NEWSNIGHT NIGHT

On Newsnight the other evening someone remarked that the Spanish were very proud people and I couldn't help think there were many other adjectives they could have used. Very proud doesn't spring to mind when my neighbour Anselmo decides to switch the tele on at a quarter to one in the morning and proud isn't the word I feel could describe the woman he listens to who has a  programme which consists of her talking for an hour without pausing for breath. I am amazed at her stamina and wonder how we could harness her energy and save the planet. Maybe she goes to the academy here called You Talk where H threatened to scrawl 'a load of shite' underneath. He also wants to go back to the bus stop to enliven the advert for Bankia that says 'BANKIA, EL OTRO BANCO', and add ..IN THE SHIT.  Anyway, at a quarter to two the presentadora with the voice like a clanger on speed stops, the audience claps and Anselmo switches the TV off and goes to sleep and I lie awake thinking of  what noise I could make to wake him up just so I could look at him and say 'y que?'.

Then the screaming starts. Newsnight ought to come to my street around five thirty in the morning when the Kalimotxo, red wine and Coca-Cola, kicks in. They can watch girls falling in the road then getting up, grabbing each others' tits, falling down again, getting up, falling over, getting up, holding each others' ponytails while they vomit in my doorway,  then get about five of their pals to bundle on top of them creating a human pile, scream again like they are being murdered, start chanting a football song grab each others' tits again and run off into the night to the posher side of town.

I often decide its best to join in and find myself half way down a conga line which inevitably breaks up in the middle and I am left as head conga leading them around the bar and gently guided by the owner to the door which he slams, locks and mutters something about shitting on God just as the last of the line exits. Outside there is a momentary sobering up but soon everyone points out the bar next door hasn't taken its chairs or parasols inside so we continue here much to the chagrin of the waiters who just want to go home. They let us have one drink but start taking the furniture into the bar making it quite clear they will tip us off our chairs if need be. Everyone seems to have forgotten the bail-out, the desperation in Greece and I catch sight of a poster of Angela Merkel complete with Hitler tash and an armband with a Euro sign where a swastika might be. Alongside the poster it says something about a (bit late in the day?) lecture on economics supported by every left leaning political party of which there are many, but no sign of UKIP or I TOLD YOU SO.