Postcards from the Edge

In Spain the number one newspaper is Marca, a daily sports publication, and the most popular magazine is Pronto (a less pretentious version of Hola). The Spanish are always very critical about the British gutter press and make scathing comments about the atrocious quality of certain dailies, which are top sellers here on the Coast. As a way of trying to excuse the lewd headlines; the excruciating alliteration and the “Carry on Up the Khyber”-style double entendres I always try to explain that while in Spain there has always been a clear differentiation between newspapers and magazines, in the U.K. the most sold papers have very little to do with news and are more a mish-mash of gossip, sex scandals and general inciting of the masses to either string up sex offenders or sterilise “dole-scroungers” et al. These clearly defined limits within the Spanish press seemed to have in recent years become more “borroso” (blurred) as the worldwide celebrity pandemia seems to have taken root in Spain as well. The Jade-Goody-marriage-cringe has even been covered here by serious dailies.

But why are people so interested in what can only be considered as z-list celebrities? Why are we fascinated by the ignorant, the base and the generally revolting? To catch people’s attention you used to have at least done something worthwhile, nowadays the thicker the better. Have we returned to the Victorian idea of the freak show where the public pay to see the most grotesque and are titillated by depravity? And why is this all then covered in a sickly-sweet sanctimonious veneer, which I expect is supposed to be in clear juxtaposition to the virulent attacks of five minutes before? Slag someone off, put them in the modern-day village stocks and then when they’ve got a terminal illness, backtrack at the speed of light and convert them into a martyr.

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In the good old days conversations amongst my friends used to revolve around more “Sex, Drugs ‘n’ Rock & Roll” subjects, now the “hot” topics are mortgages, upgrading your home or the latest illness/ accident of your father or mother. We’ve gone from asking, “How big was he?!!!?” to “How big is your mortgage?!!!!?”

In the same way that I have somehow slipped into middle age my parents are gradually slipping into old age. If you add to the situation that they live in another country and I am an only child, then things tend to be worse and sometimes I have to cope with pangs of guilt that I should do more. When I was younger, I always thought it was more difficult, if I was strapped for cash, to ask my mother for a “loan” than for friends whose mothers lived ‘round the corner. Mum couldn’t see that it was really just because I was a bit short and not that I was living in some den of iniquity and leading some scandalous debauch lifestyle (well there was a bit of that as well!!). Now the roles are reversed. “Your father’s fallen over – but he’s alright, really” is something that now starts me panicking. What if he’s actually laid up in bed with something much more serious but that they just don’t want me to start worrying? Distance can be an advantage but can also cause much fretting.

I always used to tease my mother that she would turn into my Gran, this is now actually happening. (Unfortunately I will turn into my mother, I look more and more like her every day, which is quite worrying!!!!) I have already started to notice the traits: repeating the same story ad infinitum, calling me by the wrong name or making a complete Greek tragedy about the most trivial thing.

They say as you getter older your traits just get more and more exaggerated and my folks are the prime example. Now retired, this is probably a very ageist comment but, they don’t really have that many vital appointments. It’s not like they could be sacked if they’re late for work!! Still they have become even more obsessed with punctuality. They are highly offended if someone arrives ten minutes late (usually me) and rant on about how they will have to eat/ go for a walk/ ring a friend later than they planned. It’s not really catching a plane for a business meeting in New York, is it? This also involves arriving everywhere an hour early and then having to sit in the car until the actual time of arrival is reached (they’re going to get arrested one day when some eagle-eyed neighbour reports them for loitering). On my last trip to the U.K. they left me four hours early at their tiny local airport – I had only hand luggage and had already checked in via Internet!!!

Another feeling of how the tables have turned is about asking for advice. 15 years ago I would have asked my father’s advice about anything grown-up: mortgages; setting up a business; changing jobs/ flats etc. Now it is my parents that come to me for advice.

This all may seem very negative, but it’s not!! It’s just one of the many transitions that we go through in life and we have to adapt to. I have wonderful parents who are definitely not demanding, rather the opposite. It’s just me who has to get used to this new reality and prepare myself for how the situation will change over the next ten years.

