FABRA LA CABRA

Here's one I did earlier..............

On his travels through the Netherlands over fifty years ago my father remembers seeing hundreds of people on bicycles spilling out of the Phillips factory in Eindhoven. If you go there today I am sure it is no different with statuesque women bearing down on you screaming 'get out of the way' in English. Today in Spain you rarely see anyone on a bike if you don't include the Quebrantahuesos cycle race through the mountains and the kid that told me to 'largate!!' when I wandered into one of the many cycle lanes here. Said lanes were put in place a couple of years ago and can be seen mainly on the outskirts of town coming to a stop as you get closer to the centre. They are also in areas were you will never see a car and can cycle pretty much where you please. The newish motorway has a similarity to the bike lanes too. It is a wonderful motorway cutting down on your journey time and with lots of space for everyone to take over at speed and then it suddenly stops and you are forced onto the old road where most of the accidents happen. As a passenger I looked back and saw the end of the motorway and it was quite remarkable how it's just hanging there, unfinished, waiting for more money to be completed or perhaps planning permission. People tell me it's because after Llerida the land is owned by an Aragonese who is too stubborn to sell but who knows.

On my travels through Nigeria around twenty years ago I remember looking for a phone and coming across some new British Telecom phone booths that were empty inside. I asked the locals what was going on with the phones and they all laughed and said it was probably another scam by the then government to fleece the corporation of money and I didn't doubt them. Later I was told the electricity had been switched off by the power company NEPA ( Never Expect power At All/Again/Always) who had then gone around asking folk for money to put it back on again. The Spanish often make the Nigerians look like amateurs when it comes to fraud and scams, with airports up and down the country including Huesca, with no planes and no one coming or going but people still working in them. The ongoing domestic drama continues with a certain woman called Fabra who told the unemployed and/or the Socialists to go and fuck themselves. When you look at her father, Mr Fabra you get the idea who you are dealing with. 'Impresentables'  was how one of the locals here called them both. Fabra, is the type who says things like 'if everyone thinks I am a warlord then so be it, I don't care what anyone thinks'. You can't take these people anywhere, they will always show you up. The dad has a statue of himself at the gateway to one of the closed airports in Castellon. A statue of a plane stuck on its head. Gaddafi would be pleased.

I have found myself at marches lately but I do wonder why I am there considering I can't vote for any of the politicos who have disgraced or are disgracing themselves. It leaves me feeling like an innocent bystander caught up in the melee. It's lamentable that I feel a lot of my kvetching over the years was dismissed due to various reasons the main one my not being from around here.

So with a slow hand clap here is an advert that is enough to drive one to drink. If we all drink alcohol free beer, take our grub home in a doggie bag and cycle everywhere because 'hey! Gasol is doing it!' we might live in a better world.

CHINESE HAND JOBS

'What possessed you to write the above words?' you might ponder if you had found them on my desk. Well I asked myself the same question and then remembered why you must always take a pen with you on leaving the house. Paper can be found anywhere, usually napkins, beer mats or backs of hands but a pen is essential if only to avoid annoying other folk at four in the morning who really don't want to know why you need to write down that hysterical or important thing your beloved has just said. You might end up with Blue Sky Peach scrawled up your arm and not know what it means ( I'm told it's a track on an Allman Brothers record) but it will at least be a souvenir of a good evening. If you do find yourself bereft of a pen you can do what I always do and remember things by giving them one word like a tag that will hopefully remind you of the nonsense of the previous night the next day. However, you must write these words down as soon as you get in otherwise you probably won't recall even those words especially when alcohol has been involved. So it was when I woke up this morning to find the above words carved into the first piece of paper I had found.

