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Actualizado: Monday 31 July |
July |
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July is a month for music, with jazz, blues, pop and gospel thundering through the walls. Sometimes it’s difficult to hear about these concerts, as the organisers are occasionally too busy thinking about their summer break instead of their promotional duties. Ah well, there’s always an accordion player nearby.
This month, Angel loses his mind and Lenox his view. Peter explains the Catalonian elections, Richard scores a goal and JAFO has a Pink Martini. Alan listens to the radio, Gwyneth makes a transfer and Indalecio welcomes the next mayor.
We may live in a tourist destination, but Hugh suggests some other places to visit. Jocelyne buys a painting and samples the strawberries, the Brigadier rips aside the veils of small village life and Chincheto photographs the Moors and Christians, ably assisted by his scribe Leonoxo.
Terry goes deep underground (like a good reporter should) and David, for a change, pets his cats. Sergio solves a murder and Richard puts a deposit down on a puppy.
The palm tree looks down on our endeavours with equanimity; its only desire is being left in peace, its only worry is being uprooted for replanting on the beach with a bandage and a salty view.
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Mind Control |
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Gracious! The things they print or sling on the telly! The Guardia Civil academy is teaching strange new techniques to the young cops these days.
At any rate, the Civil Guard has had some very good figures to report this past month.
After two hundred young and inexperienced agents, some still in training, were transferred to the future Republic of Catalonia (pause for tearful moment as the anthem is played), the entire population of burglars, thieves, villains, pick-pockets, arsonists and axe murderers that operated in those lands were fingered within a question of hours.
The prisons, lock-ups, detention centres, clinks, gaols and hoosegows are now full to the rafters with evildoers – often apparently of the Rumanian persuasion.
There was barely time to find beds for all those extra cops before… they were no longer needed! What a magnificent strategist is our Interior Minister, the thrice-blessed Rubalcaba (known familiarly if unfairly as ‘Beria’ by the Press)!
A brilliant minister in the right place is worth… just a tiny tweak of the facts to make things look better. Surely?
You see, it was just as the government needed a small tonic, to get a spot of extra kudos from the Catalonian parties as well as a few points against the opposition during the ‘State of the Nation’ address.
Not that we are talking about ‘manipulation’ here. Goodness no! In the past those things went on, with the Nazis, the Soviets, the ‘revisionists’, the Maoists and so on… even with those ‘weapons of mass destruction’ from that nice Mister Bush, but, these days, one has to look to the future.
The politicians, I mean. They have to modernise their techniques a bit. The rest of us are already in the 21st century, and have been for several years now. Behind the sports people, the businessmen and investors, the intelligentsia and the artists, a long way behind, come the always-cautious politicians. If it worked before… we’ll keep with it!
The American moon landings, for example. Everybody accepted those blurry pictures at the time they appeared and – if anyone cared – they still work today!
So, when four Rumanian campers were surprised by two hundred cops all shouting hello hello hello as they, the Rumanians that is, were digging into a tin of stolen sardines, the nation rejoiced and Rubalcaba was promoted in the public mind to just behind that FBI chap who arrested the man with a hydrogen bomb hidden in the heel of his shoe.
The Interior Ministry needed some results, and, Oh My! They got ‘em!.
It’s all a question of timing. When the images from the Twin Towers were being beamed around the world, the Spanish 3.00pm news was just beginning. Of course the towers existed, as I once had a coffee in the plaza between them, but I remark on the timing of those events, the fortuity of the villainous Bin Laden and Al Queda, a sort of modern Ali Baba and the forty thieves who, if they hadn’t of existed would need inventing.
The newscaster was saying ‘…it appears that our correspondent in New York has some pictures of an airplane crashing into a tower… Oh my goodness… and it’s happening live…’.
I’m not questioning the events here, just the timing.
The day after the State of the Nation, Spain’s greatest singer chose the moment to die. Rocío Jurado, the best of the lot for her splendid voice, her interpretation and her personality, expired after a long fight with cancer. We shall all miss her.
I’m just worried about the timing. |
City Slick |
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It strikes me as strange. You’ve already got the house full of guests, the theatre full of punters, the shop full of customers and the bar full of drun- I mean, satisfied clients. Why does the town hall spend a wad of public money on extra entertainment when there’s no room left for the locals? In the Moors and Christians, the local stayed away (too many people, too much hassle etc), the town was inexplicably and disgracefully filthy, the fireworks and musketry was deafening and excessive, the free concerts, the gunpowder and the medieval stall-holders were expensive – and the local businesses were unhappy. You could probably add to this litany the suggestion that Mojácar doesn’t begin and end in the pueblo and it might be nice to see some public cultural activity spent on the playa… But, anyway, that’s Mojácar…
The point of a fiesta is to amuse those who live locally. If, as appears to happen, your fiesta gets larger and larger, with more visitors flying in and filling the hotels, more campers on the beach, more carloads from the province next door, more people from outside, then the locals may be forgiven for thinking that their fiesta has been kidnapped by the capitalists. But, apparently not. Our fiestas (as they currently stand) are so poorly considered by the shopkeepers that in Mojácar (again) some of the businesses actually closed over the fiesta.
We have regular free concerts in this once leading tourist town of the province, concerts which cost our exchequer a large sum of cash for no apparent return. A hugely successful (if very very Spanish) star-act is bussed in at a staggering expense, squeezed into the town square and in obliged to start his ‘main event’ after most people have gone to bed! Some well-connected kid gets the franchise to run a temporary beer and sausage bar, which is of course crowded with the young and the terminally jolly, and the more traditional businesses, who pay licences, social security and who were obliged to stay open all last winter because that’s their livelihood – ahem – are back to square one.
I’m giving a party. It’s full. I’ve gone out for some extra cigarettes or something. As I return I see someone being sick on the doorstep. Sorry mate, he wipes his nose and attempts to focus on me – there’s no room here.
There are so many things that the town hall (and the dreaded culture, works and tourist departments) could be spending the cash on. On the beach, have you noticed how many kiddy-parks are erected on the beach these days? Between the locked cabins, showers, oases, chiringuitos, parking lumps, kiddy parks, footie fields, walkie bits, promoters cabins, billboards, blue, red and yellow flags and beach bed concessions, there’s not much room for the sand. The town hall has just received a goodly chunk of lolly (over half a million euros) to increase this cornucopia of attractions and features for our beach-land. Goody! More tourists. What a pity we can’t build on it.
The road, the one that’s so full of cars that we have a semi-permanent gridlock. The one with the orange/pink streetlights. The one where there’s no pavement but plenty of pedestrians. The one with no parking lot. The one with the two choo choos (‘On the left, ladees and gennlemen, the Mediterranean…’). The one with the verges chocked with trash.
On the way to Vera, see the huge number of apartments. Served by giant supermarkets that undercut and break the smaller businesses. Soon we’ll have MacDonalds, vast warehouse DIY shops, traffic lights, a BMW concessionary, endless billboards, no-go areas and a drug problem. We now face the prospect of a new march of electric pylons across our territory.
The high-speed train will one day be barging throooough…
All the things we escaped the cities for. We are developing into a giant suburb: with none of the advantages of the urbis. It’s about time the town halls remembered that they are there to speak on behalf of the people, to protect, serve, entertain and champion their citizens.
In Mojácar, our last theatre was knocked down in 1979.
What’s it like in your pueblo? |
Requiem for Catalonia |
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Well, they’ve now voted in the referendum over the Catalan Statutes of Autonomy, and a pretty farce that turned out to be. During the campaign, which was used by the Socialists to slam the Partido Popular, conditions went from bad to worse for the PP when ‘nationalists’ who had been called by SMS messages (remember March 13?) carried out a series of attacks against members of the PP in some cases pelting them with eggs, in others, rocking and spitting on their official cars. None of this was condemned by the Socialists, indeed one of the directors of the Catalan Socialists, Industry minister Jose Montilla stated that what was happening to the members of the PP ‘was their own fault’.
Anyway, it was finally revealed that only 49.4% of the electorate turned out, which meant that 35.7% of the total amount of Catalan voters polled a ‘yes vote’. The 49.41% turnout is the lowest ever recorded and fell well short of expectations of the Prime Minister, the incumbent President of Catalunia or the EU voting norms. However, never mind all that, the Socialists, taking the poor voting attendance to be 100% - when it was far short of that – stated that 73,9% of the votes cast were for the implementation of the Statutes, whilst 20.7% were against, with the remaining 5.4% casting empty or blank ballots.
Results
These results were painted various ways by the various parties. The Socialists of course stating that it was whoopee time, whilst the PP expressed the opinion that two-thirds of the voters were against the new Statutes. Curiously enough the big loser of the day turned out to be Josep Lluis Carod Rovira, whose radical ERC party that was once allied with Pascual Maragall’s Socialists, now found itself siding with its ‘arch-enemy’ the PP in that it, too, was now against the statutes (as they were removed from any sort of power play after Artur Mas of the CiU party stepped in and took over the final phase of negotiations with the Madrid Government). The voting in fact means that the result one way or another has affected every single political party operating in Catalunia.
For incumbent Socialist President Pascual Maragall, who never participated in any sort of debate during the campaign prior to the voting, the results mean him stepping down and calling for early elections in the autumn. He has stated that he does not intend to stand again as President of Catalunia ‘as I have taken the autonomy as far as I wanted’, and his place could well be taken by Jose Montilla, the current Industry Minister, who was said to be very much in favour of both the statutes and the Catalan Audiovisual Committee that sets out exactly what the average Catalan citizen may or may not do and may or may not listen to. Whether he will stand, and whether he has enough charisma to carry the vote in the autumn is still very much an open question.
