Malta 2006 - Day 5

Along the side of the pool area which borders the sea are some planted areas with a few straggly bushes and there are signs along this stretch of earth that read ‘Please Do Not Enter the Soil’.

Doesn’t bear thinking about does it?

There are three lifts at our end of the hotel; two ordinary and one disabled. It’s got a wonky door and the lift voice has got a bit of a lisp to it. No of course it hasn’t, it’s a lift for the disabled as you well knew. We get into whichever lift arrives first regardless of whether it’s the disabled one or not. I haven’t yet encountered the situation where a disabled person has wanted to get in but if they did they could fight me for it the same as any able-bodied person could. I’m not prejudiced.

I’ve just had a closer look at those charity bracelets that many people are wearing. They appear to have the name and address of the hotel printed on them. Bloody hell we must have rooms full of elderly bewildered guests who don’t know who or where they are. Either that or they’re dangerous loonies who need to be tagged. This is beginning to worry me; particularly as this bloke next to me at the pool is wearing one and he’s not elderly or confused. In fact he’s quite young with a shaven head and built like a bloody brick house. Perhaps the hotel’s being used as some sort of open prison for all the prisoners who are overflowing our jails at home, you never know.

There’s something strange going on here with the local beer. Usually most things local are cheaper and good value but the local Maltese beer seems to be the reverse. If you go into a supermarket you’ll see cans of the local beer on sale for more than most other well known brands. However, go into a bar and you’ll be served local beer cheaper than other brands. How does that work? Are the bar owners incompetent and selling it as a loss maker or are the supermarkets conning everyone? If the bars sell it cheaper where do they get it from? Are there specially disguised supermarkets that are only known to the locals? It’s unheard of to find it cheaper in a bar than in a supermarket isn’t it? It doesn’t make economic sense.

The other thing about the local beer is its name; Cisk. It’s pronounced Kish and I find I’m always checking out the bar staff before I order it. If the person serving is female I don’t worry so much but if it’s a man then I change my order to something else otherwise I sound like I’m asking him out on a date. “Could I have a Kish please? Yes I know that we’ve only just met but there’s something about your sultry masculine Maltese good looks that appeals to me.”

See what I mean? It’s a minefield. In fact the female bar person is only slightly more preferable because I don’t feel so self-conscious but I do keep getting my face slapped which again is more preferable than getting a punch in the face from the men. It’s getting to the stage where I can tell how many beers I’ve had by the amount of blood on my shirt when I get back to the hotel. In fact I’m beginning to blend in quite well with the World Cup crowd. They just take a look at the state I’m in and think I’m one of them.

To tell you the truth I think I’m getting the hang of this football thing quite quickly now. There seems to be eleven players on each side who run around kicking a ball wherever they like. When it goes into the trap thing at either end of the grass everyone has to jump up and down with their arms in the air and shout at the top of their voice, “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssss”. When the ball misses the trap thing, which is most of the time, everyone has to jump up and down with their arms in the air and shout at the top of their voice, “Nooooooooooooooooo”, although I can’t really see that it’s necessary to confirm whether the ball is in or out as the umpire knows what he’s doing and can see quite clearly for himself. I haven’t yet worked out what the two men in black do who run up and down the edge of the grass but are not allowed to play. As they each have a flag I’m assuming they’re each team’s cheerleader although I don’t think much of their dance routines. When the game’s over the spectators have lots to drink and hit each other. They do this all the time until the next match.

TRUE LIFT STORY NO. 2

An elderly Northern couple got into the lift. The doors closed and the female automated voice said, “Doors closing.” The man suddenly said, “I’ll bloody strangle that woman”, sending his wife into hysterical laughter at the sheer bloody cleverness of his remark. Pauline and I just smiled and hoped they weren’t going all the way to floor eight.