It all started, as it always does, with a roll of the dice. 1-3, I do something sensible—maybe a weekend in the Lake District, a quiet pint by a log fire, some fresh air. But 4-6? That meant only one thing: Tenerife in April. The Brits are out in force, the bars are heaving, and the sun is turning pasty skin into lobster red.
The dice landed on a six. Tenerife, you magnificent mess, here I come.
Day 1: Arrival & The First Roll
Stepping off the plane, the heat smacks me in the face like an angry bartender demanding last orders. Flip-flops and football shirts everywhere—half of the UK has migrated here for the Easter holidays, and I’m about to join the carnage.
First decision—do I check into my sensible Airbnb or find the rowdiest all-inclusive resort I can afford? The dice decide: five. That means a resort with unlimited booze, bad decisions, and the strong likelihood of seeing a grown man vomit into a pool.
Within an hour, I’m wristbanded-up, clutching a plastic pint of sangria, and eyeing up the hotel’s foam party schedule.
Day 2: Brits Abroad & Beer Before Noon
Tenerife in April is a lawless jungle of sunburn, karaoke, and regret. But first, breakfast. The dice demand I embrace my surroundings, so it’s a full English in a bar run by a bloke called Big Kev, washed down with a pint of San Miguel.
I scan the beach and roll again:
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1-3 = Lazy day, sun lounger, cocktails, and pretending I’m cultured.
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4-6 = Water sports. High-speed, adrenaline-fuelled potential for disaster.
The dice roll? Six. Before I know it, I’m being strapped into a parasail, dragged behind a speedboat while waving at bewildered pensioners on Playa de las Américas. The view is incredible. My dignity is not.
Day 3-4: Teide or Tits-Up?
Time to see if Tenerife has anything other than pints and pissed-up Brits. The dice whisper:
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1-3 = A respectable visit to Mount Teide, Spain’s highest peak.
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4-6 = A day-drinking session in Veronicas Strip that will test my liver’s limits.
It’s a six. Oblivion it is.
Veronicas Strip is a neon blur of cheap shots, bad tattoos, and blokes trying to impress women by failing at beer pong. I find myself in a bar called Linekers, surrounded by lads in bucket hats chanting football songs. A bloke from Manchester tells me he’s been here for two weeks and “doesn’t remember a thing.”
I order a tower of cocktails and let the dice decide whether I enter the wet T-shirt contest that’s kicking off in the corner. They say yes. I don’t win, but I do gain a new appreciation for how cold tequila can be when dumped over your head.
Day 5-6: Quad Bikes & A Questionable Tattoo
Hangover raging, I roll the dice for redemption:
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1-3 = A calming boat trip to see dolphins.
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4-6 = Quad biking through the volcanic landscapes of Teide National Park.
A four. I strap on a helmet, rev the throttle, and tear off into the wilderness. Tenerife’s inland terrain is unreal—Mars-like craters, winding mountain roads, and absolutely no sign of a full English breakfast.
Back in town, the dice land on a questionable decision: a tattoo.
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1-3 = Something classy, like a discreet palm tree.
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4-6 = Something ridiculous, chosen by the tattoo artist.
It’s a six. I now have a tiny pint glass inked onto my ankle, forever commemorating my commitment to holiday mayhem.
Day 7: The Grand Finale
Last day. One final roll of the dice:
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1-3 = A respectable seafood dinner and sunset view.
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4-6 = One last night of Tenerife-sized anarchy.
The dice demand chaos. Pints. Shots. A lost wallet. A new best mate called Gaz. The night ends in a club where a DJ in an England shirt plays a remix of Oasis, and someone throws up in a sombrero.
Reflections from the Strip
Tenerife delivered exactly what the dice wanted—sun, sin, and a lifetime supply of stories I can only half remember. From beer-fueled breakfasts to quad biking across Mars, from parasailing over pensioners to ending up in a wet T-shirt contest I never should have entered—this trip was utterly, gloriously ridiculous.
The dice never lie. And I have a feeling they’re about to send me somewhere even wilder.
Until next time.
— The Diceman