The CiU Party was said to be exuding a ‘quiet confidence’ over the result as it is that party in the form of Arthur Mas that stands to gain the most from the autumnal elections, so the party of veteran politician Jordi Pujol may yet rise to power again.
As for Mr Carod Rovira, he has probably suffered almost the biggest upset, about-face and ultimately political disgrace as a result of the voting. Skipping into power on the wings of Mr Maragall at the recent election, he firstly proclaimed that all things Catalan were ‘great’ and that ‘Catalunia is for the Catalans’ and other nationalist statements including several rumblings about how Catalan should be known as the official language of the autonomy. Then, he brought about his own downfall, as in the absence of Mr Maragall, who was on holiday, it was he who in his capacity as de facto President that decided to go to Perpignan, have discussions with the Basque terror group ETA and emerge waving a ceasefire agreement for Catalunia ‘as our struggle is the same as yours’. This brought disgrace and exclusion from the Catalan Government, but later, in Madrid, he had a pivotal role in the enthronement of Socialist Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, whom he constantly reminded that it was he who held the power strings. However, when the Prime Minister turned his back on him and chose Mr. Mas for his negotiations over the statutes, Mr. Carod Rovira stated that his party and its followers would vote ‘no’ as the statutes were presented in both the Madrid Parliament and the Catalan referendum, effectively placing him close to the party he ‘absolutely detested’ – the PP, and in the process discovered that they weren’t so bad after all.
As for the PP, that has long been something of a political outsider in Catalan politics, the results of the referendum stand to reinforce its views that the new Statutes are not good either for Catalunia or Spain, but this will probably do nothing to improve their chances in the autumn local elections.
So after all the kerfuffle, where are we now left in Catalunia? Probably in much the same position as before, with no steps forward, no steps back and an election on the horizon.
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Peter Gooch,
Editor - Valencia Life
www.valencialife.net, July 2006 |
Spain is Disappearing |
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No country in the world is more determined to disappear. The moral decline in Spain began in the sixties when the birth rate of the once strongly Catholic country began to plummet. Spain has made an abrupt and terrible shift away from traditional family life toward egregious hedonism. The country’s fertility rate is the lowest in the world. In less than 20 years every Spanish worker will support one pensioner, in other words the pension system will be bankrupt. The only hope of preventing the oncoming disaster is to keep the doors open to the armies of migrants marching across the open borders and sailing from darkest Africa in search of a better life. The purpose of the recent amnesty of around a million immigrants, sin papeles, was the Government’s answer to save the social security system with no consideration of the consequences.
Spain is now in the grip of cultural death and Spaniards don’t seem to care. The number of babies born to foreign parents in Spain has now reached 15% of the total. Last year saw 465,616 births in Spain, of which over 70,000 were to a foreign mother. Over the year there was a reduction in the total number of marriages, at 209,125, despite 1,275 gay marriages, which, short of immaculate conception, have no baring whatsoever on the birth rate! In nearly 30,000 of the marriages one or more of the partners was a foreigner.
The appeaser Zapatero will go down in history as one of the culprits in the disappearance of Spain as many of us used to know it. With the flood of newcomers there is a cultural sea change underway that will do nothing to enrich Spanish culture. The million Ecuadorian peons toiling in the fields, the Philipino maids, the Peruvian and Columbian drug dealers and crime gangs, the almost half million foreign prostitutes, the black African vendors, the legions of Rumanian beggars and accordion players add nothing, on the contrary they subtract from a disappearing Spain. Or am I wrong about this and in the near future we can look forward to Moroccan matadors and black African flamenco dancers!
Human Rights for Spanish Apes
And here’s the latest piece of ridiculous nonsense from the PSOE. The Socialist Party is trying to pass a parliamentary initiative that includes simians in the category of "people" and, thereby, grant them legal protection. Under the measure, apes would be put on a par with handicapped people. José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero defended the initiative as the "next logical step in the evolution of Spanish socialism."
Zapatero said he is confident that granting voting rights to apes is feasible. “Apes have the manual dexterity to mark ballots. There is no physical barrier to their participation in selecting who will govern Spain. The PP knows that this newly empowered under-privileged segment of our society is likely to vote Socialist. Opposition by the PP is driven by party politics. We, on the other hand, are merely trying to extend the blessings of democracy to a wider constituency. We socialists believe apes need to have a voice. We are ready to listen to that voice."
Zapatero said the extension of rights to apes may not be the last expansion of the franchise. Researchers recently announced that starlings can apparently recognize the grammatical concept of adding sounds to produce a more complex song. "Adding sounds to produce a more complex song has been my path to political success," claimed the president in an exclusive interview with this newspaper. Zapatero agreed that the logistics of casting a ballot would be more complex for birds than apes, but says he is optimistic that this difficulty can be overcome.
Anything that Infuriates Catholics can’t be all Bad
The Da Vinci Code is a wildly contrived story and the movie is excellent, saw it last month. Nevertheless, believing that anything that infuriates Catholics can't be all bad, I must say the Da Vinci Code is a delightful change of pace. The entire volume has far less gratuitous sex and dismemberment by psychotic zealots than the first chapter of the Bible. As for Jesus making an honest woman out of Mary Magdalene, According to Dan Brown, the Catholic Church hid this fact because it didn't wish to revere a female.
It is interesting to compare the Christian/Catholic reaction to the release of The Da Vinci Code with Islam over those cartoons in a Danish newspaper. Most people would agree that a full-length feature film distributed worldwide suggesting that Jesus married Mary Magdalene, had offspring and the Catholic Church tried to cover it up is much more offensive to the Catholic Church than a few Danish cartoons ridiculing the prophet Mohammed.
While the Catholic Church has expressed outrage and called for boycotts of the movie, there have been no violent reactions, protests, burnings, killings, threats of beheadings or any priests in the Catholic Church putting bounties on the filmmakers’ heads.
On the other hand, the Danish cartoons prompted all of these reactions from the Islamic community.
Justice Depends on Where You Are
On June 13 the British Home Secretary, John Reid, was accused of sticking his nose into legal affairs after calling on the Attorney-General Lord Goldsmith to refer the sentence of a convicted pedophile for review. Craig Sweeney kidnapped and repeatedly sexually assaulted a three-year-old girl. Sweeney was sentenced to life but was told that he faced a minimum sentence of five years. (That probably means out on parole after two years). Sweeney had a previous conviction for sexual assault on a six-year-old girl, for which he had served 18 months of a three-year sentence. Lord Falconer’s department insisted the judge had got his formula wrong in calculating Sweeney’s sentence! You see, with just 1,700 prison spaces left and inmates already sleeping three to a cell and the prison population increasing by an average of 150 guests a week, Britain’s jails will full within three months! Next stop the Dorchester!
There’s one of two ways to solve the shortage of accommodation for criminals. Build more prisons OR… In South Carolina the state senate has just endorsed making repeat child rapists eligible for the death penalty. The proposal allows prosecutors to seek the death penalty for sex offenders who are convicted twice of raping a child. Currently in South Carolina, murder is the only crime eligible for the death penalty. No prison space problem in this state!
Scum Report
The “Respect” MP George Galloway said a suicide bomber would be morally justified in murdering Tony Blair. What! “Morally justified” - this is outrageous. I don’t care if Tony Blair wears women’s underwear, there is no justification for what is a call for one of those Islamofascists to assassinate the British prime minister. If anyone deserves to be put to sleep it is Galloway!
Pink Martini
Somewhere between a 1930s Cuban dance orchestra, a classical music ensemble, and a Brazilian marching street band is the 12 piece American band Pink Martini. The other night I watched them in concert on PBS, the American public broadcasting system, commercial free TV! The same night I ordered their two CDs from www.amazon.com and can’t wait for them to arrive.
Part language lesson, part Hollywood musical, the Portland, Oregon-based ‘little orchestra’ was created in 1994 by Harvard graduate and classical pianist Thomas Lauderdale to play at political fundraisers for progressive causes such as civil rights, affordable housing and public broadcasting. Even though they are on the left of the political spectrum I love their music. The singer and for me the star of the group is the seductive China Forbes, also a Harvard graduate.
Equally at home performing its romantic, multi-lingual repertoire on concert stages and in smoky bars, Pink Martini draws a wildly diverse crowd. The ensemble made its European debut at the Cannes Film Festival in 1998 and in the years following toured throughout Europe. They perform at the tower of London on July 8 accompanied by the BBC concert orchestra.
After Words
If you’re concerned about your weight then you should cultivate fatter friends! If you can’t touch your toes pay someone else to do it! |
“If music be one man's meat...” |
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There's nothing more divisive among different people's tastes and preferences than the kind of music they like to listen to. One man's Country music is another man's bitter bile, that's for sure.
It's the kids that are the most fascist and intolerant in their choice. Play something they don't know about already - and off they go to the far horizon like a rat out of an aqueduct, or they just give the loudspeaker a pitying look and turn away. They're much better placed in hearing their particular kind of music of course, what with I-Pods, MP3 Players, music-on yer-mobile and all the hi-tech delivery methods of today´s technology. Far better catered for than those like me of shall-we-say an earlier generation, who perhaps only had the various BBC radio programmes, tapes and gramophone records to feed our regular need for canned music. An avid radio fan from quite tender years, I once remember timing on my H Samuel chronograph a Family Favourites programme: thirty minutes of yak and only twenty minutes of records in an hour's show. Did we really need Jean Metcalfe to tell us every single week what the weather was like in BFPO 29 ? Why not squeeze in another Paul Anka instead ?
