently mutter to one another in hushed tones, considering our state, we were probably agreeing on how much we absolutely loved everything and everyone and how incredibly good mates we were and that if it wasn’t for that old chestnut of sexuality getting in the way we would very probably get married, have kids and live happily ever after. Van was displaying some particularly impressive salt stains making his t-shirt look like some sort of sweat tie-dye experiment gone wrong. Your truly was sporting a wig matted with sweat, smoke, sand, sangria and other unidentified substances with make up resembling mongrel cross between the bloke from the cure and Boy Geroge after a nasty ‘accidentally put my face in the blender again’ accident.

Occasionally we wondered after 2 hours of carefree stumbling if we were actually in fact going the right way along the coast to find our elusive hotel, or indeed how many laps of the coastline we had or could do in out disco damaged state. Whether it really was as quiet as I remember or whether our ears were ringing so loud it seemed so, we hadn’t seen or heard a soul for over an hour, which wasn’t particularly surprising, considering we we’re miles away from the clubs and how early it was.

We spot an outcrop of low rock that looks like a giant crocodile snoozing with his nose on the beach and tail pointing out to sea and the pink sky betraying the imminent sunrise. Clambering along the rocks we get to the tip and make ourselves as comfortable as possible to watch a perfect sunrise. Whipped up by the gentle sea breeze comes the unmistakable eye-watering stench of our own body odour perfectly brewed and ripened by a clubbing marathon alongside the cream of the world’s party people.

The inane but fascinating chatter stops while we enjoy perfect silence; an unsurprisingly rare commodity considering our usual haunts on this sweetest of Spanish Isles. A beautiful orange pink sun creeps above the horizon, filling the cocktail of chemicals swimming round our heads with light.

Silence, sunrise, and then . . .

GGGGAAAARRRRRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!

We have a ‘who can have the biggest heart attack’ competition and in our befuddled state instinctively look accusingly at one another.

RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAGAAGGGGAAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHWWWWW!!!!

We turn around and sure enough we spot Pedro who has appeared from nowhere in his red hardhat, hi-vis vest and tool belt looking like someone out of YMCA at the top of a palm tree attacking it with the biggest chainsaw I’ve ever seen.

GGGGGGGRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWAAAAHHHHHAAHHH!!!

In the thows of hysterics we try to retain control of our grip of the rocks and our bladders;

Silence, sunrise GGGGRGGGRRRRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWHH!!!! Hysterics.

Silence, sunrise GGGGRGGGRRRRAAAAAAAAWWWWWWHH!!!! Hysterics.

. . . .and so the pattern continues.

It could be worse I suppose, a lot worse if you’re a palm tree.