¡Vamos Dons! No skin off mY toes

Despite never dreaming about football, I woke up for the second morning running from an emotional football dream. This time, basically every Wimbledon fan on earth was gathered together in a big park - maybe Wimbledon common? - and there were beer tents and a huge screen showing some documentary about the franchise (no, not Shane Douglas) from the moral high ground perspective of the wrongs committed against us, and how we've righted them all. I was talking to my friend Paul Raymond, and we were both in tears. Then I woke up.

It was 4am. Not jetlag, I was way too excited to sleep. My iPad was going off on one as Daff, Chris, Hasty, Al, Teddy, Spencer and Bagley were all off to Wembley via numerous drinking establishments. Facebook and other places were all full of nervous hope and COME ON YOU DONS-ness. I wished I was there; quite often I wish flying was slower, like how back in the day it was a 12 stop journey multi-day journey to reach Australia and so on (i.e. the kind of thing I try and construct on my own), but yesterday morning I really wished I could just blink, be in London, and then afterwards blink and be back here in Cabo.

But I couldn't, so iPad, VPN and Sky Sports it is. Local time, the game was kicking off at 8am which meant no breakfast for me. Except, awesomely, Helen went to the restaurant and managed to arrange via stilted conversation for them to shove some eggs, toast and fruit in a couple of boxes. Breakfast in bed with the Dons on the box. Not a bad second option.

The stream died a couple of times, which was somewhat heart stopping. On the 78 minute mark Helen asked me how we were doing, and as I was trying to explain that we'd had all the chances throughout the game and if anything were edging even closer to converting one, Lyle Taylor scored and I shouted and clapped my hands and instantly burst into tears. Holy fucking shit. My football club - and I say that as a man who owns as much of it as it is possible for any single person to own - is on the verge of an utterly preposterous promotion to the third tier.

The third fucking tier of English football! Standing tall with the giants of Sheffield United, Coventry, Rochdale, Burton and Wallsall. Plus the small matter of those Franchise bastards. 14 years it's taken us, 14 years to start from scratch and get to league one. Why didn't you folk in Milton Keynes do it like that, you bunch of cunts?

Anyway, as preposterous a notion as it is, I did call it back in January.

With the tears still flowing, Helen got me a beer, but then I refused to open it. I was scared Plymouth would score, though of course they never really looked like it and we just got better and better. Over 100 minutes on the clock, the second goal is scored and that beer gets opened. Being there, I know, was an incredible day out but I can take some solace from seeing the game and listening to almost 2 hours of praise on national media about our fans, our team, our manager, and the manner of our victory. And holy fucking shit we're in League One.

I was pretty overwhelmed by the whole thing. Facebook totally blew up even more; I went outside to sit by the pool with a beer and a book about Wimbledon FC in the 80s. Helen attempted to book a massage, but there was no answer at the room where the masseurs supposedly hole up. So instead, let's go to lunch. On my insistence, we're going to the brewery, though I also suggest we take a quick look at the restaurant just up the way. The gods punish us for not heading straight to the brewery by putting evil metal spikes on the pavement which Helen clatters toe first into, and suddenly there's quite a lot of blood.

Seriously, stop bleeding already. Does it hurt? Not hugely. But that's a fair bit of blood. We have tissues, but possibly not enough. Should we go back to the hotel, via a pharmacy for some plasters or antiseptic or something? Or maybe go to the brewery to take the weight off which might stem the flow? Yes, let's go with that second one, the brewery.

This is an excellent choice. We're the only customers, it's nice and cool inside and I jump straight on the oatmeal stout, still reeling and batting off Facebook messages and SMSes and everything. DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS.

The beer tastes fantastic, not only mine but Helen's raspberry beer too. The food on offer is not overly Mexican, but is remarkably nice. Her pizza's dough was made with brewing yeast, and my chicken breast was out of this world. My second pint was Cactus Wheat beer which was one of the most refreshing and climate appropriate drinks I've ever had; her shandy somehow stayed unmixed without intervention.

Aside: I might get a lot of stick for my daft obsessions and general geekiness, but nothing I've ever done compares to Helen's decision to go Point-of-Sale spotting as she stares at an unattended till, trying to figure out if she can recognise the software in use. I mean really now.