Just mentioning “gramophone records” there reminds me that my grandson watched me sifting through my LP collection a few years ago. Later I overheard him telling his little pal, “My grandad's got a lot of big black CDs!” It's not a generation gap, it's a chasm,
Grown-ups still have markedly fixed ideas of course about what they like in music. Michael Bolton fans often can't stand Celine Dion, for instance. Some 50 year old girl who thinks that Elvis was the bee's hips probably can't stand Mr. Relaxation Perry Como. Although in my experience an avid opera fan is much more likely to enjoy a beautifully produced rock ballad just as much as they enjoy highlights from The Magic Flute. And no matter how long you´ve been involved in music, you still get surprises. I was amazed at the number of twenty- and thirty-somethings who were in raptures at a recent Berlin concert by the decidedly balding James Taylor, and an EMI Records exec I know who used to work at the Beeb said recently that if it hadn't been for the likes of the Three Tenors, Renee Fleming and Il Divo, there'd be no effective classical record market at all – the minscule amount of sales wouldn't justify the majors' investment in recording sessions and production costs. He omitted to mention the pioneering campaign from China by the German guy who halved the price of classical CDs and grabbed a notable part of the sales with his Nexus brand.
The launch of Classic FM in Britain and Germany several years ago has been a mixed blessing for the record industry, said Mr. EMI Records plugger. Of the total CD buying public, those who build up their personal collections of “classical music” CDs, i.e. anything from Hayley Westenra's pop opera ballads through the Readers Digest 100 Best Orchestral Memories, to John Elliott Gardner's authoritative and scholarly interpretations of the Bach Cantatas on original instruments ( how do they KNOW ?) have mostly now got on their bookcase all the records they need.
So they tend to find that the increasingly adventurous music policy of Classic FM provides them with their essential dose of“the tingle factor” - that wonderful sense of discovering a new work or composer that they'd never have thought of going out to a record shop to buy. Simply because it's there on the radio for them – all through the day and night-time – free.
But just returning to the “major market” - that vast spread of popular music that extends from Frankie Laine to Rosemary Harding, with Snorer Jones, ELO, Abba, the Beach Boys, Sinatra and Robbie Williams with all their variations in-between. It's this kind of music that still has the most general and definable pleasure-giving potential. And credit where credit's due, the record companies of all sizes have been pushing forward the bounds of the general music-lover's taste with professional dedication for almost a century, revealing to us on record vast swathes of talent that would otherwise have languished in nightclubs or on university bandstands. They're not all robbing rogues who recycle back-catalogue material at ever-rising prices, you know.
And it's this broad range (crikey I nearly said the dreaded word “Spectrum”) of music that popular music radio uses for its staple. Tuneful yet challenging, familiar yet “new”, memorable yet previously unheard, tasteful as well as subversive. In fact, emphasising the concept that listening to music is an indispensable part of civilised life. That's what us radio folks try to provide as the staple diet of musicradio. BBC Radio 2 is the giant of the breed, with an vast nationwide following; Capital and Virgin provide stimulating fare for the red-braces and capuccino class cruising the West End in their drophead Mercs., as well as the young newly-wed slaving over the nappy tub and the Kwikfit guys crashing about and swearing at the grease bucket. The former king of musicradio BBC Radio 1, where so many of the present-day commercial jocks signed up for their pensions after throwing-up for years on a boat, now seems to be recovering from its tribulations of policy conflicts and has settled firmly on providing the renegade range of rock - serving a deserved purpose in the market.
So you're left with the rest of musicradio – the pipsqueaks like Maldyn FM in mid-Wales, one of the 200-odd small commercial stations in the UK that base their operations on the kind of music I described. And even our own midget Cool FM. In the still of the night I wakefully wonder if the balance here is right. Should there be more country and less night-time classics? More 60's Britpop and fewer moody rock ballads? More Abba and less Eminem? Less reggae and more folk?
Having decided firmly, in the absence of the availability of real talent like Wogan or Walker, against indulging the vanities of half-baked local DJs who invariably talk utter bollocks, having passed on the concept of “The Rock Hour” or “The Jazz Hour” to avoid alienating the rest of the audience while that particular specialism is airing, and opting instead for an entirely mixed palette, the task of making the right sound in this style of radio is doubly difficult but also maybe more rewarding. There is, after all, hard proof that where stations abandon DJs in favour of an almost entirely automated music playout system, those stations lead their market ahead of the chattering music radios.
So maybe we should leave stacks of A5 flyers about the place, asking people to express their preference for the music they want on their local English language radio. That would be really democratic, wouldn't it? Or would it?
One man's meat is another man's poison, particularly where music's concerned. So maybe we should just plough on regardless. After all, as the guy said in the film “Good Morning Vietnam” - “Jeez, colonel, it's only RADIO !” |
| Alan Sykes, director of Cool fm, July 2006 |
Extranjero Power (A por todas) |
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Since the dawn of democracy (uh... in 1977), municipal life in Mojácar has been a continuous somersault. If it’s not ‘motions of censure’, it’s the ‘transfugas’ (politicians who change sides) that characterise the politics of that particular municipality.
Anyone who fancies his chances in politics will begin his profession with a vocal concern for the interest of the community. Of course, the reality is a fraction different, and the public-spirited interest rapidly shrinks into more personal concerns. Private deals and family connections become the lynch-pins behind our local heroes and the occasional scandals that come to light are invariably based in some way on these items, personal and family self-interest, and, of course, the odd bit of vote rigging.
There is, however, a sizable chunk of ‘European’ residents, mainly British, with the right to vote in local elections – and not just Mojácar, but in a sizable number of communities in the area. In fact, there would be a much larger percentage if they all remembered to put themselves on the town register, the ‘padrón’ (simplicity itself – take your ID and a copy of your ‘escritura’ or rental agreement to your town hall). Being on the ‘padrón’, being over 18 and being European gives you the right for full suffrage in local elections.
With this in mind, I think that it’s time that you, the ‘extranjeros’, should get a bit more political. You don’t belong to the clans or the families, don’t have the same tradition of selling or knocking down everything that has a brick on it (or a rock), and you appear to be more concerned about the well-being, security and prosperity of your adopted towns than the locals are. You could take some of these places and give them a good shaking, and put some order and form back into the town halls of the Almerian levante, particularly, of course, Mojácar.
To do this, you need to prepare for the next local elections (the last Sunday in May 2007) by proposing a full foreign candidature rather than allowing the odd foreign name to lurk at the bottom of our own Spanish lists in some attempt to pull a few European votes in exchange for – absolutely nothing (remember, we did it before!).
This candidature would, in my opinion, help repair the invidious condition of our local politics by obliging our ‘Good ol’ Boys’ to behave themselves. Now that’s worth a thought! |
I used to be a linesman |
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I’m obliged to balance my life around football this month – as if the last eight months had never happened. The endlessly televised sweep of a team of over-paid egoists regularly proving to the world that the best thing to do with your head is to beat a ball with it. It certainly beats learning something, even if its as ephemeral as the weather program on Channel 87. My associate on the paper is from Valencia, so we have had to close early over the winter and spring on the nights that his team was playing. Or carry on working I suppose at a kind of half-speed. In fact, close early and have a whisky with the Russian girls over the road. It has its positive side.
On football night, the whole town would be quiet, apart from the bellow of a million television screens and the occasional shriek from the viewers along the lines of ‘shoot the ref’ or ‘kill the tropical gentleman playing wing for the other team’. This being a loose translation, but one that, I hope, manages to maintain the sentiment.
Eventually, two things would be bound to happen. The first would be a dozen heavy explosions as Pedro, the town pyrotechnican, blasted skywards a few rockets substantial enough to have given Werner von Braun a flutter of pleasure, regardless of who won as long as somebody did (Werner’s sentiments exactly), and, secondly, the final whistle would invariably presage a great outpouring of voluble football fans into the streets, bars and knock-shops of the community.
But, with Barcelona apparently winning every cup ever cast, plated or pressed, with ‘their foreign team-maters’ beating ‘our foreign team mates’ (assuming you’re a Real Madrid, Valencia or Seville supporter), I had kind of assumed that the whole season was finally washed up for another year. Actually, another three months, but, even that’s a start.
It’s our own fault, of course. The game was invented by the English – apparently as an economical way of keeping warm. It was later introduced by the Scots (who had previously been prospecting in the hills and run out of porridge) into a small mining town in Murcia in the later part of the nineteenth century. In fact, the oldest footie pitch is still there. In Aguilas!
Spain’s most famous commentator is English. He’s called Michael Robinson and he used to play for Osasuna (who did rather well this year). If you know him and David Beckham (who he? – Ed) then you can usually get a drink or two out of it.
Now, to my recent surprise, the world cup has started. Trinidad and Tobago against Finland. Most unfair, Finland should have teamed up with Sweden and given them a good thrashing.
Catalonia wanted to field its own team – after all, in the Reino Unido we have Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, England and the Scilly Isles all fighting their corner, so why shouldn’t the really-jolly-nearly independent republic of Catalunia have its own chaps? Spain (or if you prefer – the lumpenspain) is in fact quite in favour of the idea, considering that any Catalonian player found in the Spanish team would probably score an own-goal just out of spite.
