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Thursday, 12 November 2009


Piti the poodle has been silenced. We think Mercedes, his owner has drugged him ( no RSPCA here folks). I'm trying to avoid all of them as last night I came home to find the Borracho de Mierda, AKA ' The Effing Bleeder' trying to get into his flat which involved me trying to get into my flat in a style that wouldn't go amiss in downtown Kabul. While trying to get the key into the door he kept muttering 'cabrona' under his breath because he realised his wife was in but wouldn't open the door for him.The lights in the hallway kept going off so I switched them on but he wasn't expecting this and he found himself facing the wrong way in his doorway wearing a stupified look wondering where the hell his house had gone. When he saw me he said 'vaya!' like they do in the advert for La Tienda en Casa and then fell over. I wish I didn't have this effect on men.

My interest in Big Fat Gitano hasn't stopped and I normally find him sandwiched in a doorway but today he managed to sandwich a sofa instead. With the rest of the clan there was another strange looking piece of furniture which they parked in the road and before long a traffic jam built up with lots of apoplectic Spaniards too scared to start having a go.

Talking of salvaged furniture, my friend's son Jorge is reading Adrian Mole and there are characters in this book who go to the dump or skip to get 'new' furniture and others, namely Adrian's mum and dad who have children with other partners. I asked Jorge if he knew anyone at school who was going through the same shit as Adrian and he told me he had never heard of anything so mental as having children with someone other than your wife or husband and as for furniture everyone bought theirs in shops. Such a sheltered life.

I tried to get the kids to do a minute silence and of course it was impossible and when I told them millions of people in Britain managed to do it yesterday they looked on in awe. They seem to pride themselves that they talk for the sake of it and were very impressed with my story but then they were equally impressed when I told them about Guido Fawkes and his attempts to blow up Parliament. On Bonfire Night Diane Abbott MP confessed that if Peter Mandelson became Prime Minister she would blow up the place. Probably as bad as my mum threatening a while back never to vote Labour again if 'that man (Gordon Brown) becomes Prime Minister'. Well he is and looks like she is left with little choice and I have become what I thought I would never admit to being, no not a Tory, but a floating voter. The words 'now you're *ucked ' mean everything and nothing to me anymore as I live here now and can't vote in this country. So I shall float on down the river on a Sunday afternoon.

Tuesday, 10 November 2009


For all those friends who still think the Spanish are sophisticated drinkers who drink wine with meals and never on an empty stomach I am pleased to tell them again but this time with proof that our Latin cousins have beaten The Brits at their own game and now drink a great quantity and as fast as possible in a style that is referred to as 'Anglo Saxon'. Proyecto Hombre sees 1,700 people every day turning up at their centre in Madrid in an attempt to cure them of more than a hangover. It seems The Spanish also consume more drugs than us nowadays but can you blame them when you see the state of their TV?

Talking of drugs, Piti is back and back on the drugs after Mercedes received a lambasting from Henderson on his mental state not getting any better on account of her dog crying and howling for hours. I met her in the street and she had a go at me for said lambasting and then, poor woman, she got one from me. Well she shouldn't have picked a fight with someone from 'outside' renowned for their stubborness. I will beat them at their own game. She is lucky there is no RSPCA that I know of leaving the poor creature for hours on end. The situation will hopefully be resolved or an 'idea cojonante' might be needed.

It's not as if nothing happens here. Why I even went to see Paul Preston in concert a few weeks back. The learned sage from the LSE who is an expert on all things Franco etc. I overheard people say he spoke with a Catalan accent but I distinctly heard a Manchester or maybe it was Yorkshire twang. He didn't teach me anything and I felt a bit miffed that the locals had laid their coats and duvets on every available surface to stop others from sitting down. I trawled the the stalls for a pew and met with that typical Aragonese intransigence and ended up siding with a bloke who said 'only in Spain' or words to that effect. We ended up sitting outside the auditorium where a big screen had been placed and staff began putting out chairs and the same thing happened. More coats and more snorts of disgust. One woman put a piece of paper down and told everyone that the chair was 'occupied' till someone else tore it up. I was hoping a fight would break out but I had to wait till Mr Preston had gone down in my estimation for the usual repressed for sixty year's outburst from an elderly man who had obviously suffered at the hands of someone. My sympathies have now been put on hold as the longer I am here the less I feel obliged to care anymore. I will leave that to the likes of Paul Preston who seemed to not understand anything about the Aragonese spirit. He may be an expert on Franco but he knows nothing about the locals here.

Thursday, 5 November 2009


I like to think I have got a life and I'm too busy living it to write about it but today I have nothing better to do so here goes....

'OK Felipe, describe your bedroom...'

"I've got the usual, two bedrooms, a wardrobe, a lamp' , and on it goes till he told me he has a poof in his room.

'A poof?'

'Si, a poof'.

'Right, I feel I have to intervene, don't say poof'.

'Why not?'

'Just don't'

'Yes, but why'

'OK but promise me you won't tell your friends'.

'I promise'

'Right, so that means you will go and tell them tomorrow'


'OK, I think you mean a pouffe but you need to know a poof means a 'Maricon'. Are you happy now?'

Stage left Felipe collapses in a fit of laughter.

The Spanish are not the most politically correct bunch so I felt this was OK to tell a fifteen year old whose only interest in English is when stuff like this happens. Why they even have a word for a 'poofy handbag'. A 'Mariconada' and you are one if you don't drink beer for breakfast.

Talking of Poofs and Maricones, I felt the need to tidy up for the first time since leaving the hospital five years ago and was found to remark 'God, it's not as if the Queen is coming ' only to realise that well, she was and he did and has now gone with his 'Mariconada' but left his umbrella behind. Yes it's that time of year when Mr Crump calls and what fun we had. Including a trip to Canfranc on that poofy train The 'Canfranero'. Can't remember the last time the woods have received an old fruit having a vada resplendent in winkle pickers and a handbag.