Y TU? PART TWO

In Spain where you see political corruption, selfishness, all types of fraud plus scheming acts of palm greasing on a daily basis you get so unperturbed and conditioned that it often comes as a shock when you come up against someone here who decides he wants to be a jobsworth,  If you've lived here long enough you find yourself telling him 'come on chum, play the game, look at all the other people triple parked'. You feel there is something unsportsmanlike in his act of doing the right thing. It takes a while to get to this stage but get there in the end you will or you just do as my neighbour said and 'bugger off to Germany'. Sometimes these small displays of seriousness and professionalism present themselves in a minor way like the last person on the last bus who decides he or she needs to sit on the seat allocated to him or her and makes a very tired student get up and move or the bank clerk who decides he is going to do his job correctly unlike his flexible colleagues who have never minded telling you how much is in the phone bill account you have just put money into even though it is in your husband's name as they know you would do the same for them one day. Getting through the day often requires some sort of enchufe, blarney or back scratching and so it comes as quite a shock when someone decides they don't want to play ball and they want to do things correctly for a change. It's a similar sensation to crashing into what you thought was an open patio door. So I can't imagine what it is like for the ruling classes here now that they are hopefully going to be taken to task or perhaps shot by someone who wants to do the job properly, namely a pissed off public with nothing to lose. One thing is parking your car on the skew whiff in front of someone's garage when they want to leave, which usually gets solved by them either leaning on the horn for ten minutes or driving their car into yours as hard as they can to send it on its way, but all this is small scale mercenary behaviour compared to the politicians, judges, big shots and petty tyrants who've lorded it for too long.

Queue jumping is another bad habit I have mastered in my efforts to integrate and since the alternative is being reduced to jelly far better for my health in the long run. Parking on zebras, running people over on the zebras and blaming it on the sun or lambasting them for not wearing a crash helmet while crossing the road I have yet to succumb to, but you can just imagine them, the politicos that is, all scrambling around with the bureaucracy flying everywhere crying 'why did we even think of putting this on paper?', forgetting that is what keeps the country in employment and an obsession that dates back centuries. Well I guess they can all go and fuck themselves, the politicians that is. God knows what is going to happen, nobody seems to be able to say. Yesterday, over coffee at a neighbour's house I said that the corruption was nothing new here and reminded her of Jesus Gil y Gil and she astounded me when she said in so many words that 'yes, but he also helped people, he was bad in one way but he also did lots of good things so the people liked him'. You could say to me, 'but this person must be stupid' but she isn't, far from it, surreal maybe but not an idiot. Where does this leave those of us who took years to integrate and join in the law breaking albeit minor rather than face a lifetime of having nervous breakdowns losing it like Basil Fawlty every time you try to get something done in a normal fashion? I want to believe that the current recession is the necessary cattle prod for some collective soul searching on all levels, the catalyst to help wipe the slate clean but no one seems to know what the next step is and I worry the inevitable apathy will creep back in once things get a bit better. Meanwhile it seems to be choosing to sit back and watch the feathers fly or join in the insurrection.

TOTAL FOOTBALL

Football seems to be forever in the news these days but not for the game. I once met someone who met someone who knew someone who had been to a football match and that person was me. It was at Arsenal Stadium but I can't remember who they were playing although I know men who could tell me who the other team were if I could remember what the weather was like that day. Not knowing the rules I kept cheering every time the other side scored much to the annoyance of the Arsenal fans seated around me who were busy listening to the cricket. My only other football experience took place in a launderette in Acton during the 1998 World Cup. The owner had perched the television on top of one of the machines and I found myself in a trance due to the fancy footwork of one Dennis Bergamp. For a brief spell I understood the passion football fans have for their beloved game but like most things for me I was soon bored and moved on to other deviances. 

There is a saying 'like a red rag to a bull'. There is probably one that says 'like a red light to a Spaniard' which may mean a brothel or a traffic light. When it comes to the traffic light a Spaniard has to go through it if it kills him which it often does and all the people trying to cross the zebra. If you attempt to go through a red light anywhere south of Paris expect the fellow at the other set of lights to do the same and anticipate a crash. There is also an unwritten rule here that when you approach a junction especially one with a roundabout you must step on the gas if you see a vehicle approaching from the left. He won't indicate either way so just take the risk. Hopefully on seeing you he will slow down as he knows and understands your game. Henderson always stops at the lights even if there is no one crossing them. People in Britain do this and visitors will remark how polite they all are or stupid. I have no time for such silliness and this once rubbed off onto H as we came up to a roundabout and could see another car quite far off to follow the unwritten rule without any angst. H's instincts told him to stop but he couldn't help himself and so he tore out. For some peculiar reason the other chap decided to put his toe down and before you could say the Non Flying Dutchman he was up our jacksy. The occupants of both vehicles screamed abuse and gave the fingers in the usual fashion and went on their way. 'How dare he break the unwritten rule!' we both exclaimed. 'He should never have sped up like that!' we both agreed. 'We could have been killed!' we both rejoiced. It was then I knew I had arrived.