When another country’s team plays, even if we couldn’t find it on a map, we roar with pleasure or rage. Pathetic. Personally, if Ethiopia beats Cyprus or not, I can truly claim not to care – as long as the office doesn’t close early again. |
| Richard Rambeau, July 2006 |
Catch it while you can! |
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Because I was a member of the Church of England General Synod (national parliament) for a number of years, I qualify to have an entry in ‘Who’s Who’ – that vast tome of personalities in English society. Each year I get an e-mail copy of my entry asking if it needs revising. I really thought that once I left General Synod and came to Spain to live, my entry would cease, but apparently once you are in it you are there for life! Some of the items one is invited to include make me smile as they indicate the sort of person they are really aiming at. How many London Clubs do I belong to? Easy – none! What books have I had published ? Easy – none!
But one question I can answer regards hobbies and interests – my entry records that for me these include cricket, theatre, music and travel. And it is this last item that I would like to say a word this month. A good number of friends and parishioners here in Mojácar have been on extensive travel recently, and while I envy the extent of some of these travels to pretty exotic places, I often do say to them ‘Grab the opportunity while you can’ – hence the title for this article.
Not that I have anything to complain about because I have been able to travel a lot more in these last three years than ever before, and much of it does not cost me anything as it is a part of my role in this large and scattered diocese. As a family too, we have been able to have some super holidays and see lovely places. These include some places here in Spain and we have hardly scratched the surface of these yet!
I have just come back from three days in Madrid – the first I have seen of Spain’s capital city except the airport – although a tough work schedule dominated my time there. As a family we are off on a cruise soon from Palma in Mallorca to Monte Carlo, Rome, Florence, Pisa and Calgari – an exciting prospect for us all.
Browsing in an airport bookshop I cam across a book listing and describing a number of places the author really wants to visit before he dies. This prompted me to think along similar lines; my list is nothing like as ambitious as that author, but even mine is unlikely to be complete before time runs out! So here they are – my list for what it is worth:
The Sistine Chapel in Rome – did that last year
The Holy Island of Iona – went there as chaplain many years ago
Santorini in the Greek Islands – on a cruise a long time ago
The Sphinx and Pyramids – yes I have done that one, a while back.
Gibraltar – I went earlier this year.
And those still on the list –
Sydney Opera House; Jerusalem; Peru; Lourdes; Taize; Santiago de Compostela; Austria – and of course I keep thinking of others! But I do count myself fortunate to have had the opportunity to visit so many place – especially since, until I was over the age of thirty, I had never been further afield than the Channel Islands!
I know of a good may people whose lives have been changed dramatically by visits to third world countries, and I guess I envy them too. I think of the likes of Bob Geldof and other well-known personalities who have done so much good as a result of visits to the likes of The Sudan, Ethiopia and Darfur.
How about you? What places have you visited and which have been the most memorable? It would be good to share these experiences.
Postscript – my last article on death and bereavement did, as I suspected it might, produce quite a reaction. Clearly many readers have had experiences – good and bad, and it is so good to know this. At the risk of repeating myself do make contact with me if you wish.
God Bless |
FATHER HUGH
www.mojacarchurch.org
hughbroad996@hotmail.com, July 2006 |
Cuenta conmigo |
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“Transacción no autorizada. Acuda a su sucursal.”
Perhaps that wasn’t the exact message on the pantalla táctil, but it was clear that this cajero automático wasn’t going to give me any money. I tried a machine outside a different bank, hoping to fool the system. “Permiso denegado.” Surely the small amount of “efectivo” I wanted didn’t put my account in números rojos?
I borrowed from a friend and later checked on the internet only to find that la cuenta was indeed suffering “un problema de liquidez”. There was money due in at any time, however, so, pasados unos días, I tried again. Esta vez the message said, “Tarjeta con banda magnética dañada.” La limpié on the seat of my jeans and tried again. The machine se la tragó.
Slow on the uptake though I am, I began to think there might actually be a problem and went into the bank to try and sort things out.
Although it wasn’t my sucursal, and I had no idea of my account number, my tarjeta de residencia identified me. Actually, not only was it not my branch, but I wasn’t even in Madrid. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they couldn’t tell me why the card had been swallowed. But they did tell me there was a new one waiting for me at my branch.
Así que - por fin - acudí a mi sucursal.
Sadly, estamos en verano. (I should have realised: after all, the whole of línea 3 del metro is closed and so is half of line 8 - the main airport line. With the efecto invernadero, you can’t judge the season from the weather anymore, but major metro closures tend to coincide with the tourist season.)
El horario de verano meant that la Caixa wasn’t open on Thursday afternoon which is usually their quiet time. There is, I suppose, a slight difference between un banco and una caja de ahorros: the former open los sábados por la mañana, the latter, los jueves por la tarde. But during the summer, when both take away these useful schedule deviations, there’s not much to choose between them.
Some say that the cajas are slightly more likely to have the personal touch. Certainly, when I finally got to my own branch the staff greeted me by name. As I stood in line I was hailed by the subdirectora: “Head Office cancelled your card.”
“¿Por qué?”
“Intentaron falsificarla.”
“¿Qué?”
“Ya te pedí otra.”
I guess that’s service for you. She’d arranged a replacement before I even knew I had a problem.
It being summer, I had una larga espera in the queue. Meanwhile, I looked at the folletos showing the products on offer. Personally, I think all those catálogos de regalos make it more like Argos than a bank and I get a bit sick of being offered crockery, a duvet, or a set of suitcases in exchange for investing my money. Admittedly, I do own an extensive juego de copas, courtesy of the Caixa, but I’d really rather get a decent interest rate.
Of course different banks have different condiciones y ofertas. Lately el Santander Central Hispano has been making a lot of fuss about charging cero comisiones. I suspect they’re financing this from the profits they made out of me when I was a client.
Dead to Rights
Then there’s the BBVA. A friend of mine tells me they have a “cuentas claras” policy whereby they charge a 12€ flat rate per month for all normal banking. This tarifa plana entitles you to some additional servicios like an advance of your nómina, or special loan terms. Except that my friend is self-employed and doesn’t have a nómina, so the fact that he’s been paying in a regular monthly amount for a year or so - and paying out these enormous monthly charges mientras tanto - doesn’t seem to qualify him for any of the benefits. Apparently the small print reads: “a la discreción del director”. And his bank manager is particularly discreet.
One product on offer from the Caixa which caught my eye is the seguro de repatriación. For a small cuota mensual you can insure yourself so that, en caso de fallecimiento, your body will be shipped home for burial. This is probably very important to some people, but I find it slightly macabre. My family know that my cenizas - or whoever else’s ashes are labelled as mine, if Jocelyn is right - can be used to enrich the soil of wherever I happen to be living at the time. Certainly the idea of shipping a corpse half way round the globe strikes me as nothing short of unecological and of no real use to anyone except script writers who produce películas de suspense so Jodie Foster can demonstrate how violently maternal she is.
One of the things about this insurance which confused me was the slogan: “regresarás y ayudarás a los tuyos.” I had to read the pamphlet a couple of times to work out how I was expected to be of help to los míos if I was dead. I’ll admit it: my first mental image was of zombie labourers. Then I visualised el cadaver being used as compost on the family farm. Eventually I realised that a lump sum must also be involved.
The same insurance offers a slightly surreal free gift: “una práctica mochila bandolera” - a real neat backpack. Some readers will know that the words “extranjero” and “mochila” trigger certain associations for me: it doesn’t seem the most appropriate gift, unless perhaps the insured party is hoping to get gunned down by an over zealous guardia and so go home and help his family.
Over the years, I’ve dealt with a vast number of banks and cajas in Spain and I don’t think there’s very much to choose between them. They all seem more willing to take money than pay it out, though the staff at each particular sucursal can at least make the process slightly less painful. I was pleased, therefore, when recently I came across what may be the first honest bank advert. Banco Castilla have brought out an account called Cuenta Con. “The Con Account”. Just about sums it up, doesn’t it?
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Obsessions |
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Most of us are nuts. Polite people manage to roll the word “neurotics” around their tongues while pointing their finger at 99% of the human population. Neuroses (it derives from two Greek words neuron, nerve and osis, abnormal condition) are part of every human being. I am yet to encounter a normal one.
Obsessions are part and parcel of neuroses. Some people avoid walking on cracks in the pavement for fear of falling through and finding themselves in the sewer system in company of rodents that know nothing of such madness. They are too busy spreading germs all over the system. A lot of people are rats and do exactly the same. Except that, as they are humans, they are more acceptable but just as virulent.
I walk in any town or village with my eyes firmly on the pavement. Not in fear of cracks but of dog shit. It is a disgrace that in our town that is one of the most beautiful and admired city in Andalucía the residents, although extremely conscious about their pets’ well-being (we have more vets than doctors), can let their dogs foul the pavements, the children’s playgrounds and the public parks. Every pet shop and vet sells the “pooperscoopers” but an ordinary plastic bag will do just as well.
Obsessions are not new. In the dark ages the sufferers of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) were thought to be “possessed”. The Church, in its eternal compassion and care for its flock, took to torture and kill the poor normal, if slightly different, members of a trusting congregation. In the 17th century obsessions and compulsions were described as “religious melancholy”. The Church did not let go. In 1660 the Bishop of Down and Connor in Ireland describe the OCD symptoms as “searching for trouble when troubles are over or doubting when doubts are resolved”. Well Bish.. This is a very simple way to see life… Nothing in this century of ours is that easy.
