The history books and monuments of Spain will tell you that the around the year 700 Muslims started to settle; mainly in the south Al-andaluz as it was called and as we know it now Andalusia. But what happened to them? Well you may come across statues, carvings, monuments of Santiago riding a horse with the heads of slain Muslims under the hooves. The Spanish are contradictorily proud that it took 800 years to rid the country of the Muslims. But of course some of the best monuments in Toledo, Cordoba, and Granada are Muslim built. Nowadays Toledo is know as the city of three cultures, Islamic, Jewish and Catholic as at one time they all lived this small ancient capital. Like all countries there has to be a dominate power and once the catholic lot got stuck in the Jews didn’t last long either.
So what you say, well until recently the catholic cross was to be found in all school classrooms, I have one in mine along with a picture of the King, By now I'm teaching in the military academy in Toledo, apparently the law states that no other picture can be on the same wall as the King’s – I have a poster that reads ‘In the Monkey We Trust’ sarcasm is not often understood.
So to try and bring Spain in line with other European countries and the fact that in the 21st century not everyone is catholic and a wooden cross may offend especially vampires. Vox- pops were done in the street and the public approved and disapproved of the removal of the crosses. But one woman made me laugh I’ll paraphrase ‘I thinks it’s disgusting Spain has always been a catholic country’. This is just ignorance and tolerance doesn’t exist in Spain. For those of you that are wondering were the UK fits in with this, we told Rome to poke it around the same time Spain was kicking out the last Muslim. Henry VIII want to divorce one of his wives and the best way to do it was setting up the Church of England, so we have 500 years of development where other countries got weigh down by wooden crosses.
Sunday 19 December 2010
the KGB and El Greco
Any sock and sandal wearing blond, blued eyed foreigner, general holiday maker is a girri this is what the Spanish call us. Similar to the Isle of Wight, the locals call all the tourists grockles. But the Spanish don’t stop there, the French The Gabachoes (the frogs), like the UK over the centuries the French and Spanish have fought; meaning a tag slightly more bitter, but a worse deal is anybody not from a northern European country or the States.
The Chinese are chinos (chinkies) the Chinese have many corner shops like the Pakistanis in the UK. Anyone from Romania or Russia is instantly branded as a criminal, basically organised crime is now dominated by eastern nationals that have a different ethic, steal and kill. The consequence of this is mistrust of any otherwise law abiding Romanians living in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps the worst deal are people from Morocco The moros. Because of the 800 year re-conquest they will never escape this disrespectful title. If you have any art history knowledge you may have heard of El Greco 17th century, a Greek painter that lived and worked in Spain for most of his life, But ask for him by his real name Domenikos Theodokopouls, you’ll receive the international shoulder shrug expression of ‘I don’t know’. Like any country prejudice and racism exist but perhaps the Spanish are rather less subtle in there dislikes.
I moved into a block of flats in a small northern city, going up in the lift just me and a Spanish couple in their 40s reluctantly said good morning I tried to be friendly talking about the weather, eventually the woman ask where I was from, I told her London, ‘Oh that’s all right then’ what a response as I’m sure she thought I was a Russian criminal. I have known a Scottish girl who was spat at because they presumed she was a Russian prostitute and all this from your friendly Pedro and Maria.
I lived with a body builder from Ecuador, very friendly giant and softly spoken, when I met up with my friend Gonzalo I told him who I was living with and he reacted with the same mistrust as it I had said a member of the KGB. Truth is that the south American cousins though they speak the same language they get a rough time, lower pay and worse conditions doing the jobs that the Spanish don’t want to do. The construction boom meant there were a lot of building jobs and population increased by an artificial 5 million, people from Columbia, Venezuela, Peru, Honduras however once this bubble burst the dole queues shot up giving Spain the worst unemployment figures in Europe. The South Americans rank very low in the pecking order I feel rather privileged to come from a wealthy and modern country.
Although having said that being blond and having blue eyes means that no matter how good I can speak the language or understand the customs, to your average Spaniard I will always be 'el inglés'. I do have some very nice and educated Spanish friends who like most of us realise that this integration problem all over the world takes two to tango.