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The other day I was walking into a hotel foyer when I saw a middle-aged man walking towards me. He had a receding hairline, a pot-belly and looked tired and dishevelled. It suddenly dawned on me that it was actually a reflection of myself bounced off the 25 different mirrors of the ultramodern reception and I started to think when did it all go so wrong.

I always imagined that in my late thirties my life would be similar to an episode from “Friends”: a group of lean, sophisticated thirty-somethings enjoying a hedonistic lifestyle in some bijoux flat, being witty and attractive. Instead, I seem to look more like Benny from Crossroads. Don’t get me wrong my life is wonderful; it’s just my physical appearance that seems to have let things down.

I’m convinced that in an attempt not to look like a typical Costa “chop” (Devon word association – chop – lamb – mutton etc.) I’ve tried too hard to mature in the clothes department. The male Costa “chop” seems to be particularly prevalent amongst the Germans and Scandinavians but is also rife among those British wanting to look more “continental”.  For those less enlightened the male Costa “chop” is easily identified: tanorexic; going bald with shoulder-length hair usually scraped back in a ghastly pony-tail; the white linen safari suit; the loafers with tassels; the men’s handbag which looks more like a sponge bag and the obligatory Magnum P.I. sunglasses. So in an attempt to not dress like an aged 70s-teenager you tend to swing the other way and end up with the same wardrobe as your grandfather.

There must be a market out there for this difficult transition-age. Wearing something from the majority of the high-street “trendy” stores is impractical, as it doesn’t fit and I end up looking like vacu-packed gammon. If you decide to buy something from, what my grandmother would call a boutique, you end looking like a Costa chop and so you end up in “sensible” shops which seem to cater for the over sixties!!!

Answers on a postcard to the usual address, please!!

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“Why don’t the English learn Spanish?” is the question that I am sure most of us get asked on a regular basis. I was asked this yesterday by a teacher who is confronted at the moment with the problem of a child who has been living in Spain for six years with her parents and refuses to speak Spanish. The school directors, who are trying to help the young girl, are obliged to speak with the parents in broken English because neither the mother nor the father speak a word of Spanish.

I fully understand that people who are on holiday cannot be expected to learn the language of the country they are visiting; however if they are here every year a “Buenos días”, “Hola” and “Gracias” would not go a miss. What I find embarrassing are the thousands of British who live and work in Spain and who do not seem to feel it is necessary to make an effort and communicate in the language of their host country. I am sorry to say that there is no excuse. Nobody is saying it is easy or that you will be able to gabble away in a year, but you have to do it. Not speaking Spanish is downright rude, inconsiderate and in the end will cause you problems. It is like learning to roller-skate, it is going to take time, you are going to fall over a lot and sometimes make a fool of yourself but the end result will be worth it.

Foreigners should realise that they are actually shooting themselves in the foot if they do not attempt to speak the language. As with all countries, ghettos are formed when people cannot integrate into the local culture and interaction with the community is one of the best ways to avoid ostracism and exclusion. A lot of the problems that expatriates encounter here in Spain are due to being unable to understand official documents and information in the local media and being unable to communicate with official bodies. Yesterday I received an e-mail from a reader who was having problems with a neighbour. He had been to the local town hall to complain and was “surprised” to discover that they “only spoke Spanish”. Was he really surprised? If you walked in to the Weston-Super-Mare town hall, would you expect the person behind the desk to speak Spanish or French?

Not speaking the language or being “linguistically challenged” means that you are actively discriminating against yourself. No one would choose to purposely make themselves disabled, however by not being able to express yourself fluently you are actually relegating yourself to the position of a second-class citizen and creating your own barriers and obstacles which can cause, in time, serious problems (taxes, fines, healthcare, banks etc. etc.).

Finally, give a thought to how the Spaniards feel when companies have no information in Spanish, no staff who speak Spanish and pick up the phone in English. As well as being illegal in most municipalities, you are also alienating the majority of your possible clients, which does not make much business sense in any language.

