A man in a dress is a curious phenomenon. A man in a dress with the word 'KNOB' written across his forehead in shocking pink lipstick is very curious indeed. The same man hurdling one's table in the late afternoon usually warrants an admission fee and an accompanying troupe of dancing girls. This weekend I received all this and more completemente gratis.

The scene was Barceloneta, the time Saturday afternoon por la tarde. I was reclining like some dot com billionaire on a sort of sofa, chair, bed thing, a cool drink in hand and more than pleasant company at my side. The silky sounds of Café Del Mar or something similar floated effortlessly over the air like a long jumper mid flight. "This is a damned comfy sofa, chair bed thing," I said to my agreeable compañera. "I feel just like a dot com billionaire." All around us were people in various states of horizontal, drinks resting on their sternums, occasionally affecting a small sit up to allow for a casual gulp. The serenity could have been cut with a Ginzu ten thousand.

The afternoon would probably have passed happily in this vein with much slurping, yawning and reclining to follow had our restful stupor not been molested moments later by a six footer in a floral frock leaping over the table like a heptathlete going for maximum points. Moments later, the entire audience, by this stage once again in abdominal flex positions, were treated to what is refered to in intellectual circles as a moon. For under his dazzling dress lay nothing but a very poor tan.

Hot in pursuit, a five-footer in full matredee garb. Hair as black as night, swept to one side with a severe part and Brylcreemed to perfection, his bow tie wildly askew, arms waving, pointing and shouting something probably not dissimilar to "stop that tall man in the floral dress" and possibly "what the hell is he wearing a dress for, men don't wear dresses!" Obviously no great steeple chaser, the matredee opted out of leaping over our table and rather settled with trotting around it instead.

By this stage, many of our number reclined from their flexes momentarily as the abdominals were paying a heavy price for this parade. And so they might have for this was by no means the final act. Behind our bow tied friend came two large representatives of the Guardia Civil, both of whom declined a table top hop, though would certainly have been capable of such a manoeuvre if called upon. These two rushed more than raced, clearly tired of arresting cross-dressing Englishmen.

Now, running away from a five foot waiter with a crooked bow tie and a side part makes for excellent comedy and a cracker of a postcard. Running away from the police tends make for guilt by implication and a night or two in the slammer. Besides such motivation, our new found frocked friend had expelled the entirety of his small energy vaulting our table and briefly flashing his unclothed backside, the second act of which is likely to have been the catalyst for his being chased in the first place.

In times of strife one can generally rely upon their friends to lend a helping hand. A light in times of darkness. Vinegar to a jellyfish sting. But alas, this could not be said for our poor frocked fool. For as he stood there apprehended and wobbling, barely able to stand, presumably the wrong side of nine pints, his dress rustling in the light breeze and a look upon his face which might have said "I'm tremendously sorry for what I have done" but probably more likely saying "I really need to pee and have a lie down," his friends were at the bar adjacent, ordering further shots and shouting such eloquences as "get it down ya son," and the perennial "whoaaaaaaaaa". However just when I thought that there was no loyalty left in the world, one of their number approached the policemen who had positioned themselves around the apprehended in more of a catching than arresting position and asked in a booming English voice if his friend "could have a fag."

Probably guided more out of a fear that the dress might go up in smoke than strict protocol, this request was vehemently denied. A separate friend briefly and selflessly detached himself from the binge to hand over the defendant's mobile and wallet. Moments later, the two officers directed the now stumbling stag, whose friends had started applauding and cheering loudly, in the direction of their waiting patrol car, followed by the now smug looking matredee, bow tie straightened, and arms no longer flailing. At this we took a brief moment to reflect upon the fate of such a looker in a Barcelona clink - though we did not ponder for too long as our abdominals, ripped from over exertion, simply wouldn't allow it. We and those around us managed one final gulp before reclining happily once again to the horizontal position.