So here is a verbal dance:
The Chinese are chinos (chinkies) the Chinese have many corner shops like the Pakistanis in the UK. Anyone from Romania or Russia is instantly branded as a criminal, basically organised crime is now dominated by eastern nationals that have a different ethic, steal and kill. The consequence of this is mistrust of any otherwise law abiding Romanians living in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps the worst deal are people from Morocco The moros. Because of the 800 year re-conquest they will never escape this disrespectful title. If you have any art history knowledge you may have heard of El Greco 17th century, a Greek painter that lived and worked in Spain for most of his life, But ask for him by his real name Domenikos Theodokopouls, you’ll receive the international shoulder shrug expression of ‘I don’t know’. Like any country prejudice and racism exist but perhaps the Spanish are rather less subtle in there dislikes.
I moved into a block of flats in a small northern city, going up in the lift just me and a Spanish couple in their 40s reluctantly said good morning I tried to be friendly talking about the weather, eventually the woman ask where I was from, I told her London, ‘Oh that’s all right then’ what a response as I’m sure she thought I was a Russian criminal. I have known a Scottish girl who was spat at because they presumed she was a Russian prostitute and all this from your friendly Pedro and Maria.
I lived with a body builder from Ecuador, very friendly giant and softly spoken, when I met up with my friend Gonzalo I told him who I was living with and he reacted with the same mistrust as it I had said a member of the KGB. Truth is that the south American cousins though they speak the same language they get a rough time, lower pay and worse conditions doing the jobs that the Spanish don’t want to do. The construction boom meant there were a lot of building jobs and population increased by an artificial 5 million, people from Columbia, Venezuela, Peru, Honduras however once this bubble burst the dole queues shot up giving Spain the worst unemployment figures in Europe. The South Americans rank very low in the pecking order I feel rather privileged to come from a wealthy and modern country.
Although having said that being blond and having blue eyes means that no matter how good I can speak the language or understand the customs, to your average Spaniard I will always be 'el inglés'. I do have some very nice and educated Spanish friends who like most of us realise that this integration problem all over the world takes two to tango.
So here is a verbal dance:
One test of how I was progressing with my Spanish was loosening my rag. I often train in the gym especially in the winter, and yes the winters inland can be very cold. Using the work bench and dumbbells to begin my morning routine. The usual faces were there, the Romanian gym owner, shit house door, the Colombian plumber two shit house doors, Kiko Spanish Kick-boxer, these guys were chatty but we cracked on with our workouts. There was one wana-be kick-boxer there too I had seen this prick a few times doing his 1970 stretching and generally flapping about. So that morning he piped up a tell me to add more weight in a you don’t know what your doing tone. I just glared. The second and third comment came, I can’t remember what I said exactly but I let him have it in Spanish, this tosser then gave it the you’re not Spanish etc which I thought was rather rich as the dude that owned the place wasn’t Spanish either. So pal I told him in his language that unless he can speak another language that he should zip it. He grumbled on so I recalled a situation where and Irish friend had a row with a guy about driving and as soon as my mate gave him abuse in English the guy bottled it and sped off. I thought I’d try some of that so I strung together some fuck yous and fuck offs etc until the gym own had heard enough and dinged the bell. nobody won but it did feel great to test my Spanish language skills under pressure.
Wednesday 8 December 2010
How to Sh*t yourself Thin
Snails. Baby garden size, they are kept in a bag alive for few weeks till they crap themselves clean. Frank from the veg shop had invited me over for a meal with family. His bent double six-thousand year old mother-in-law had been preparing the 'Caracoles' all day, soaking in vinegar then cooked and re-cooked, the sauce made. The table was laid out, bread, wine, salad – enough to keep us going. There was a meat smell coming from the kitchen, the shadow of the old bent woman and dark pots flicked in the background – I wasn't worried, Frank was a top sort and if he said they were good then I trusted him I had no reason not to.
A large wok type dish with steaming snails was put in the middle of the table, I was shown how to dig the flesh out of the shell with a cocktail stick while not to pull out the guts at the end to nip that off with your thumb. Dip them in the garlic butter and get them in ya. They tasted like tiny cuts of beef, the garlic butter was a bit strong but that was ok, so I picked away that these critters alone with the rest on the family, Frank's kids loved them, Cruela stayed in the kitchen with the dark pots. Not much time passed and I started to feel a bit of a rumble.
I was in the toilet on time, I did a bit of both from up top and down below, my holes were burning, what was happening inside, would I ever walk again, what if I had to get the lower hole sewn up and carry my shit in a bag 'cos I'd nuked my guts, arr-nother wave. I was in there for what felt like days, I wondered what was the record for self-cleansing. Frank called to see if I was ok? I stabilised myself and opened the door. 'I have to go home mate' Frank looked worried, he went to the kitchen and came back with some camomile tea. 'here take these and call me later, ok?'.