TODOS LOS SANTOS

Is it the X-factor? Strictly? The Jimmy Savile Roadshow? The Jimmy Saville Row Show? No it's none other than the relic of Don Bosco in a supine position. It appears to be his body but is only his right arm accompanied by a look-a-like of his entire body. The relic is doing the rounds via 134 countries before it settles in his birthplace, Italy. He will be received at the top of my road with some folkloric act and then after the mass he will be paraded around town till he stops at Maria Auxiliadora. Don't ever doubt that this is a Catholic country. Despite the Halloween celebrations at the school this morning many of the children told me they would be going to see Don Bosco. Who he? you may well ask. He was a Catholic priest who set up a school for boys in Turin based on three pillars, reason, religion and loving kindness.

Today I had one of those moments when you know you have integrated. I went to buy a lotto ticket and got into a bit of a debate with the man who sells them. He asked me if I wanted to buy the 'hokair' ticket and although I guessed he was saying the Spanish version of the English word Joker I found myself chatting away about the hokair without agonizing and distressing myself.

Apparently, when it comes to starting a business, Spain is one of the most difficult places in the world, ranking 136th out of 185. Somewhere behind Afghanistan....apparently. I could have told the World Bank this several years ago but they would never have listened.

I think my eyesight is going. This morning I thought I saw my neighbour propping up the bar wearing a checked shirt he often wears but on closer inspection I realised it was a jamon with a tea cloth draped over it.

Tomorrow is Todos los Santos and I made a point of buying flowers not only for the dead but for me and the rest of the living.

ACT NORMAL, THAT'S MAD ENOUGH

When I was growing up people used to call the police in London the filth or pigs or Babylon or maybe the fuzz or rozzers or even 'evening Cunstable'. Nowadays if I wanted to start a riot here in Spain all I would need need to do is walk up to a policeman and tell him his mum is a prostitute. Nothing riles a copper here more than those words hijo de puta. Tell him his horse is gay or he is an imbecile and he might agree with you but saying his mum is a whore will definitely get the feathers flying. At most riots you will hear those three words shouted and see coppers losing it and beating the nearest person they can get hold of. A good friend shouted from her balcony at two policemen to stop giving her brother a parking fine and they completely ignored her. When she screamed the equivalent of 'your mum is a slag' they went mental and she was arrested and ended up in court. She was fined but told the judge it was worth it just to call the police those dreaded words and at fifty euros she wouldn't mind doing it again. En fin.....  judging from the following video I remember why I never, ever spend summer in my barrio. The Aragonese are famed for being strong willed and here the police, plebs, party goers and rogues give as good as they get.

HEIGHT OF FASHION

I like to know what they are up to back in the Motherland in case I ever have to go back there on a permanent basis. It's important to be aware of what I might be dealing with so I brace myself by watching among other things, Downton Abbey which I'm told is very popular with men and women. I can see why as it speaks volumes about the psyche of the English and their class system which still exists despite their protest that it doesn't. It gives a sense of order, calm and strength in our mad world and could work as a substitute for alcohol as it is perfectly anodyne. The last offering was enlivened by Maggie Smith whilst being served dinner by a slave ' Are you really that tall?' she remarked. 'I thought you were on stilts or something'. 

I will have to start using this line every time I see a woman wearing those prostitute shoes that have sadly arrived in the village. It took a while but they are here. The ones that make you look like you have shit or shat yourself. The ones that should only be worn behind closed doors and with a straight face and a promise you certainly will not be going out dressed in them. What is it with these shoes? The shoes our ancestors wore that now give them bunions were quite cute things compared to these monsters. Do they reflect economic times perhaps? Some say we must be grateful that we have the freedom to make plonkers of ourselves and have the photos to prove it but I'm glad the bottom of my wardrobe looks like the aftermath of a stampede in hotter, sandalled climes.