Fine, you're able to remember what it was you were worried you'd forget but realise you have complicated it all by writing under each word other words that spell out in this case, 'selling shit behind Steve's back'. How does this tie up? Then it all eerily comes back that you told H that unlike most people here you had no fear of the Chinese and their economy and was reminded of this every time  you threw anything broken and with the words Made in China written on it into the bin you also foolishly bought from them. The one  that had the bottom fall out of it which now stands as just a frame of a bin with a plastic bag inside. A kind of plastic bag accessory or perhaps a metaphor for the bottomless pit of Chinese shit the world seems to be subjected to. I added that I wasn't enamored by their selling techniques either which if my local Chinese shop owner is anything to go by involves snorting phlegm down the back of his throat while he tells you he has everything except the plastic sun visor you want for your children's school play. I mentioned to H the chairman of Mercadona Juan Roig felt the Chinese have a work ethic that the Spanish don't have, one that involves effort. This riled and offended many hard working Spaniards and people looking for work. Roig thinks the Spanish should imitate the Chinese and that the Spanish no longer pick oranges, with many having the same attitude to graft as those back in the UK who don't want to work alongside Poles picking cabbages but complain all the foreigners are taking the jobs. My conclusion is the Chinese are better and quicker at turning out shittier shit shite than the Spanish but until they, the Chinese that is, can get a million people to turn up at one of their fiestas ( San Fermin, Pamplona, 2012) they won't have that edge and attraction the Spanish have. Spain may have to come up with other concepts and adapt but if they sell anything it is by showing the rest of the world how to enjoy life.

And Jobs? This was Henderson telling me he would love an I-Pad but worries that he might end up divorced, giving up his job and food ( 'just give me water') while he spends the rest of his life messing around on the thing. He said he imagined Steve Jobs designing it and when he had run out of ideas he decided to facilitate other people's ideas in the form of apps keeping all of us busy and then every six months launch the next generation with a zillion more things we never asked for or needed, in effect saying, 'here you go, you got that one, well here's another one!', 'spend the rest of your life sorting that one out!'

What about the hands you wonder? H often asks me at what point do grown men, particularly Spanish men start putting their hands behind their backs when standing. He has hit that low point and I must admit I  found myself doing it too at a recent presentation of awards we both had to attend. He said he tried to put his hands in his pockets but this being Spain and hot he felt uncomfortable and clammy around the old feelers. He tried to fold his arms, no good, and then in front, not good at all he reckons, especially for a man as the hands reach cock and ball level. The worst for him was when he let them hang at his sides ( not his cock and balls I might add) and so it was that his hands found themselves behind his back. Solucionado! Can't see them, out of the way, they've gone now! Ole! Problem solved! Let's move on....

HIGH WHY FIVE O

( Note to self. Never order from a menu with photos. Avoid drinks with stupid names and that have the potential to arrive carrying an umbrella. Stick to alcohol ).

Me: Excuse me, this isn't the drink I ordered.

Waiter: Yes it is.

Me: No it isn't, I ordered the Hawaii.

Waiter: That is the Hawaii.

Me: No it isn't.

Waiter: Yes it is.

Me: No it isn't.

Waiter: Yes it is

Me: OK, of course, you are right.

Henderson: What did you order?

Me: The Hawaii.

Henderson: Is that the orange one?

Me: Yes.

Henderson: But yours is Red.

Me: I know.

Henderson: Waiter, she ordered the orange drink, it's called an Hawaii.

Waiter: Yes, that's what she has got.

Henderson: But the one she has is red, smells of strawberries and look, here on the menu you can see there is a big difference between the red drink, the Exotico and the orange one, the Hawaii.

Waiter: Yes but we added some red syrup .

Henderson: So it's the other one, here, in the picture, the red one, the strawberry one, the one with red syrup?

Waiter: No. She has the Hawaii, the orange one, listen,do you want me to change it for you?

Me: I'm tempted, just to see if I get what I ordered, but no, leave it. I shall enjoy the Erotica.

Waiter: Exotico.

Me: Exactly.

Waiter leaves stage left.

Henderson: Does it taste of orange?

Me: No, it tastes of strawberries and red syrup.

Henderson: What's that they're playing on the radio?

Me: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, the Sinatra version.

BOBBY DAZZLER

Overheard in the classroom....

Teacher: ( Explains in Spanish and in English) OK kids, we are going to do a short dictation. All I require is for you to listen and write what I say but don't worry if you don't understand I don't mind repeating the words a hundred times, just please be quiet, raise your hand. Is that understood?

Kids mumble in general agreement and get ready.

Teacher ( Clears throat): Yesterday, Bobby went to Madrid.

Child A: Bobby que?

Teacher: Please, I told you I will repeat if necessary.

Child A: Vale, vale..Sigue.. ( OK, OK..carry on).

Teacher: Yesterday, Bobby went to Madrid.

Child B: Bobby went donde (where)?

Teacher (raises hand in silence): Yesterday..Bobby...went...to Madrid.

Child C: No entiendo nada.

