The continuing diaries of an Englishman abroad visiting such exotic places as Spain, USA, Malta and heaven knows where. Tagging along are his wife Pauline and daughter Emma.

Everything you are about to read is based on true events and real people. It may have been embellished beyond recognition for a cheap laugh but everything happened to a greater or lesser degree. Apart from the bits I made up. OK, and apart from the jokes. And apart from the fantasy sequences. But all the characters are real, believe me.


Exciting isn't it?


Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Spain 2005 - Day 8


At breakfast this morning one of the gay men was wearing a T-shirt with ‘Trust Me I’m A Virgin’ on the front.

Bloody pervert. I’m beginning to regret I ever helped them out now.

I’ve just seen the tall black wibbly-wobbly man by the pool. He’s standing around doing nothing as usual with a big bunch of keys in his hand. I glanced away and when I looked back a few minutes later he was slumped in a heap, arms and legs in a tangled mess trying to stand up. Apparently he’d been a bit reckless and tried a few disco moves to impress the girls.

I‘ve also just seen the future and the future is an eighty year old Chuckle Brother. I swear this old bloke with the silver hair and knobbly knees is just like one of those newspaper computer images of how they imagine someone like Lord Lucan would look had he been alive and living in the Brazilian jungle making clay pots for tourists. But it’s a Chuckle Brother instead – at eighty – still performing once a year at the Assembly Halls, Tunbridge Wells.

A comforting thought.

Everybody around the pool seems to be reading the same book, ‘The Da Vinci Code’. Just goes to show how much money can be made from re-hashed myths, legends and old tosh recycled into a ‘riveting read’ these days. Feel a bit of a rebel sitting here reading ‘Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Sometimes Zeppo’ – the best, by all odds of the many books written about the Marx brothers – it says here.

As the Irish family twiddled-de-dee’d into dinner tonight I noticed the tarmac around their table was complete, drains and electricity are installed, some really expensive pot plants have appeared and one or two rusty old burnt out cars are acting as outside toilets. I tried to eavesdrop on the Irish conversation at their table but the sound of the kids roaring around on motorbikes with no road tax drowned them out. It didn’t really matter though. These people could be speaking Russian for all the sense they made. They seem to speak English but not as we know it, that’s for sure for sure.

Went to bed with the sound of fireworks exploding every few minutes well into the early hours of the morning. Locals must be celebrating something I suppose.

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