Wish You Were Here by Mike Gayle Page A

spotted our waitress wending her way through the now-crowded bar with an almost balletic grace.
    â€˜There you go, lads.’ She set the bottles down on the table along with a bill. Andy snatched it up immediately and then, presumably possessed by the spirit of Hugh Hefner, handed her a large Euro note and told her to keep the change.
    â€˜What?’ protested Andy once she was out of earshot.
    â€˜What do you mean, what?’ I replied.
    â€˜So I gave that girl a tip, big deal!’
    â€˜No, Andy, you gave that girl a gigantic tip because she was wearing a bunny outfit. You’ve been like a dog on heat since we landed last night.’
    Andy rolled his eyes in despair. ‘For once in your life, Charlie, why don’t you have a go at being a bloke? It’s actually quite a bit of fun when you know how.’
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜It means stop being such a self-righteous eunuch and grow a pair, because you’re beginning to drag me down,’ replied Andy.
    â€˜I’m dragging you down?’ I repeated. ‘I thought this holiday was supposed to be for my benefit?’
    â€˜It is,’ replied Andy, ‘but as the saying goes “You can lead a horse to water . . .”’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘I’m just saying instead of moaning about being thirsty all the time why don’t you get yourself a drink?’
    â€˜And I will do,’ I replied, willing the girl-in-the-cowboy-hat to choose this moment to walk into the bar, ‘but don’t forget you’ve got a girlfriend.’
    Andy nearly choked on his beer. ‘Are you bringing Lisa into this?’
    I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. I wished Lisa hadn’t asked me to keep an eye on Andy. And I sort of wished this night was over because it was already becoming too much of a strain.
    â€˜Forget it,’ I replied, realising I hadn’t got either the energy or the inclination to argue. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. And I’m absolutely in the wrong.’
    â€˜Too right you are.’ Andy looked genuinely infuriated. ‘I’m here to have a good time so just leave Lisa out of—’ Andy stopped as two things happened simultaneously: first, the guy behind the bar turned the music down so low that for a few moments we could actually hear the conversational hubbub in the bar, and second, a huge commotion erupted near the entrance.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ asked Tom as the bar was suddenly deluged by a huge influx of revellers dressed in swimming goggles, snorkels and cheap-looking white T-shirts.
    â€˜Finally,’ said Andy, rubbing his hands with glee, ‘the entertainment.’
    â€˜What’s he talking about?’ asked Tom.
    â€˜Check out the T-shirts,’ I replied, pointing to a couple of guys standing by the bar.
    â€˜The Club Fun Big Night Out,’ said Tom reading the slogan. ‘You’re telling me that after all this time the mother of all bar crawls is still going?’
    â€˜Makes you feel sort of proud doesn’t it?’ said Andy. ‘And they say young people have no sense of tradition.’
    The Club Fun Big Night Out organisers ended up commandeering the rear half of the bar near where we were sitting. A young guy wearing a blue version of the white T-shirt appeared to be leading the proceedings and after a short while he turned on the microphone. Tapping it several times to make sure it was working he then jumped on to a raised platform to the left of us and bellowed in a broad Yorkshire accent: ‘Welcome to the Legendary Club Fun Big Night Out! Are! You! Ready! To paaaaaaaarrrrrrrrtttttttttyyyyyyyy!’
    The crowd gave a half-hearted cheer, which wasn’t good enough for the holiday rep. He put the microphone back up to his lips: ‘That’s rubbish!’ he chided. ‘You need to make more noise. Now on the count of