Two days later, I put my less pale face into the their shop as Frank had called a few times but I was in no state to answer. 'We though you might have died, they can be poisonous you know.' No shit! 'Thanks Frank, everyone else was ok, your boys, Nurea?' As always it's the newbe that has to suffer.
Shit your self thin, that is the answer, it's happening all over Europe, How?
Strong coffee in the morning, snails if you're brave enough, and lots of olive oil. It's very common all the coffee drinkers I have met take a dump a short while after their morning cup. Olive oil is also very good though much slower. The benefit of this oil is that as it passes through your system it picks up saturated fats and moves them along, stopping you getting clogged. So with a morning coffee and plenty of olive oil on your salad you can shit yourself into a super mode and if you don't like coffee, try the snails.
TV, blood, death and disaster The Pope & la Prensa Rosa
The pope died that year, not that it really meant anything to me, I mean in the UK we celebrate Christmas and have a long weekend off work at Easter but we know nothing about being Catholic – Spain however does, even though its 30 years after the death of Franco who was a well into it.
The modern Spain like Italy and southern Ireland takes it more seriously or better said it’s the norm to have a first communion when you’re 12ish. So you can imagine there might be more press about the old dude popping off. The TV channels here zoomed in on the open coffin to see the washed out face of a very old and very dead man – it was a shock. Atena 3 and Tele5 here are the blood thirstiest media I have ever seen, if there is a road accident you see the squidge marks up close if there has been a bombing in the middle-east you’ll see more that just the feet like you do back home.
On Roads
One Spanish friend, Paulo, has a joke with his mates where they mock the presenter of Tele5 news ‘Blood, Death and Destruction’ the classic opening lines to the lunchtime news. If we have the Sun, here it’s all done on the TV bit like America and it’s called the Prensa Rosa – hours and hours of junk, gossip, tripe and stupidity.
The modern Spain like Italy and southern Ireland takes it more seriously or better said it’s the norm to have a first communion when you’re 12ish. So you can imagine there might be more press about the old dude popping off. The TV channels here zoomed in on the open coffin to see the washed out face of a very old and very dead man – it was a shock. Atena 3 and Tele5 here are the blood thirstiest media I have ever seen, if there is a road accident you see the squidge marks up close if there has been a bombing in the middle-east you’ll see more that just the feet like you do back home.
On Roads
To be honest I was actually quite afraid of driving in Spain. Back in the UK I had broken both legs in a motorcycle accent due to a high speed failed overtaking manoeuvre, I’d travel through the Egyptian desert by night in the back of a Lada with no lights and also survived, driven a lorry in Manhattan, but Spain worried me. As a pedestrian waiting at a crossing it is like waiting to get served in a bar that you’re not welcome. The traffic doesn’t stop, you have to step out in front of a moving vehicle make eye contact with the drive, wait for him to lock up the wheels and then cross. The women of course don’t stop. The point system has only recently been introduced along with speed cameras and prison sentences for drink driving so watching the daily news would be accents, muti-pile-ups an all number of shocking statistics that made any traveller without a death wish to take the train. Buses were also highly dangerous method of travel, constantly leaving the highway via the crash barrier so I limited my contact with these too.
One Spanish friend, Paulo, has a joke with his mates where they mock the presenter of Tele5 news ‘Blood, Death and Destruction’ the classic opening lines to the lunchtime news. If we have the Sun, here it’s all done on the TV bit like America and it’s called the Prensa Rosa – hours and hours of junk, gossip, tripe and stupidity.
Tuesday 16 November 2010
How to piss off the french and italians
The job I had landed was, a big improvement, no kids. All business, adults and a few Civil Guard intensive courses. So things were interesting the team of teachers too, Irish, Canadian, Polish, Russian, Spanish, the only oddity was the French bosses. A husband and wife team, She the 'Dominator' and he 'mister mouse'. She was one of those women that thought they could boss people around by shoving her bosoms your way and huffing oo'la'la if you complained that the timetable overlapped or one of the other teachers had tried to kill you in the company car by mounting a roundabout. And all this for a thousand Euros a month. Life was pretty good there so after spending the summer in Bahrain and Saudi Arabia I decided it would be good to go back and suffer some more crazy car journeys with the Frenchies.
