¡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.
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.
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?
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!).