A swivel-eyed chap sporting a rictus grin propped himself up against the nightclub bar and began to stammer.
"I... I... I'm too old for this," he managed to whisper to nobody in particular before slumping defeated to the floor semi conscious, much to the unbridled glee of his chums.
For reasons which baffle me to this day, about twenty five years ago, I found myself taking a two-week holiday in Magaluf, Mallorca, a town allegedly twinned with Gommorah. This resort, even then, was renowned as a den of iniquity but, hey, it was cheap and I was skint. What could possibly go wrong?
Oh my word - it was mayhem from start to finish. Let's just say, the concept of a quiet pint wasn't high on the agenda for any one present. 'Public relations reps' (girls in miniskirts) would drag you into dingy rooms where a slightly too old bloke in a baseball cap would be playing records you'd forgotten were so terrible. A constant blur of cheap shots, strobe lighting and semi - and not always semi - naked debauchery is all I can recall passing before my incredulous eyes except for one evening when I escaped alone to the capital Palma and enjoyed a civilized tapa or two in the old town.
The locals looked at me with a mixture of fear, suspicion and pity and I can't say I blame them. British tourists in their thousands had been leaving their calling card on the island every year for decades and, suffice to say, it rarely involved a small glass of Rioja and a Manchego cheese and jamón serrano tapa.
No, let's face it we've spent years behaving shamefully over there and while the local authorities must share some of the blame for turning a blind eye in return for sales of lager equivalent to the world GDP, the cavorting UK masses remain the prime culprits, I'm afraid to say.
In the last few days - better late than never - the local powers that be have decided that enough is enough and have introduced a series of small measures, such as reducing the hours alcohol can be sold in shops and prohibiting free or cut price drinks in bars thus eliminating all oxymoronic happy hours in one fell swoop. This can only be a good thing.
Whatever the loss in terms of bawdily named cocktail sales, surely the reduced need for emergency and medical services will go a long way towards compensating.
You never know, there might also be a spike in Rioja wine and Manchego cheese consumption.