Like the Roman, I see rivers of beer...

...and vomit, thanks to Dr. Robbles. The little man has already made his mark on our hotel's linen. Returning home after an incredibly long and involved session at our favourite Roman haunts, he promptly peppered his bed, the floor and even the walls of his room. Poor old James, who is billeted with the good Doctor, was fast asleep at the time, but awoke to scenes of regurgitated mayhem.

It's all about Robbles, really. As usual he's been the centre of attention. Last night when he first arrived in the Football Pub, barman Luca declared that "it's Robbles - the world has ended", before starting a group chant of his name. Later on, in Brasserie 4:20, he was introduced to his Italian counterpart, Robbo. The two similarly-monikered chaps (pictured together) may be separated by nationality, but they share a common ethos, and before long were swigging from the same hipflask of rum.

We're now lingering in the hotel, killing time until we can reasonably get back on the smash n' grab. Robbles is full as a gun, having ordered twice as much food as everyone else at lunch, before gorging himself on ice cream. Ammunition for later, perhaps? Watch out, James.

Robbles is no stranger to emetic incidents: on a recent trip to Japan he was sick in his own suitcase on the first night of a two week holiday.