Phobias
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Some people are phobic about touching anybody and will require immediate washing or wiping of hands. I must admit that I have met a few individuals I would have preferred to keep at bay instead of shaking paws with. Shakespeare (or one of his pretty boy pupils) might have started the ball rolling on that one with the words in Macbeth:”Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood from my hand?” Or words to that effect. I can’t check. Somebody not quite as obsessed with books as we are borrowed the complete works, moved to Portugal never to be seen again. He and the works.
Of course, centuries later, another pain in the neck, Sigmund Freud, could not leave OCD alone and had to put his spoke in the wheel. He wrote at length an airtight masterpiece of evasion on the subject that is totally incomprehensible even to the Stanford School of Medicine in the States. True to our Siggy, he had to mix a heavy dose of sex, frustration, anxiety, preoccupation with dirt, germs and deep moral questions. Obsessions that most of us freely admit to having these days. At least – to ourselves.
According to another boff of our time, Dr. Boeree, (he and Freud could have been clinging together like a pair of socks out of the drier), OCD can involve anxiety, sadness or depression, anger, irritability, mental confusion, impulsive and compulsive acts, disturbing thoughts, negativity and cynicism etc…
That describes me to the proverbial T. As well as most of the people I know who are riding the same wave.
Picture This
This article came about when an item of news scratched one of my obsessions: waste of money. Sotheby’s of New-York hit the jackpot last week when a Picasso picture was sold to an anonymous buyer for 52,000,000 Pounds Sterling.
One of the Spanish local newspapers printed a colour picture of this so-called work of art. It is called “Dora Maar with cat”. She was one of his many mistresses and apparently they had a hell of a tumultuous relationship. No wonder. On the picture she has two eyes but each one on different faces. Her hands look like those of a laboratory skeleton. Her boobs are sitting on her knees. I was searching for the cat and Chris spotted it on the back of the chair. Very small but well drawn and looking real. Picasso certainly had an obsession about making women look ugly but then he must have made a pact with animals. Animals do not stand for nonsense.
Think of what could be done with fifty two millions pounds! A hospital in one of those countries that desesperately need it, with a trust to keep it going? A few schools where there aren’t any, a shower of free school books to needy establishments around the world like the Country and Western singer Dolly Parton is doing every year, technical colleges in the heart of stricken Africa so locals would be technically self- relying.
And so on. What kind of obsession does the buyer of this painting suffer from?
There are treatments for advanced cases of OCD. But as the Stanford School of Medicine points out it requires the full cooperation of the patient;” it may be that some patients are not sufficiently advanced in intelligence and self-control to benefit from the treatment”.
The new owner of “Dora Maar and a cat” seems to fall into that category. Poor rich man.
I suffer badly from OCD. One of my obsessions is to find good produces to cook tasty and healthy meals. Difficult these days. At the Sierra de Yeguas Asparagus fair a few weeks ago there was a stand of ecologically grown vegetables and fruit. Normally I don’t touch those because of the excessive prices. Understandably this kind of culture requires more manual handling, but as a grower if you are that obsessed about being green then tighten your belt and drop your prices. Strong convictions require sacrifices.
Anyway I bought a carrier bag full of different veg and fruit. The artichokes were tough even after hours of cooking (not a very energy saving exercise), the beetroots lacked taste, the cucumbers were bitter, the pears never ripened and the leeks, I discovered too late, had bolted. Very disappointing.
The following day I shopped at our local supermarket (one of this huge chain of emporia). The strawberries were cheap and I picked up a punnet, turned it upside down. The bottom layer was rotten. It took the turning of a few punnets to find one that looked healthy in the bottom. Once home I discovered that it was the middle layer that was white with mildew. Anxiety and frustration set in and even the cats found refuge under sofas and armchairs. I had wasted money.
If you happen to buy good strawberries when they are really cheap, make a coulis to be used on ice-cream, pies, tarts or cakes. Wash the berries with the hulls still on. This is important. You don’t want water to get inside the fruit. Then hull them, cut them up if too big and put them in a liquidiser with a handful of sugar per 250gms, the juice of half a lemon, a turn of the pepper mill (yes) and a pinch of cinnamon. Whiz in a liquidiser until very smooth. You might want to pass it through a sieve to catch the stray seeds.
I don’t. I am not that obsessed. |
The Brigadier writes... |
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As a moderate man, little annoys me or arouses my displeasure.
However… to say that I don’t much care for either yobbos or soccer would be a quiet way of pinpointing the two things that are most likely to make me not so quietly burst a blood vessel. When both phenomena are thrust upon us together – and for a lengthy period when you can neither open a newspaper nor turn on a television without being assaulted by the sight of yobbos either playing the damn game or, even worse, talking about it, then you have a perfect representation of this Brigadier’s worst nightmare. What is even more disturbing is when people you would usually consider to be normal start adopting yobbo tendencies to make the real yobbos feel at ease. What could be more sickening than our Prime Minister dignifying this ghastly festival by flying two England flags from his official car - or the Leader of the Opposition (an Old Etonian no less) turning up at the yobbiest of yobbo parties hosted by the Beckhams.
Add to this scenario, the fact that our feisty nineteen-year-old granddaughter Jessica is billeted with us at ‘The Barracks’ having spent her gap year doing voluntary work in Rio de Janeiro – and you’ll have an idea of how uncomfortable life has become for yours sincerely.
Even my dear wife Arabella sees me as a bit of a ‘stick in the mud’ and, the other evening, to make my discomfort complete, she helped Jessica paint the St. George’s flag on her face. This was in preparation for Jessica being allowed to take our old bone-rattling family Bentley down to a Mojacar beach-bar to watch England play Sweden on a giant screen in front of a seething mass of half-naked British hooligans. I was fortunately spared the indignity after the match of watching Jessica parade the car along the promenade with an entire ‘look-alike’ cast of Eastenders draped from its windows and running boards.
At the time of going to press, it seems that both Spain and England will be going into the last stages of the competition and of course the longer either or both stay in it the more extreme and unpleasant the behaviour along the Carboneras to Garrucha seafront will become. Let us just pray that we are not heading for an England versus Spain final, which could produce a devastation not seen since the invasion of the Moors!
Seven Veils
Talking of which we have just lived through Mierda del Mar’s annual Moors and Christians fiesta. This involves one day of celebrating the arrival of the Moors and a second day of greater celebration as the Christians unceremoniously kick them out. It is quite a spectacle and it seems as though at least half the town dress up as Moors or Christians and take part in the various re-enactments of this part of Mierda’s history. This year was given added interest when Arabella made an accidental appearance towards the end of the celebrations as a member of the Grand Vizier’s harem.
It’s difficult to explain quite how it happened but I’m sure that if she hadn’t changed out of her gardening clothes into something she considered more suitable, and she hadn’t also been quite so near the ‘Tio Grossero’ sangria fountain, the family would have been spared a lot of embarrassment. As it was, she was thrust into a wagon with the other members of the harem and was about to be paraded through the streets to be ceremonially ‘scorned’ by town officials, townspeople and the usual collection of unwashed tourists. Fortunately, at this stage, the Grand Vizier himself – played by Jesus, the male half of our live-in couple at ‘The Barracks’- stepped in to attempt her release. This involved some awkward ad-libbing between him and the Archbishop of Mierda del Mar who also happened to be known to us as one of the Guardia officers who had been debagged a couple of weeks ago by Tizzie and Tottie, our normally docile Great Danes. Finally, with the promise of further invitations to ‘The Barracks’ for a few malt whisky sundowners, Arabella was returned to us with very little harm done.
Barbed Wire
In the last issue, you may remember I promised to keep you informed about the correspondence that my younger brother Harry had initiated with the ex-Education Secretary Ruth Kelly who had been revealed as a self-flagellating member of Opus Dei. As a fellow believer in corporal mortification he was disappointed - not to say even slightly offended – to be denied the courtesy of a reply.
The particular devices she uses to keep her faith up to scratch are still therefore somewhat of a mystery. However, my old chum Tarquin, who knows most of the civil servants in the Education Department, tells me that they favour a theory that when she was at her dynamic debating best, a pair of barbed wire knickers were never far from the despatch box.
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Los Moros y Cristianos |
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Mojácar’s Moors and Christians is a fine old traditional fiesta which dates all the way back to 1988 when somebody decided to dress up as a Moor – a north African warrior – and following this sartorial decision went on a three day bender in Mojácar, finally waking up in the holding cell of the Almería immigration Police where only a bent and slightly moist Spanish identity card stood between the hung-over celebrant and a one-way trip to Casablanca.
His shoe-prints can still be found on the inside back door of the Mojácar paddy-wagon, next to the dent caused by Peter Honey’s head as he engineered his daring escape on a steep hill approaching the Huercal Overa hospital after being taken, unconscious and just in time, from the gentlemen’s lavatory located, vaguely speaking, somewhere behind the Bar Indalo.
Times change, and now thousands of people annually dress up as Moors (a sheet, a pair of slippers and a readily available ID card being the main features) or as Christians, where an all-weather suit, an orange tie, brogues and a trilby hat is the obligatory dress. It's theoretically the celebration of an agreement made over a glass of blackberry juice in 1488 by the local mayor (a Moor) and the leader of the besieging Christian forces who was anxious to carry on towards Granada (where you could get a decent beer).