As well as a brewery and pub, there's also a shop on site with merch and takeouts too, though we didn't stop for any of that. Instead, we decided it was actually time to visit some of the art galleries and shops, ranging from mass produced tourist tat to things being embroidered or sculpted live in front of us. There's a lot of pretty and impressive stuff, but the real good stuff is all plastered with "no photos" so the only thing I get a pic of is a rack of lucha libre masks.

Helen wants to keep shopping, but all the beer is telling me to get to a loo and besides it's way too bloody hot to be wandering around outside, so I go back to the room for a siesta. She returns after a while with some purchases plus antiseptico, but sadly no copies of the excellently named local rag.

Then, sleep. For like 4 hours or so. I have no idea how any work gets done in climates like this, especially construction work. Just being outside is brutally oppressive. I wake up first and watch WWE Smackdown on my iPad at the same time as WWE Raw on TV, the latter being dubbed - live - into Spanish, which is kinda hilarious in the way it ruins the best things about, say, Enzo Amore's promos. But the super-fast Spanish followed by the untranslated "How you doing?" is fantastic.

Come 7pm it's bearable to go outside, and time for dinner at Mi Casa. From our limited research, this is the only place we've so far found with burritos on the menu and I am fucked if I'm coming all this way to not have a damn burrito. The place looks really unassuming from the outside, and in fact the lobby looks very run down but we're led out back to this fantastic garden courtyard, and everything looks and smells wonderful. Also, the margaritas are really strong and there's yet more craft beer. Who knew Mexico was so big on craft beer?

As the sun sets, the bats come out from the trees for a bit of a show. Then the food arrives.

El churriburro. A beef burrito with some dairylea. OK, maybe the cheese was a little bit nicer than that. The beef was packed tight, despite this only being a starter.

Enchiladas con hongos. Mushroom enchiladas. These were outstanding.

Helen had chicken mole poblano. Not mole like the animal, mole is this kind of chocolate-y chilli-y spicy sauce (35 ingredients!).

There is no way on earth I should have had two courses, but like a brave little soldier I just about managed to stuff my fat face with the lot, while Helen couldn't even finish her single plate. A mariachi band come in but we're not in the mood; helpfully, the couple on the table next door have a small child who has only just nodded off so there's no problem turning the song down.

The tequila was getting Helen rowdy drunk, unlike her latest description of Mezcal - "numbing, kinda what I imagine it feels like to be given a lethal injection". So obviously we go back to the brewery. We sit at the bar in an attempt to signal that we won't be interested in any food. The barman instantly says "Cactus Wheat?", remembering me from this afternoon but obviously I order something different, the blond ale.

Helen nips to the loo and an American drinking solo at the bar asks me how the cactus wheat is. By the time Helen returns, me and my new mate Andy are deep in conversation about Dallas and wrestling and I'm impressing him with my knowledge of the Von Erich family member names and that they used to put on shows at the Sportatorium.

Conversation moves on to more normal chit chat - how's our holiday, what are we all doing here, etc. He's a faux local and tells us loads of good places to eat, which is going to spoil us for choice given we only have one full day left. Another beer arrives - the 7% Peyote Pale Ale, and it punches me right in the face. Oof.

We talk about flying a bit, because Andy flies as a hobby. Also, turns out he and his wife are visiting London en route to Italy later in the year so we spend a long while recommending they go for a wander along the South Bank, then get a boat to Greenwich and hit up that there meridian.

During another loo break of Helen's I somehow accidentally move the conversation onto the topic of AFC Wimbledon; why and how we formed, and how that very morning we'd won promotion to the third tier of English football and how I'd been in tears and how it's an amazing thing. He either really loved the story or did a good job of faking it. DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS DONS.

Andy leaves, and we do a couple of minutes later. As usual, the night ends with a trip to Oxxo to buy 6 cans of Dos Equis and a couple of bottles of Diet Coke. I'm still drinking at 5am UK time, only a few hours after some friends back home stopped. Apparently I now support a league one club. Fucking hell, eh?

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