Maybe it’s because spring is in the air, or maybe it’s because it’s been too long since any of my extensive Polish harem came to visit me, but the Freak’s libido has been in overdrive in the last few weeks… with sorely disappointing results.
Nothing materialised after I somehow got this nice Catalan girl’s number at Sidecar (despite the fact I could barely speak)… the older Czech girl with enormous bazookas, who I met on a quiet night in Marula, gave me the briefest of snogs before disappearing down into the Liceu metro station and out of my life forever, whilst even my beloved Polish chicas have spurned my advances. One very cute veterinary sciences student from Wroclaw who I met at Crappy Tuesdays suggested we leave the club and take a night walk at the beach… but sadly she really did only want a night walk on the beach (WTF!). Hasn’t she read the Freak’s best-selling manual on sexual subtext?
No doubt much of my failings can be blamed on my lack of charisma, looks, money, confidence, height and all-round sexual appeal… but nonetheless I’m going to lay some of the blame for the lack of wild oat sowing going on in the Freak bedroom at the door of the Barcelona nightlife!
What I want to know is: where do all the freakin’ hot girls go at night? You seem them on the beach, you see them on Las Ramblas, you see them trundling around town looking cute on the Bicing bikes, but turn up to place where you might be able to interact with these cheeky chicas and 99 times out of 100 you find yourself sh!t out of luck… which is why most Sunday mornings I wake up with this song in my head:
I think I would be doing y’all a disservice if I didn’t reproduce the lyrics of this, my hymn to Barcelona:
Going to the party
Sippin’ on Bacardi
Wanna meet a hottie
But there’s Adam, Steve and Marty
There’s Billy, Todd and Tommy
They’re on leave from the army
The only boobs I’ll see tonight will be made of origami
Tell the fellas, make it understood
It ain’t no good if there’s too much wood
Make sure you know before you go
The dance floor bro-hoe ratio
Five to one is a brodeo
Tell Steve and Mike it’s time to go
Wait outside all night to find
Twenty dudes in a conga line
I imagine the best place to meet girls in Barcelona is a taxi ride to the Port Olimpic strip, where a host of pretentious lounge bars suck in the leggy blondes in short skirts looking for playboys to shell out the 15 euro cocktails on them. However for guys, nightlife on the Port Olimpic strip means wearing a shirt with a collar and shoes… and I for one am not getting in time machine and going back to the UK in the 90s! (Once the bouncer turned me down in my red clubbing T-shirt and sleek Puma sneakers to wave in a group of 15 guys wearing Primark jeans and stripey Next shirts).
As for the more authentic dance clubs or indie nights they’re regular ‘brodeos’, and what cute girls do turn up are usually surrounded by a posse of South American surfers, ‘hip’ skateboarders with ‘cool’ tattoos, and other assorted losers that impressionable alternative girls seem to think are second only to rock stars.
Well enough complaining. I’ve heard a rumour about a club in Poblenou that is full of hot and brazen Scandivanian girls with a 50/50 ratio and my Catalan friend assures me that simply to turn up at Plataforma on Nou de la Rambla is to guarantee a night of the horizontal honky tonky. Naturally I don’t put much store in either, but rest assured you’ll be the first to know if and when the fun times begin this summer…