The three-day jag ended on the Sunday afternoon (June 11th) with an endless procession through the main square of our town and off, away down the hill to the awaiting busses below. Six well-represented guilds, in full and exquisite costume, made the march-past, with a ambulatory band between each one to keep the peace and provide musical refreshment for those onlookers too foolish to have found shade and shelter in one of our agreeable if slightly over-priced bars. Although no tomatoes were thrown, no bulls were loosed and the paella had all gone by the time I had found a plastic plate and had scraped it more or less clean, the Moors and Christians was once again shown to be a festival that is certainly worth visiting.
Don’t miss it next year, or better still, put yourself down to join one of the associations or ‘kábilas’ (tell them I sent you). |
The True History of Mojácar- Ch. II |
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Each year the proud and loud Moors and Christians parade from top to bottom of Mojácar pueblo. Then… they vanish for another year. These warriors in fact live in a peaceful co-existence in a secret network of tunnels and caves under the pueblo.
This troglodyte town originated with the 1521 repairs to Mojácar’s fortifications, which had been damaged by the fierce earthquake that that had ravaged the area. The terrible noise of stone breaking, hammering, sudden structural collapse, and the non-stop yelling at the beasts of burden (rather like the noise that goes on these days in Mojácar menos Cilla Black and Eminem), was ideal cover for the tunnelling of the Moors and Christians, who had decided to move underground to avoid the rule-makers, tax men, planners and especially the man who collected fines from the town hall. It is said that many experienced miners from Bédar and El Pinar were happily trotting down from their remote habitations in the hills to join the new troglodytes, and work proceeded quickly downwards.
A central core was retained and reinforced with masonry, in addition to giving a sturdy structural spine to the diggings, the cave also contained a sophisticated air-circulation system, until recently powered by tethered falcons in small hillside crevices.
The living quarters are on the top level over the workshops, where for the last 450 years a bewildering collection of jarapas, replica coins, ashtrays of every shape and style, together with plaster plaques and cheap jewellery, have been manufactured and smuggled to the surface.
The rock being relatively soft and veined meant the tunnels and caverns were excavated in a random and eccentric pattern, but they often end in a hillside cave, where false walls, moved on rails by elaborate machinery driven by rather tubby, pampered donkeys, are opened on quiet nights to give the falcons a rest from their ventilation chores.
Under the workshops is the kitchen and garden level. The diet is mostly quiche and tortilla provided by cooks who pluck the mushrooms and potatoes from the walls and ceiling as required, with a plenteous supply of eggs – not exactly free range – but you can’t have everything! Poultry underground? Have you never been wandering home from a fiesta in the early hours, heard cocks crowing, hens clucking, but never one to be seen?!
The diet nowadays includes fish, as around 200 years ago a tunnel was completed to the sea, under the private tributary of the Fuente, where the water is hauled up to the kitchens, workshops and living quarters. |
Household Pets with David The Dogman |
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This month, David writes about cats.
Cat Spraying in the House
Jane writes:
"My 8-year-old cat has started spraying in the house. He was neutered at the proper age, and is an indoor cat. He started spraying about two years ago, at first infrequently, but now it's pretty bad. He is also in good health."
Answer
Inappropriate elimination is the number one behaviour problem reported to vets by cat owners, with both males and females found to be equally at fault. While it can be caused by a urinary tract infection or illnesses such as colitis, often there's no medical cause, which seems to be the case with your cat.
Often you'll blame yourself or something you must have done for putting kitty off-track. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. Urine marking, or what's typically called "spraying," is an expression of territorial dominance found in both cats and dogs. It's associated with the rubbing of body oils from the chin and tail on favourite objects (and favourite people).
Spraying, however, typically occurs when a cat feels like placing an advertisement that sex is available. It increases during mating season and particularly during "courtship." It's the feline way to send the message "Hey, this is my boudoir - keep out!" Of course, getting your cat neutered will almost always solve this cause of spraying. But it can also happen when a cat feels threatened by an intruder. An indoor cat may see a new neighbourhood cat spraying on or near the house. Indoor kitty will initiate defensive activity involving spraying and possibly other behaviour such as running to the door, hissing or growling at the window, and obsessively watching the rival. It can also occur when a new cat is introduced into the house. Basically, anything that disturbs the cat's routine and arouses the cat or is perceived as a threat can elicit spraying.
It's important to evaluate what could possibly be causing your cat's stress which is, in turn, causing the spraying. Attempt to determine if any outdoor cats are tormenting your cat. If so, either try and drive the outdoor cat away or block the view of your indoor cat (both of which can be, admittedly, difficult). Think back - is there any household behaviour which may have changed in the past year or two, since the spraying activity began? Any new addition (even a human) to the house hold can cause stress to your cat.
Finally, if spraying seems to be occurring in the same locations, try breaking kitty of going in these areas. Commercial cat repellents, mothballs in cloth bags, orange peels, and rubbing alcohol will all tend to keep kitty away. You can also try setting the cat's food dish near the spot, as cats don't like to soil near their feeding area.
You can also try upside-down mousetraps or aluminium foil spread on the floor. Unfortunately, the spraying may just relocate to another part of the house in this instance.
Unfortunately, there's no single cause for spraying and, consequently, no magic cure-all. Careful observation and trial-and-error are the only sure fire solutions. Still, you may at least now have a place to start.
Good luck!
Cat napping
If you think your cat is always asleep, you're not far wrong. Cats sleep an average of 16 hours a day, with two-thirds of the time spent in light sleep and a third in deep slumber. We don't know why they need to spend so much time napping, but electroencephalographic studies have shown that they do dream in deep sleep.
Do cats have a sixth sense?
Many perfectly rational people believe so, and there are innumerable accounts of cats who know when their owners are on the way home. In some cases, the cat's finely tuned hearing picks up the first faint sound of a familiar car engine, but that does not explain the majority of incidents.
Certainly, over the years that I have treated big cats, I have become convinced they can detect my mood. They treat me completely differently if I am in an optimistic, cheerful frame of mind or if I am down, doubtful or preoccupied. Their heightened sense of smell may detect changes in the chemical makeup of our perspiration, but I could it be more than just their acute senses? As yet, science has no answer.
Cat Communication
Miaow - Feed me.
Meeow - Pet me.
Mrooww - I love you.
Miioo-oo-oo - I am in love and must meet my betrothed outside beneath the hedge. Don't wait up.
Mrow - I feel like making noise.
Rrrow-mawww - Please, the time has come to tidy the litter box
Rrrow-miaww - I have remedied the cat box untidiness by shovelling the contents as far out of the box as was practical.
Miaowmiaow - Play with me
Miaowmioaw - Have you noticed the shortage of available cat toys in this room?
Mioawmioaw - Since I can find nothing better to play with, I shall see what happens when I sharpen my claws on this handy piece of furniture
Raoww - I think I shall now spend time licking the most private parts of my anatomy.
Mrowww- I am now recalling, with sorrow, that some of my private parts did not return with me from that visit to the vet.
Roww-maww-roww - I am so glad to see that you have returned home with both arms full of groceries. I will now rub myself against your legs and attempt to trip you as you walk towards the kitchen.
Gakk-ak-ak - My digestive passages seem to have formed a hairball. Wherever could this have come from? I shall leave it here upon the carpeting.
Mow - Snuggling is a good idea.
Moww - Shedding is pretty good too
Mowww!- I was enjoying snuggling and shedding in the warm clean laundry until you removed me so unkindly.
Miaow! Miaow! - I have discovered that, although one may be able to wedge his body through the gap behind the stove and into that little drawer filled with pots and pans, the reverse path is slightly more difficult to navigate.
Mraakk! - Oh, small and beautiful bird! Please come over here.
SsssRoww! - I believe that I have found a field-mouse or similar animal.
Mmmrowmmm - It is certain that the best tasting fish is one you have caught yourself.
Mmmmmmm - If I sit in the sunshine for another hour or so, I think I shall be satisfied.
Mreoaw - Please ask room service to send up another can of tuna fish.
Mreeeow - Do you serve catnip with that?
Mroow - I have forced my body into a tiny space in order to look cute. How am I doing?
Miaooww! Mriaow! - Since you are using the can opener, I am certain that you understand the value of a well-fed and pampered cat. Please continue. |
| Extracted from David the Dogman's A-Z Guide to Dogs © copyright www.thedogman.net, July 2006 |
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Picasso Sting
Dear Sir, On March 31 my wife and I, together with another couple, visited the Museo Picasso, Malaga. Our rucksacks were scanned, cameras detected, and we were told they could not be taken in. We were obliged to surrender them, leaving a camera in each rucksack behind the counter with the half dozen staff who are working the scam. When we returned two hours later, both cameras had been removed from the separately deposited bags. Complaints to the staff on the spot were met with an immediate, “It could not happen here”, and subsequent denuncias to the Malaga police were met with apparent boredom. We revisited the museum to see how it was done. Bags containing valuables are put under the counter where they cannot be seen, either when initially deposited, or after the visitor has entered the museum. As soon as the owner is out of sight, one of the staff crouches down, removes the camera, the bag is then put on the shelves in open view, and the next bag is put under the counter ready to have its valuables removed. It is not possible for one member of staff to do this without them all being aware. Now when my camera is stolen in the street, that is my fault. But when I am forced to surrender it at one of Spain’s most prestigious museums, and it is stolen by those who force me to deposit it, that is a national scandal. The combined value of our cameras was some 700 euros. Even if only 50 cameras a day are stolen from the thousands of visitors, that means a turnover for the criminals in excess of a million euros annually. It is well-organised crime on a major scale, with probably a distribution network. Many may not check their bags until later, and be unsure when their camera was stolen. Subsequent written complaints to both the police and the museum director outlining the above are ignored. (Correspondence copies available.) One is entitled to wonder about the extent of the web of corruption in this institution. The situation is a national disgrace.