Filed under: General by David Andrews
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A colleague of mine recently mentioned that he would be interviewing Buck Angel on his weekly radio show. As usual, the name drew a blank. Apparently, as everyone else except for me knows, Buck Angel is a famous FTM porn star (for those of you, who are as ill-informed as me, FTM means female to male). To fill you in, Buck was born as a woman and decided, with the help of surgery, hormones and bodybuilding, to convert himself into a man while maintaining his female genitals. He has now become one of the top porn stars due to his “unusual” attributes. One of his most famous films, apparently, is called, wait for it, “Buck’s Beaver” – how subtle and yet tasteful at the same time!!! One of the captions which caught my eye - I was trying not to look too closely at the photos - was that his success was due to the demand for films where a man, and I quote, “could be penetrated three ways” (well actually I changed the word to penetrated so that the editor will let me publish this).

Demand – um. Does this mean that there are hundreds of people campaigning for transgender porn stars? Do they form clubs and lobby porn directors? Or do they send in lists of personal demands to the industry?

Secondly, why the hell has this person done this to himself/ herself? I can try to understand that someone has been born in the wrong body etc. etc. but why would they want to be half man/ half woman? And why would they then want to show their “wares” to an audience of, I would think, highly confused/ disturbed people?

And finally who goes to see these films/ live shows? Are we returning to the Victorian age where the grotesque is titillating and exciting? Or are they all, as my friend Nicky would say, “just a bunch of old pervs”!!!

Recently, I have found myself in the rather strange situation of becoming a prude. It seems that “everyone” is enjoying amazing sexual experiences which people like me wouldn’t understand. Anyone who seems to enjoy old-fashioned sex is converted into a pariah whilst the rest are vibrating themselves into a frenzy, urinating on each other or nailing their testicles to a table.

This general opinion that “bizarre” is the norm and that everyone is interested in gas masks, suffocating themselves or self-mutilation means that people, who you consider quite “normal”, start sending you (from their work e-mail to yours) the most worrying photos. A respected colleague recently sent me an “interesting” photo of someone with a traffic cone inserted up his backside!! The latest gem has been from a very serious journalist and part-time politician who sent me an “amazing” video called “fountain”.
The video consisted of a dozen ladies, legs akimbo, urinating in time to music. Amazing!

Don’t get me wrong, everyone is entitled to do what they want, when they want, with whom they want in the privacy of their home. What I object to is being treated like a weirdo because I don’t get in a froth about all these “alternative” sexual practices and feel a bit queasy at some of the photos that I receive via e-mail.

Filed under: General by David Andrews
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Many foreigners complain to me about sullen Spanish workers? We’ve all experienced the “charming” person behind a desk, who looks like they’ve just swallowed a litre of vinegar and seems to have a sexual fixation with photocopies. I often hear people yearning after customer care in the U.K., which is supposed to be so much more efficient than in Spain, and we’ve all heard those terribly funny “mañana” jokes.

A small word of warning:

Last month on a trip to the U.K., I hired a car at Bristol Airport from one of the biggest European hire car companies. Everything was perfect until I checked my credit card statement on my return home, 200 pounds sterling had been taken from my card without my consent.

According to the company the customer services department opens at 7.30 a.m. Until 7.45 a.m. there is a recorded message saying that all the operators are occupied and that your call will be dealt with as soon as possible. Suspiciously at 7.45 all the operators are suddenly “free” and able to take your call, meanwhile you have spent 15 minutes listening to music whilst paying for an international call!! Why can’t they just say that they open at 7.45 or just inform people that all their staff are having a cup of coffee because it is very early in the morning!

When you do finally speak to someone, they spend two minutes explaining how important your call is and insist on calling you every five seconds Mr. Andrews. The tone of voice has all the emotion of an eight-year-old reciting his/her “times tables” and the operator probably learnt their spiel in the same way. When they have finished reciting and you are able to give your reference number, you have to wait another three minutes, listening to more annoying jingles, while they locate your complaint (are their computers steam-powered?). Once the information is on their screens you are then locked in a titanic battle with your adversary whose only goal seems to be to try to “get one over” on you, the client:

“I was promised that someone would be getting back to me” – me.