ECCE HOMO

Extraordinary things happen the world over. In the USA it sometimes involves a shoot out with many dead or a man trying to eat another man which leaves the rest of the world shaking it's head and muttering, 'only in America'. In Ireland someone will chop down a tree or stare into their breakfast and claim to have seen something resembling Mary Mother of God with everyone else moaning 'Jesus Christ almighty tonight, what next!' In the UK nowadays or at least since the death of Queen Victoria most natives can still be heard muttering from behind their newspaper 'this country has gone to the dogs!' God knows how the average Muslim ends his sentence of disbelief when his fellow men go on the rampage whenever there is a hint that the rest of the world is taking the piss. Nevertheless, I now reside in a country where folk end their conversations of astonishment with 'Spain is different'. These words are often uttered when someone points out that on the news they saw a psychopathic rabbit from Galicia attacking journalists hell bent on a photo and an interview with its owner or the never ending stream of bastards evading the law at everyone's expense or perhaps a tube driver getting the sack, not for getting a blow job from a transvestite while driving the train but the delay he caused passengers when he refused to pay the transvestite and a brawl ensued. So it is with the recent 'silly season' story of the attempted restoration by Cecilia Gimenez of a fresco in the Santuario de Misericordia near Borja here in Aragon.

The Santuario is different. It lacks the feeling of desperation at Lourdes or the dreaded scramble to see the Mona Lisa. A rare calm is felt once you enter the little church which houses the fresco. Nobody pushes or steps in your way. Everyone takes their time to be a witness to this mystery. People float in with a respect and tranquility not often felt in a country where noise is part of the culture. Some feel the need to pose and pull a predictable face but you get the sense that they are aware of their uniform behaviour. Meanwhile others contemplate the image holding it in reverence. We tried to locate Cecilia with the help of a lovely man on the door of the church who seemed the genuine type and only glad that we had come to give her our support. Away from the crowd we found a charming woman who was still in a state of shock from all the excitement, something she had never anticipated while living all her life in that remote and isolated part of Spain. She told us how she had been happily married and adored her husband and how their two sons were crippled and although life was hard she was content until now because she doesn't know what to think. She is dreading the idea that she has been denounced to the authorities and what the outcome may be. The main thing will be to try and rescue the fresco which she told us had been suffering on account of it being painted directly onto a wall which was now damp. Her consolation was the amount of support from all over the world from people who want the image to stay as it is. When we left her home a young woman bounced up the stairs and greeted her with a kiss. One of many who are behind Cecilia all the way. So many young people pay homage to the painting and there are as many that think the world of her too.

Cecilia has achieved something most artists of the 21st century will never achieve. Not fame or fortune but the ability to articulate something about the human condition. Maybe because she invested her heart into the restoration the result is hypnotic. It is easy to dismiss it as the biggest botch job and moralise how the descendants of the original artist must feel which is one of consternation. However, it is Cecilia's version that has struck a chord in the hearts and minds of many and whatever is decided, to keep it as it is or to restore it I wish her all the love and support. 

I NEED A VACATION!

Visiting my family in Britain has left me a bit of a wreck as it has been what is slowly becoming the annual holiday in an 'immense lunatic asylum' ( Check out Louis de Bernieres). On my last day there was a woman in the local Co-Op threatening not to pay as she was frightened her money was going to bite her. Later there was a mix-up with the post I was trying to send back to Spain and I think the stamp has been stuck on the sender's address side of the envelope as I was only charged two quid which I didn't question at the time on account of a man behind me roaring at everyone 'whatever you do, don't lost it!!' So I can expect the post to go back to where it came from which should be a laugh as my parents live in one of those places George Mikes describes in his wonderful How to be an Alien. Chapter One, How to Plan a Town. 'Make sure nobody can find the houses.......put all the streets with the same name in the same part of town'. To give an idea to what I am on about my parents live in a place that could be loosely named 2, Riverside Cottage, Seaview, but this is two doors down from another property called 2, Riverside, The Laurels, which shares its neighbours 2, Riverside House, Residential Home for the Elderly, Room 2 which is opposite Flat 2b, Riversdie, off Riverside Close. My package could be languishing in any of them.

Last night I found out Noel Gallagher charges 60 smackers to see him play. I can think of better things to do and cheaper like visit the incorrupt foot of Saint Teresa which  has winged or rather footed its way to Huesca where it will be displayed in the Convent of Barefoot Carmelites, resting presumably on route to Rome. I think the opportunity might have been missed as you could only venerate it at 6.30 during the mass which like the bus in Spain, always runs on time.

I leave you with a neat little number to get you through the day!