I am sending this letter to all who may be able to warn tourists about this, and to all Spanish authorities. Furthermore, if any visitors to the Museo Picasso Malaga have lost their cameras in a similar way, would they please email (the editor), or phone me on UK 01209 860834.
A.Barkhuysen, Via e-mail.
Exposure
Dear Sir, There has been considerable media coverage in both the Spanish and English national and regional press with the recent John Doust mortgage fraud handled by the Málaga Provincial Fraud Squad of the Policia Nacional making big news. The BBC TV News 24 Hours team came here recently to interview me, representing the Costa del Sol Action group (www.costa-action.co.uk), and victims of mis-selling by mostly British financial advisers.
The famous ITN newscaster Sir Trevor Macdonald is coming here in July for Granada TV in the UK to make a major documentary about Costa frauds and scandals including Ballena Blanca, Operacion Malaya, the prospect of foreigners' houses being demolished for illegal construction, mis-selling of
investments and mortgage fraud.
I also have the Norwegian daily newspaper Dagbladet looking for Norwegian victims. Are there also Norwegian people who would talk to the Norwegian newspaper?
Sir Trevor will be conducting an interview with me and this programme will be broadcast at prime time all over the UK.
The British newspapers are planning major reports on the scandals on the Spanish Costas.
I am especially looking for people, ideally British, who have been victims of fraud here in Spain, or have been innocently involved in the Marbella planning permissions scandal and who may as a result lose their homes because of illegal construction and who would be willing to talk on TV.
I remember that the house in Los Monteros of Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffiths is one that might be demolished.
I should be grateful for any assistance you can give me.
Un cordial saludo,
Gwilym Rhys-Jones, Adviser and Investigator. Costa del Sol Action Group
www.costa-action.co.uk E-mail: gwilymr-j@terra.es Tel: 951 31 82 77
Sales are Up!
Dear Sir, Our local gas station, with lead-free now at 1.16€, is doing wonderful business these days. You can pick up a box of chocolates, a bottle of whisky, some french letters or, of course, a sex-video while you are there. For some reason, they don’t sell cigarettes any more. It’s probably a moral thing.
R. Rambeau
Vera Mental Home
Loyalty Bonus
Hi Lenox, so, tell me – what exactly is a ‘loyalty bonus’?
Mortimer Dave, e-mail
It’s a bit like putting glue in a competitor’s lock or pinching their staff. Thankfully it’s very rare. The idea is to get customers to agree not to spread their business elsewhere in exchange for a special discount. In newspaper terms, bullying a target into not advertising in your enemy’s magazine. I can’t imagine anyone stooping so low. Well, hardly. Ed.
Renewals on the Padrón Municipal
Dear Friends, Due to much confusion, among the Europeans as well as in the municipal administration, when it comes to the need of registering or renewing a registration in the Padrón Municipal, the registry of inhabitants, the Ciudadanos Europeos association has had correspondence with the electoral office (Oficina Electoral) in the national statistical institute (I.N.E.). Based on the clarifications from this office, we can sum up the situation as follows:
1) All European citizens staying in Spain permanently or for longer periods of the year should register themselves in the padrón municipal, even if they do not intend to take part in municipal or European elections in Spain. Our town halls are receiving a certain yearly subsidy from the government per registered habitant, paying for upkeep of roads, street lighting, sewage, local police and other services. If one is using the services, one should contribute by registering on the padrón.
2) Moreover certain services depends on the number of registered habitants of each municipality, such as local police agents, employees in the post office and number of pharmacies. If one wants to complain about local services, the lack of security or failing mail distribution, the first thing to do is register in the padrón.
3) Some foreigners fear that they will have additional tax obligation when they register in the padrón. This is not correct. One’s fiscal registration with the Spanish authorities was done when taking out the NIE-number, that we all have.
Others believe that one can only register in the padrón if one is resident. This is also wrong. A non-resident is welcome to register when exhibiting a title deed for a dwelling or a long-term letting contract.
4) To be able to vote in the municipal elections in 2007, one will have to enter the padrón municipal now, to be included in the list of electors. If one as a citizen from a EU country was on the list of electors during last elections and had made the declaration of wanting to use the voting rights in Spain, there is no need for any new registration. One must only control the electoral roll once it is presented (in the beginning of 2007) to make sure that ones name has not fallen out by technical errors.
5) The EU-citizens that have registered in the padrón municipal since the last municipal election, but not yet given a declaration that they want to use their voting rights in Spain, can use a form available in all town halls. From September this year they will also get a letter from the Oficina del Censo Electoral, giving them the option.
Per Svensson Ciudadanos Europeos |
Puppies for sale |
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It’s a two-hour drive from home to puppy heaven, and I’m not too sure about the directions. My wife has the paper with some vague notes I’d got off the phone, but, hey! We’re here nonetheless. Press the buzzer! Open the gates! Conchita will be with us in a moment! She’s taking pictures of a clutch of baby Cockers.
She welcomes us in, together with a pack of chattering Briards. Hi, make yourself at home, I shan’t be long. We bee-lined for the nursery.
The crèche was warm, damp and knee-deep in puppies. Well, it would have been if Conchita had opened up all the cages. In one, eight puppies were with their mother, a terrier. In others, they were by themselves as their mothers were outside, taking the air. In a box on the floor, more puppies mewled and grunted as a matronly Basset hound looked on fondly.
Conchita bustles in. She smiles and drops to the box where our puppies are. She signs to us to join in the fun. On your knees! On the floor!
I was assailed by a generous selection of juniors all either wagging anything that occurred to them, or if younger still, gently mouthing an outstretched finger.
It’s such a delight to spend some time with puppies. This time, without guilt or remorse. These little chaps have cards, tattoos and pedigrees. I’m not going to argue the advantages here of a breed puppy over a tattered inmate from the pound. It takes all sorts. They all need loving.
A kitten watched gravely as I handled a puppy. Turn it over and see if it trusts you, someone said, so I did.
Outside, more young dogs in caged runs, with still others running free. A couple of Chihuahuas politely asked if they might nibble on something small as some doves landed on the roof of the nearby bungalow and cooed at the bedlam. Out came the finger again.
We’re sat in a comfortable office in a house with wooden floors and open windows just outside Elche, the town famous for its stone carving of a mysterious queen or goddess from prehistoric times. But this is canine country. Conchi Valenti, the owner of Dasilva, is a licenced breeder of a selection of dogs, she grooms and kennels her extended family and sundry guests and she somehow still finds time to go on the show circuit. Everything is clean and ordered. Conchita has help from her parents and a friend, as long as they follow her notes. She was off that very afternoon to the Azores in search of another silver cup for the collection on a sideboard in her office. Pictures of past champions are pinned to the wall and the phone buzzes regularly with questions, orders and advice from her extended address listings. The clatter and yelps of her wards echo through the window.
We are here to buy a puppy. We’ve chosen two (one of which…) and we’ve paid a deposit. We’ll be back when the litter is six weeks old.
Dasilva. Elche, Alicante. Phone 96 545 35 36. www.perrosdasilva.com. |
| Richard Rambeau, July 2006 |
(Cash, Freedom and the Serial Killer) |
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The football World Cup kicked off on June 9th, bathed in the sparkling sunlight of a German summer. Thirty-two of the world's top national sides contesting football's biggest trophy. But it's not the soccer I've been watching, but the commercial manoeuverings of the multi-nationals.
As I settle down by the television to watch the games, more and more I notice the brands, logos and symbolism of the giant corporations flooding into my living space. Commercialism, or 'brandalism' as it is more commonly known, is everywhere. The 'signifiers' of the world's largest international businesses are constantly flashed at us as we watch the action, and financial gain is the sole driver.
In the last 22 years, sponsorship of the World Cup has increased from $2billion to a whoppingly majestic (sounds like a burger if you want a clue) $16 billion. The payback for companies forking out to sponsor the competition and advertise their products via television and other media - newspapers, magazines and the internet - is equally massive (Note to Editor: ring the sports shoe people). To tag your logo or brand to the 'official' FIFA World Cup generates huge income. Adidas, for example, whose three stripe logo has pride of place on the advertising hoardings around the pitch at televised games, expect to pocket a cool $1.2 billion. Not a bad return for an initial $40 million stake.
Consider the above in relation to the 35 billion audience who tuned in to the 2002 World Cup. The final itself was watched by an incredible 1.2 billion audience. That's a heck of a lot of exposure. It means that an enormous number of people are being constantly bombarded by the logos, brands and subtle symbolism of the planet's biggest corporations as they simply watch football.
This year there are no fewer than 16 'official' sponsors, including Budweiser, McDonalds and T-Mobile. So, no prizes for guessing what drive-through the television audience will be using for food, or six-pack they'll pick up to watch the game with, or network they'll use to tell their friends the score.
The costs to Germany for hosting the competition will hover at around $350 million for improving roads and linking the routes to the stadium. Add to this some $1.7 billion to renovate stadia, including those in Berlin and Leipzig, and you get some idea of the astronomical numbers being tossed around. Such outlay, of course, will be offset by the money the country attracts via visiting fans and their spending power.