There were new teacher and old faces 'Oo lala Casper – you are back, no?' After a dry summer, meaning no birds, left me a little pent up, so I decided unwisely to mix business with pleasure. The new Italian teacher had spent some time in Australia so we seemed to get on, not too bad looking in jeans. We met for coffee after work and I used the old 'stretch ya arm out across the back of the seat' trick. And with a few charming words of encouragement, how often do get to meet someone so..urgh I need to vomit. But it worked. We planed a weekend away to Galicia we'd seen the offer in a travel agents, with full board and trips to Santiago, and Rías Bajas we signed up. It was a disaster. Eleven hours on a bus by the time we got there I didn't want to spend anymore time perfecting her English. She still seemed keen. I was reading some J.M. Ceotzee a wonderful South African writer though I find his texts bring my mood down and I guess the opposite would have been better. At dinner we made friends with some older couples and I got invited to play cards with the boys – leapt at the opportunity to get away from Mayca.
I played until the bar closed about 2.30am went back to our room, luckily there were two beds as I didn't want to complicate things by having sex. so I sneaked into the unoccupied bed and slept. In the morning it was breakfast and out for the tour so no time to be on the receiving end of a cold shoulder. I did however have to fake interest in taking posing snap shots of her. My card playing chums were near by so I kept up conversation with them. I had gone right off this bird and I couldn't break up with her mid-weekend I didn't fancy the Italian over-reaction. I thought if I can just make it till we get back to Logroño then I would only see her at work. What a mess.
That night before dinner, we showered, the devil kept popping into my head 'fuck her you know she wants it what's the matter with you. 'I couldn't go through with it visions of the stand up row 'YOU FUCKED ME AND LEFT'. I couldn't leave empty handed so we played Doctors and Nurses – well that's what I'm telling you.
The following week I made myself very busy and had no time to meet for coffee or to come over to her place, the fact that she lived in block of flats directly opposite, in fact from my lounge I could see her room. It all came to a head one day in the staff from, I had made some sexist comments about one of the lady teachers skill-less driving and was verbally attacked. So much so that the Dominator and Mouse Man called me into the office. I bent the truth and said that I wanted to live longer so I wouldn't be driving in the car as the shouting women. I devised cunning plan. the next day there was a staff meeting about an up coming intensive course. I spoke to the Dominator and told her I would apologise to any offended female members of staff. I went one better and bought in a big box of hand made biscuits, presented them on the table inviting everyone to help themselves. 'No it's not my birthday, but there was some misunderstanding yesterday and as a way of apologising without prejudice please enjoy a hand crafted delicacy.' Fuck you all I thought. I made myself look good in the eyes of the boss, so much so that I was then made the driver and on occasions when we had to share the car I would take Mouse Man's.
About three months after leaving Logroño I sent an email to Mayca, to say no bad feelings, I got a two word response 'Fuck Off' her English was improving.
The BackStory, Fog, Madrid, Sevilla - melt down
What you dear reader might want to remember is ya man here the hero of these stories is me, an asthmatic, dyslexic Essex mechanic, that managed with some graft to get himself a degree at 28.
So here I am in Spain, and it’s not sunny, Lleida was picked me for my re-birth.
The sixth of January two hours from the coast I entered the shittiest foggy nightmare – the swish train left me at a modern airport style station concrete, glass harsh corners – minus two degrees.
Don, my new employer had got stuck somewhere conveniently better and left me to find the hostel that was to be my home for the next three weeks.
Teaching English was the job, bollocks really, you entertain brats after- school so mum and dad can take a break and have a beer. Little fucks I hated them. Had I not rented out my flat in Cheltenham and been so willing to learn a new language – I'd have fecked off.
Two week fog, Madrid snow, Sevilla melt down
The swanky train entered some fog, I didn’t come out of it till two weeks later – let me put the record straight, unless you are on the coast of Spain the main land only has two types of weather fucking freezing or boiling I’m talking -10 to plus 50, along the coast 6 degrees min and 30 max. It was hell of a shock. I went to Madrid in Feb and it snowed – I was not prepared. Much the same as you can’t for 43degrees that’s about 110 in old money – that’s not the desert just Seville at about 4pm mid June – insane. I was looking for a parking space underground and the air-conditioning wasn’t working. How could people live in this? Fact is they die, much like in the extreme cold in Russia; the old and infirm peg it. ;-p
Saturday 6 November 2010
Testículos - huevos
I had a lump it had been there for a long time but it had gotten bigger and I was now working in Logroño the capital of La Rioja, it was feb and I needed to get it checked out – I thought I have time to do the opp if I need it and recover over the spring. So down to the medical centre and I needed number to get seen so off to the town hall to ponce about with forms for half a day, if you have ever been on Social Security in the UK well you can imagine the type of place all the scum of the earth, nonsense forms.
