A few people asked me why we picked Magaluf as a venue for a boys weekend, the fact is that it picked itself. It was in Magaluf that 25-years ago me and 12 of my closest mates had our first ever foreign holiday. Most of us are still in touch and we were all at secondary school together albeit spread over three different years. In fact one of the lads I went to nursery school with (42 years ago) and he still harangues me about never letting him have a go on the plastic tricycle!
We travelled in style. Six of us in my mate´s London cab to Stansted (where we met the rest of our group), Easy Jet to Palma for around 100 quid, and then our own mini-bus to the 3 star hotel that we´d booked bang in the middle of it all and next door to the monstrous BCM nightclub, which unsurprisingly smelt like a cocktail of puke, Red Bull and bleach. Despite the fact the Island’s largest nightclub was next door, our hotel was pretty quiet save for the obligatory banging on doors in the middle of the night and loud British voices.
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