A study into the economic flow-through as a result of the 1994 World Cup held in the USA, estimated that in Los Angeles county alone spending on food, drink and accommodation accounted for $305 million.
With something like 3 million fans expected to visit Germany in the month of the tournament, the boost to the German economy will be colossal.
Maybe in four years time when the next World Cup is held in South Africa, a new competition to run in tandem with the football might be introduced. It could be called The World Brand Cup, with the multi-national making the most cash from their sponsorship investment, prime-time TV slot and high profile magazine and newspaper inserts being declared winners.
THE UNITED STATES OF SPAIN?
Is Spain breaking up?
It is beginning to look that way to a growing number of Spaniards, as the present government is actively involved in encouraging the presentation of 'blueprints' from regions seeking to increase their autonomy. Catalonia is the latest to test their 'perceived' nationhood by holding a vote on what is being called 'the statute'.
The new legislation, sanctioned by Madrid, was easily carried. Around 75% of those Catalonians who turned out, voted in favour of the new charter.
Acceptance of the document means the region will have a greater share of revenues raised and more say in the appointment of judges and prosecutors. In addition they will enjoy 'indirect' recognition of Catalonia as a ‘nation’. I have to admit, I am not quite sure what an 'indirect' proclamation of Catalonia as a 'nation' actually means or is understood to mean by the rest of the world.
For some, however, such moves toward increased autonomy have brought howls of protest and a distinct feeling within the country that the 'nation' - as opposed to the 'indirect' one - is beginning to break apart.
Opposition leader Mariano Rajoy has condemned the government and has intimated that these new pieces of legislation effectively mean the beginning of the end for the Spanish state. His fellow Spaniards are equally nervous. Around 54% of those surveyed in a recent newspaper poll objected to the idea increased autonomy across the regions.
The most vigilant of all, of course, will be the Basques. They have fought an often tenacious and always bloody battle for self-determination. One can only wonder if Zapatero is leading the Spanish down a dark alley from which there is no return.
BITSEVSKY PARK
Talking of dark alleys, It's like something out of a Hollywood movie, only it is for real. Someone is murdering people, late at night in Bitsevsky Park, Moscow.
The latest victim was a young woman battered to death, and found with small wooden stakes driven into her eyeballs. She is the 16th slaying of what the Moscow press have called the Bitsevsky Maniac. All 16 victims have been discovered in heavily forested parts of the park.
Police have said that until the discovery of the, as yet, unnamed woman, all the corpses had been those of men aged between 50 and 70 and all had been battered around the head by a heavy object. The killer does not rob or take any belongings from his victims and commits his crimes only under cover of darkness.
What makes the location more interesting is the proximity of a nearby hospital for the psychologically disturbed, some of whom, apparently, are allowed to wander in the park unattended...
A small wind has risen. Leaves are fluttering around my feet as I walk my dog. I had not noticed how gloomy it had become and it has caught me unawares. I had been deep in thought going over in my mind what I would write for the next Europhoria column and did not notice the descending darkness. Behind me I think I hear someone move, I swing round, perhaps it was the wind. Buster! Buster! Here boy, we are going home! |
THE THINGS THEY SEND |
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A wife was making a breakfast of fried eggs for her husband. Suddenly, her husband burst into the kitchen. "Careful," he said, "CAREFUL! Put in some more butter! Oh my GOD! You're cooking too many at once. TOO MANY! Turn them! TURN THEM NOW! We need more butter. Oh my GOD! WHERE are we going to get MORE BUTTER? They're going to STICK! Careful .. CAREFUL! I said be CAREFUL! You NEVER listen to me when you're cooking! Never! Turn them! Hurry up! Are you CRAZY? Have you LOST your mind? Don't forget to salt them. You know you always forget to salt them. Use the salt. USE THE SALT! THE SALT!"
The wife stared at him. "What in the world is wrong with you? You think I don't know how to fry a couple of eggs?"
The husband calmly replied, "I wanted to show you what it feels like when I'm driving."
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The gender of nonliving things (why should the Spanish have all the fun?).
Ziploc Bags are Male, because they hold everything in, but you can see right through them.
Copiers are Female, because once turned off; it takes a while to warm them up again. It's an effective reproductive device if the right buttons are pushed, but can wreak havoc if the wrong buttons are pushed.
A Tire is Male, because it goes bald and it's often over-inflated.
A Hot Air Balloon is Male, because, to get it to go anywhere, you have to light a fire under it, and of course, there's the hot air part.
Sponges are Female, because they're soft, squeezable and retain water.
A Web Page is Female, because it's always getting hit on.
An Underground Railway is Male, because it uses the same old lines to pick people up.
An Hourglass is Female, because over time, the weight shifts to the bottom.
A Hammer is Male, because it hasn't changed much over the last 5,000 years, but it's handy to have around.
A Remote Control is Female. Ha! You thought it'd be male, didn't you? But consider this - it gives a man pleasure, he'd be lost without it, and while he doesn't always know the right buttons to push, he keeps trying!
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One day, a man came home and was greeted by his wife dressed in a very sexy nightie.
"Tie me up," she purred, "and you can do anything you want."
So he tied her up and went golfing
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(From our letters page) Man goes on diet of only Monkey Food
Imagine going to the grocery store only once every 6 months. Imagine paying less than a euro per meal. Imagine never washing dishes, chopping vegetables or setting the table ever again. It sounds pretty good, doesn't it?
But can a human subsist on a constant diet of pelletized, nutritionally complete food like puppies and monkeys do? For the good of human kind, I'm about to find out. On June 3, 2006, I began my week of eating nothing but monkey nosh: "a complete and balanced diet for the nutrition of primates, including the great apes."
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Here’s his report for Day 4 (Yesterday). He’s lost 4 pounds already.
Stats: Height: 5'11"
Weight: 165 lbs
Mood: a touch manic
Monkey-like Attributes: moderate desire to fling poop.
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When Stephen found out he was going to inherit a fortune when his sickly father died, he decided he needed a woman to enjoy it with. So one evening he went to a singles bar where he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her natural beauty took his breath away. "I may look like just an ordinary man," he said as he walked up to her "but in just a week or two, my father will die, and I'll inherit 20 million dollars."
Impressed, the woman went home with him that evening and, three days later, she became his stepmother.
Women are so much smarter than men...
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You know you’re skint when…
1. American Express calls and says: "Leave home without it!"
2. You wash your toilet paper
3. You're formulating a plan to rob the food bank.
4. Long distance companies don't call you to switch anymore.
5. You look at your roommate and see a large fried chicken in tennis shoes.
6. At communion you go back for seconds.
7. You finally clean your house, hoping to find change.
8. You think of a lottery ticket as an investment.
9. You give blood everyday... just for the orange juice.
10. McDonald's supplies you with all your kitchen condiments.
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Buy Mom
A guy shopping in a supermarket noticed a little old lady following him around. If he stopped, she stopped. Furthermore she kept staring at him. She finally overtook him at the checkout, and she turned to him and said, "I hope I haven't made you feel ill at ease; it's just that you look so much like my late son."
He answered, "That's okay."
"I know it's silly, but if you'd call out "Good bye, Mom" as I leave the store, it would make me feel so happy."
She then went through the checkout... and as she was on her way out of the store, the man called out, "Goodbye, Mother."
The little old lady waved and smiled back at him.
Pleased that he had brought a little sunshine into someone's day, he went to pay for his groceries.
"That comes to $121.85," said the clerk.
"How come so much? I only bought 5 items.."
The clerk replied, "Yeah, but your Mother said you'd pay for her things, too."
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This morning, from a cave somewhere in Pakistan, Taliban Minister of Migration, Mohammed Omar, warned the United States that if military action against Iraq continues, Taliban authorities will cut off America's supply of convenience store managers.
And if this action does not yield sufficient results, cab drivers will be next, followed by Dell customer service reps.
It's getting ugly.
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How to come home drunk and still get a hot breakfast:
Jack wakes up with a huge hangover the night after a business function.
He forces himself to open his eyes and the first thing he sees is a couple of aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table. And, next to them, a single red rose!
Jack sits up in bed and sees his clothing in front of him, all clean and pressed.
Jack looks around the room and sees that it is in perfect order, spotlessly clean. So is the rest of the house. He takes the aspirins, cringes when he sees a huge black eye staring back at him in the bathroom mirror and notices a note on the table:
"Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to go shopping - Love you!!"
He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is hot breakfast and the morning newspaper. His son is also at the table, eating. Jack asks, "Son...what happened last night?"
"Well, you came home after 3 am, drunk and out of your mind. You broke the coffee table, puked in the hallway and got that black eye when you ran into the door."
"So, why is everything in such perfect order, so clean, I have a rose and breakfast is on the table waiting for me?"
His son replies, "Oh, THAT!...Mom dragged you to the bedroom and when she tried to take your pants off, you screamed, "Leave me alone, bitch, I'm married!!!".
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Things that are difficult to say when you're drunk:
Indubitably
Innovative
Preliminary
Proliferation
Cinnamon
Things that are very difficult to say when you're drunk:
Specificity
British Constitution
Passive-aggressive disorder
Loquacious Transubstantiate
Things that are downright impossible to say when you're drunk:
Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.
Nope, no more beer for me.
Sorry, but you're not really my type.
Good evening officer, isn't it lovely out tonight.
Oh, I just couldn't.
No one wants to hear me sing.
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| Collected By Danielle Quigley and Arnold Jay Barco, July 2006 |
© 2006 Radio Mojácar S.L.
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