Worst Weekend EVER

Generally the worst thing you expect to have happen to you on a hockey tour is that you might have too many beers the night before the coach trip home and feel quite fragile for a few hours. Oh no, not me.
I actually did get at least 3 beers down me before the headache kicked in. Bit early for a hangover, I thought. Then I got dizzy. Very dizzy. All of a sudden I couldn't stand lights, or noise. I started to sweat. Not nice to picture, I know, so at least picturing the raging fever I got may be less disturbing. Enough, you think? Not a chance. I got an instant blocked nose, and sore throat. When my mouth was open long enough to take respite from breathing, I coughed. I lost a lot of my bottom lip from unwillingly biting it in fits of nausea. I had muscle pain. Everywhere. My abdomen hurt, occasionally searingly in localised areas.
When I finally got to the hostel bed (nylon sheets, top bunk without a ladder, room next to the front door) I curled up in a ball and prayed for sleep. Hell no, life isn't that easy. A sodding rugby tour decided to sing in chorus right outside my door until 5am, about the same time that my teammates came back in themselves.
In the morning, no better. I asked for a few bottles of water, but when they were gone I took about an hour (seriously) to get some jeans on and stumble out to the reception and ask for change to get some more. I looked like hell, and by the receptionist's comments, which I don't entirely remember but contained some references to smoking, I also looked very stoned. Unfortunately not.
I returned to my sweat-pit with a half litre of Evian and a packet of M&Ms. I later realised that I'd lost about 3 or 4 pounds.
Finally, on the third day, I woke up and felt confident enough on my feet to have a wander around the immediate vicinity of the hostel. I got about 50 metres before I got the last and not the most attractive symptom. Back to the room, and to the loo. Just to further the illustrative point, my piss looked like I'd been addicted to radioactive Tango since the 60's.
So in my honest medical opinion, what was this life-threatening affliction? Meningitis? No, the absence of a textbook rash or neck stiffness, plus the fact that I'm still alive don't fit the bill. What about appendicitis? Again, much better symptoms, but just like the previous guess, I'm still alive. I'll tell you quietly what I really think it was. An horrendous case of the bloody flu. How manly.
At last, on Saturday evening, me and my friend wandered down to the red light district (surprisingly well kept, full of tourists, actually very acceptable). We were having a nice chat about something or other when in broad daylight, on a street by the river, surrounded by at least 10 people within earshot, we were mugged at knifepoint. I couldn't fucking believe it. I had next to nothing on me, and still felt like shit, and some arrogant black asshole starts jogging up behind me, muttering rubbish and showing me the blade of his knife under his hoody. Looking back on it, if I'd have been feeling totally well, and in a bad mood, I might well have slung him a quick right hook and legged it. But it's easy to say that now, and for the pittance I had on me, he can have it just for being such a total wanker. I hope he uses my money to buy a prostitute with rampant AIDS. Quote me.
We reported it at the local police station, and the officer was excessively nice, despite the fact that everyone in the room knew that the chances of them "solving the case" were next to none.
At last, I got on the coach to go home and was blissfully happy in the knowledge of facing a mere 13 hours between the worst weekend ever, and my quiet, private, coked-up-prick-free bedroom in Southampton.