“According to our customer services policy we respond to all clients’ complaints within ten days, however Mr. Andrews it clearly states, on our webpage, that our response time is ten working days” - robotic telephonist.

“Yes, I understand that. But it has been more than a month!!” – me

There is then a confused silence and you are put on hold for another five minutes. Finally, a second voice, who informs you that they have some long-winded title and that he/she is terribly upset that nobody has got back to you. They then promise that someone will get back to you within 48 hours, when you comment that this is the fifth time that someone has promised to get back to you, you are told, in no uncertain terms, that they cannot comment on conversations with other employees.

According to my bank, they cannot return the payment from my card and I will have to deal directly with the car hire company (God help me!). At present, after six weeks (I don’t know how many working days that is), I am 200 pounds down, I have sent more than ten e-mails and made more than five phone calls and still no one has deigned to reply. That’s what I call good old-fashion British customer services for you.

I much prefer the surly approach, at least it’s sincere. At least it’s made quite clear that nobody gives a hoot about your problem and that the form you have signed is going to be filed under “p” for “papelera”. There are also no bones made about the fact that they’ve got your money and you haven’t got a hope in hell of ever getting it back.

It seems to me that the new British way of customer services entails covering a lack of interest and organisation under a very flimsy veneer of sycophantic procrastination. They hope that in the end you will become so exasperated/ bored that you’ll admit defeat and retreat back into your hole to lick your wounds.

And finally, why do they have to have those irritating switchboard/ answerphones? Wouldn’t it be easier to revert to all the old engaged tone? It doesn’t help your anger management when you have to listen to grating music for 25 minutes when you are paying for the international call.

Filed under: General by David Andrews
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When I was young, in the good old seventies, we had a dog called “Julie”. Julie had her own room (a kind of out-house where the washing machine was), intelligently called “Julie’s Room” (or the washing room depending on the moment). She was fed twice a day on canned dog food and on cold winter evenings she was allowed into the house to lie (on her own mat) in front of the sitting room fire. She was taken for long walks and had a fine life. When her back legs went, she was taken to the vets and put down and the all the family were very sad. Julie did not sleep in our beds, eat off our plates or have a mausoleum built in her honour at the end of her days.

Nowadays we seem to have lost all sense of reason when it comes to animals. One is made to feel that the so-called “animal lovers” are the holders of the ultimate truth and that anyone who doesn’t accept their views on things should be fed to a pack of ravenous hounds (which they, the animal lovers, have probably left tied up outside the Post Office). It seems you are not allowed to disagree with them as they are the only decent people on this planet and you are some unfeeling, monstrous bastard. If you’re lucky you’ll just be treated to a momentous dressing-down in public or if you’re not so lucky you’ll blown to smithereens with a car bomb or have a pack of marauding minks let loose in your office by a bunch of animal nutters.

It would be wonderful to live in a world similar to Sir Thomas More’s Utopia, where poverty, misery, degradation and injustice did not exist, however we all know that this is not the case and that the world is in a terrible mess. And although some people do not want to believe it, humans are higher up the evolutional scale than budgerigars and we really should be more concerned about our friends, family, neighbours or any other member of the human race than our cat. Along the Costa del Sol there are dozens of animal charities run by well-meaning expats and yet there seems to a dearth of foreigners interested in helping other more worthy subjects such as children, immigration, the elderly, Africa, Asia etc. etc. While it is admirable that more than 2,000 people march against seal culling in Canada, wouldn’t it be great to see the same 2,000 people demonstrating in support of the women who are beaten, terrorised and murdered by their partners every year?

Thousands of people are willing to spend their time and money on rescuing stray dogs and cats, which is all very laudable, and yet they don’t feel it necessary to help the thousands of people who live on the streets of our towns and cities. No one is willing to visit the shameful slums, which surround the majority of large European cities, and “rescue” the children who play amongst drugs dealers, filth and poverty.

