Spain 2005 - Day 13

Last full day today. We’re leaving early tomorrow for the flight home so everyone will be making the most of their last day by relaxing by the pool.

I didn’t see the two gay men at breakfast this morning. I think they must have gone home thank God.

I’ve just looked up from my sun bed and the pool area looks remarkably empty but then I realised why. Most of the Germans were gathered at the far end, milling around a large map that one of them had pinned to a palm tree. I slowly got up and edged towards them. From my hiding position in the long grass just around the corner I realised what was on the map. It showed the precise positions of all the sun beds in the pool area. Each sun bed had a coloured thumb tack by it and a piece of ribbon connecting it to a myriad of other sun beds. As time passed I saw the coloured thumb tacks being slowly replaced with black ones by a German with what looked like two bolts of lightning embroidered on each side of his shorts. As each coloured tack fell victim to yet another black one there was raucous cheering and laughter from the gathering German crowd.

Then, a man stepped forward, covered the top of the pool table with a blue board and started to push little model sun beds around with a long-handled shovel thing. He appeared to be in radio contact with the German with the lightning bolts. What’s going on? Well it was obvious what was going on, wasn’t it? But everybody else around me seemed oblivious to it. I put my giant infra-red binoculars away down the front of my shorts and crawled very slowly forward on my stomach to get a better view. I stopped only once to remove the binoculars to relieve the pain.

Once I’d got closer there was no doubt at all about what was happening – and under the very noses of the guests and hotel management too. But did anyone care or have the will to do anything about it? There were a lot of blind eyes being turned, I could tell. From what I’d already seen there were two profound and important questions to be answered….and quickly.

One, what were those little bits of ribbon actually used for that you always see on war maps and two, is that shovel thing really necessary and what’s it called?

Three profound and important questions.

I stood up, immediately shoving the binoculars back down the front of my shorts in one quick but very careful movement. A group of women appeared as if from nowhere to admire my physique, “Mmmm,” I thought, “might keep these binoculars when I get back to dear old Blighty after this jolly to-do. Seem to be more effective than the two coconuts and rolled up newspaper I usually use.”

I was by now close enough to see the sun bed map with the naked eye and it was a mass of black. One or two isolated pockets of red English resistance were visible but that was all.

The French male guests were already helping the German push his shovel thing around with unseemly enthusiasm while the French wives were throwing flowers, lifting the hem of their dresses and winking at all the German men gathered around the map.

I pulled out my Morse code transmitter hidden in the back pocket of my shorts and several gay men walked away with a disappointed look on their faces. I started to tap – dot dot dash, dot dashy dot dotty dash, dashy dash dat do – I didn’t know much about Morse code but by God I knew I had to get a message through somehow.

Then I suddenly remembered. Where were my best pals Algy and Ginger? The last time I saw them they were playing marbles just before the night time reccy was due. “Put those marbles away before you lose them,” I said, “it’s time to go chaps.”

“Hna, hna, hna, good one skipper,” they guffawed in unison.

Always good form to get the men in a jolly good mood before they fly to their certain deaths I thought.

“Everything’s tickety-boo chaps. See you later in the cookhouse.”

And with that I walked slowly away thanking Christ that it was them and not me.

Yes, I remember Ginger and Algy but obviously no point in relying on them to get me out of this mess now. I’ll have to improvise. Trouble is I’ve got no idea how to end this load of rambling nonsense satisfactorily but as that hasn’t stopped me before I’ll just have to fall back on the old ‘Well, well, well, it was only a dream’ device.

Oh come on, what do you expect? It’s not that easy you know. If you can do better put your own bloody ending in and be done with it.

The girls appeared around the pool at 1 pm. They’re having an early evening meal so they can have a sleep before going out on their final night together. Their early sleep will be my normal bedtime and I’ve felt exhausted all holiday just thinking about what they were going to do next.

At diner tonight the Irish family were in trouble. The bulldozers were in the dining room dismantling the infra-structure surrounding their table. About bloody time if you ask me. I always knew they’d be trouble the moment I laid eyes on them. Sixteen kids? All the same age? That’s not right is it?

Some ugly looking young woman strolled into the dining room tonight wearing a T-shirt. On the front it said ‘Life Is A F**king Sexy Thing’. (My asterisks). That’s not right either, is it? It’s not, it’s not right on various levels. First of all, ordinary families with young children shouldn’t have to be confronted with uninvited visual bad language like that, neither should the older generation and furthermore the hypocritical hotel management should have banned her from the dining room in the first place. Why hypocritical? Because there’s a big placard outside by the dining room entrance. On one side of it are the words ‘Non, No’ and underneath that are various pictures of men wearing sleeveless shirts, too short shorts, no shirts at all, vests, shorts with their willy hanging out and men wearing thongs (around their head). On the other side are the words ‘Oui, Si, Yes’ and underneath that are pictures of men wearing suits, dress shirts, ties, T-shirts with long sleeves, long short shorts and short long shorts.

Now have you noticed something not quite right here? A little touch of bias maybe? A small soupcon of sexism? Of course. It’s the usual story – no pictures of women, just men.

And certainly no pictures of ugly tarts wearing T-shirts with obscene brain-dead slogans on the front for every little old lady, old man and impressionable child to read whether they like it or not.