Imagine, me, the thirteenth duke of hammersmith, in the reception of the hotel with all those pool boys. With my reputation.
Having got suitably sedated for the flight home, on which Ramon had assured me would arrive in Hingerland that evening, the hotel staff looked at us with jaw-dropping disbelief. For this heroic duo, having packed their bags, and exploded the last bottle with a firework in their holiday palace, it seemed strange to find that the flight was to be on the following day. Ramon is a muppet.