The problem is when we lose touch with reality and start to believe our own fantasies. Children in the U.K. are brainwashed by stories of talking animals. A.A. Milne, Beatrix Potter and Kenneth Grahame would have us believe that there are thousands of furry darlings with their own personalities who gaily frolic around the countryside dressed in three-piece suits and driving cars. It may come as a surprise to many but to date there is no scientific data to back up the theory that hedgehogs hang out their washing on a line nor that rabbits drink cups of tea. The worrying part is that people actually tell you that Bonzo understands every word they say or that they talk to Tiddles all day. All I can hope is that one day Tiddles doesn’t tell them to go out on a rampage with a semi-automatic machine gun. Animals are not humans and do not have the same characters, feeling or intricate personalities that man has.

Here are some examples to illustrate my case:

When is an animal not an animal? It seems that it is OK to eat cows or sheep but not horses and donkeys. The other day a group of people were getting themselves into a froth about donkeys being eaten in Catalonia. I can understand the concern if thousands of local villagers were being asked to squash poor old Eeyore until he died, but the beasts were being humanely slaughtered (whatever that means!!) in an abattoir. I can imagine the reaction if the Times of India started campaigning against the UK consumption of cattle. It seems to be quite clear that according to our own set of values, animals can be considered as cute, meat or disgusting and anyone who attempts to chomp on something that we believe is not in the correct category is either depraved or gross.

The other night on some British channel there was a programme about why you shouldn’t eat meat and this time they decided to show everyone how piglets were butchered in the UK. Then a rather condescending person went on to make very offensive comments about the Spanish and their barbarian practices. The Segovian tradition of eating suckling pig was mentioned and a panel of sneering “experts” commented on the way that pigs were transported in Spain. Apparently the pigs suffered extreme stress being transported in lorries and yet there was no mention of the conditions in which thousands of immigrants are introduced into Europe in a much worse state than the pigs.

Why is it that the more someone is loving and caring towards an animal the nastier and more selfish they are to their fellow race? We’ve all heard stories such as “Mary died and left all her money to her cat.” This is usually followed by “when she died, her only company was ‘Michuki’”. Was this because Mary was so irascible, rude and downright unpleasant that her friends and family couldn’t bear visiting her anymore? Obviously the cat didn’t have the opportunity of not going round and visiting its insufferable relative.

Why do people impose their animals on you? One answer I received was, “Why do people impose their children on you?” Great rhetoric, but it doesn’t really answer the question. I was having lunch one day and a friend appeared with their very large Alsatian at the restaurant and made sure that no one dared to question its presence. To add insult to injury, halfway through the lunch, once the dog had finished licking its testicles thoroughly, it decided to start drinking from the ice bucket where the bottle of wine was cooling. Logically, a couple of people’s faces changed and the owner firstly informed us that the dog was thirsty and that we shouldn’t make a fuss as the bottle was sealed. We were obviously only allowed to say anything if the mutt actually started drinking from our glasses.

In the end, nobody likes to see animals suffer and nobody advocates the deliberate abuse of animals but before we rush to the help of our furry or feathered friends maybe we should see whether our fellow humans need assistance. Let’s hope that soon Save the Children, Oxfam or El Hogar del Pensionista receive the same influx of donations as the donkey sanctuaries, cats’ homes and rescue centres.

Filed under: General by David Andrews
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I used to work at the airport and my colleagues and I used to have competitions guessing the nationality of people passing through baggage reclaim. Sometimes we confused the Dutch with the Belgians, the French with the Italians or the Germans with the Austrians; but there was always one group who stood out (some say, like a sore thumb) and that was the British. Don’t get me wrong, there are some traits that are common to lots of northern Europeans: the natty Barry-Manilow-Fire-Sale Hawaiian shirts; the practical terry-towelling socks worn elegantly with open-toed sandals or the varied selection of startling hats worn in the case of excess rain or sun.

However there is something very quintessential about the British. I’m afraid, using the complex sociological study of watching people at the airport, neither my colleagues nor I were able to distinguish between the English, the Welsh or the Scottish we just referred to them all as “los ingleses”.

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