Child A: 'Bobby went to Madrid'.

Child B: Estoy perdido. Now I'm lost.

Child C: Calla!! ( Shut up!).

Child A: He said.....

Teacher: Please be quiet, I asked you all to please be quiet and if you don't understand.....

Child A: You see, he told us to be quiet.

Child B: Where did Bobby go?

Child A and B start arguing.

Teacher: Will you please...

Child A to the teacher: I'm trying to help you out here!

Teacher: Right that does it, everyone please be quiet, I will start again.Bobby...went to.....

Child A: You forget to say yesterday.

Teacher through gritted teeth: Yesterday...

Child C: Espera, espera...Wait a minute.....

Teacher sighs.

Child C: OK you can go on.

Teacher: Yesterday, Bobby, went to Madrid.

Child C: Que significa yesterday?

Child A: I'm bored. 

FREARS AND LOATHING

I bet Stephen Frears didn't know where he was when he landed in Huesca for the film festival. My reliable sources tell me that he was asked if he had heard of this lovely beautiful town and its wonderful people who are unlike any other and he had to admit like most folk that he hadn't. He was here to receive the Luis Bunuel award and I regret not being able to televise the receiving of said award as there was a man behind Frears repeating every thing he said. This is also called translating but often sounds like you are parroting what someone says especially if it is for the benefit of the audience. So when Mr Frears started his thank you speech with the inevitable 'thank you' the little man behind him in the shadows said 'muchas gracias' and Frears being British replied 'muchas gracias'. It went on like that for about five minutes with poor Frears trying to tell an amusing anecdote involving Bunuel and having to pause to let the the little guy suffering from echolalia have his say. The festival managed to annoy further by showing clips of Frears' films all dubbed in Spanish which is so unnecessary and patronising to both the director and the audience. Frears was very gracious and as he left the stage he was ushered back on to stand in line with the young film makers who had received awards for their short films. There was a very touching funny moment when he looked at his award and then looked at the others and did a silent comic routine of 'how come theirs are bigger than mine?'. 

Later I saw him walk by in the wee small hours and was tempted to say something or invite him for a drink but felt best to leave the man alone and so there went an opportunity to meet a man I admire but I've never really been someone who is star struck and don't see the point of badgering someone just because you know them from the stage or screen and besides, I have such an inflated self importance that  I feel they should be approaching me. 

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. 

GUMMI WORLD

When I have too much time on my hands I often end up shopping in the Dia Supermercado. It fascinates me how this business continues. There is normally one member of staff stacking shelves and from time to time a customer comes in, picks up a few things and the assistant runs back to the till. I have never known it to be any other way. While I was in there today I was approached by a tiny old woman who stopped and wavered beneath the shelves of chocolate muttering something so I asked her if she wanted me to reach up and get her the one she needed. She was delighted and her face lit up when I asked her if it was the metre long bar of almond chocolate she required. When I gave it to her she muttered 'que pena', 'what a shame/pity' and walked off. I have no idea what she was on about and can only conclude it was something that had happened to her years ago. I wondered how you would say 'what's up old crone/wise woman?' in Spanish and guessed it would be something like 'Que pasa, bruja?'  which is not quite the same thing. Bruja means witch and is a catch-all term to describe a woman who doesn't stand for any nonsense especially from children and men.  There are lots of old crones wandering around town trying to frighten people with their mutterings and proximity to death. If you listen to them they are often saying quite profound things and have a whiff of the occult about them. Later the above woman was hovering around the sweet section stuffing her carrier bag with chuches, sweeties. I see lots of people in supermarkets wandering around with old plastic bags stuffing them with goods. At first it looks like they are robbing the place but they always end up at the till emptying the bag of its contents and paying. Yet if you go in a supermarket with bags from other shops you often need to put them in a locker at the front of the shop. No one is allowed to waltz around with a rucksack on their back but a plastic bag is de rigeur. Some bigger shops make you seal your handbag in plastic. Anyway, the old ruler of the underworld crept up behind me muttering 'mamma mia' which I have never heard any one say here and always thought it was an Italian exclamation, and proceeded to empty her plastic bag spilling tons of bags of sweets, a huge bar of chocolate and a bottle of red wine. We both looked at my shopping. Two bottles of red wine and a bar of Lindt chocolate and although as far as I know we weren't related the words 'chip off the old block' ran through my mind.