This week’s been a struggle. I woke up with sunburn, spagetti arms and a really sore throat Monday morning, nothing in the fridge or cupboards (not even milk for a cup of builders), and from the line of marching ants and cloud of fruit flies in my kitchen it looked like the bin needed emptying. Plus I was all out of t-shirts and the grass in the garden needed mowing from about 2 weeks ago. And I need a haircut. Why is it the longer you leave things the harder they become?

I guess it’s a good thing the surf’s dropped off this week. It was kind of good over the weekend. I was up in Hossegor. The days went a little like this: wake up, go check it, surf, eat, check it, surf, sleep, eat, check it, surf, check it, surf, eat, sleep, check it, check it, surf, sleep.

It was Bastille Day or “le quatorze juillet" on the Saturday, when the French celebrate the creation of the modern French nation, or something like that. It’s also the day summer holidays really kick off, suffice to say the beaches were packed with French hotties from all over. Aye!

Before that, PE and I went to Pamplona for the running of the bulls festival. The so-called Silent Assasin was meant to come with too but he pulled a no show on the bros after falling in love with a Norwegian bird. That shit just ain’t cool.

On the way back from Spain, I had to pull over at a petrol station for PE to throw up (see below) and two minutes later I got breathalized at the motorway toll. Passed with flying colours to the Guardia Civil’s disgruntlement (it did take me about 5 goes to get the hang of the whole blowing thing – “No, hombre, hay que soplar más fuerte. Así hombre. Ahora sopla otra vez.").

In other news, the Surf Europe office has temporarily acquired PE’s 1950s Underwood typewriter (while he moves house). If you feel like venting some spleen/going for lunch/taking a crap or have other important work-orientated matters troubling you, you simply type it out on the Underwood. It’s fair to say it’s brought a whole new dimension to office communication.