Back to the med-centre , the receptionist asked me if I wanted a male or female doctor – well given the nature of things I went for Jose Torres. Appointment for tomorrow morning. Nervous as fuck but hey it has to be done. I wait outside with all the other lowlifes with snotty kids and incontinent octogenarians. I see an A4 sheet of paper stuck to the door, Dr.Torres will be assisted by training Dr.Maria something-or-other, great so there will be a woman in there too, well screw it I’m here waiting now and I just crack on. The door opens and an attractive lady in her 30ies calls my name. Ok so she just opens the door Dr.Torres will be at his desk, nope she is at the helm too and Torres is nowhere to be seen. Red face – out with it, ‘Bit embarrassing, I have a lump on my left testicle’ She complemented me on my Spanish which by now about a year was ok and asked me to lower my garments and sit on the bed thing. So legs up and dick in hand to hide the non-penis that was shrinking fast. Latex glove on I show her where it is, a quick prod-prod, squeeze-squeeze and then who pops his head in the scene ya-man Dr.Torres, well fuck me Manuel where have you been. He confirms, big lump – hospital scan next week. So that quick – as I thought could be nasty.
I have to sat that the medical treatment and investigation was ten out of ten the lump was nothing just water and like the UK it only cost me a red face. The continuation of this story is that another year later, I went back to the doctors to get those little blue tablets as you have to get a prescription here. And yes Manuel was on his coffee break again, another red face. What did make me laugh was the next day I was with a very attractive woman from work we had breakfast in bar after a class and as I walked out who was sitting there, non other that my lady doctora. I just said hello but didn’t explain to my colleagues who she was. I smiled at what doc must have thought.
Sunday 17 October 2010
Frikis and some Spanglish
To us in the UK something can be freaky, strange unexplainable, in Spain this Anglicism means, a computer geek, Si-Fi nurd, or anybody that is really into things different: ‘He’s a complete friki for GPS systems he knows everything’. This English based nomenclature is very common and can be most annoying as you think you understand something but really you have taken hold of the dirty end of the stick. Mobbing is a great example, one might presume that we are talking about a large group of people descending upon someone or thing in protest or admiration however this spanglish means to your average literate ‘unfair dismissal at work’, normally a pregnant sectary.
It gets worse; in an attempt to keep up with business and UN relations, military or otherwise Spain has been trying to learn English, and has made it a hobble rather than something to be perfected. Anybody around the age of thirty will manage some basic English but this doesn’t mean they understand English or the English. Expressions used by your average José get translated and re-used by the pseudo-cool.
Drinks in bars are paid for when you leave regardless of how many you and your mates have got stuck into. The bar staff mentally tally up and you cough out. But imagine that you decide to make a sharp exit because the bird behind the bar is slow or is ignoring you well you’ve had a free drink old José will tell his mate that he had a drink ‘by the face’. What the smegg does that mean to an real English speaker? abso-fucking-lutely nothing. But this tripe is very popular. The Spanish are creating their own English that only they understand – how useless.
It gets worse; in an attempt to keep up with business and UN relations, military or otherwise Spain has been trying to learn English, and has made it a hobble rather than something to be perfected. Anybody around the age of thirty will manage some basic English but this doesn’t mean they understand English or the English. Expressions used by your average José get translated and re-used by the pseudo-cool.
Drinks in bars are paid for when you leave regardless of how many you and your mates have got stuck into. The bar staff mentally tally up and you cough out. But imagine that you decide to make a sharp exit because the bird behind the bar is slow or is ignoring you well you’ve had a free drink old José will tell his mate that he had a drink ‘by the face’. What the smegg does that mean to an real English speaker? abso-fucking-lutely nothing. But this tripe is very popular. The Spanish are creating their own English that only they understand – how useless.
Thursday 7 October 2010
Part Two, Bus Stop Chica
After the usual early twenties many nights on the piss in the pubs of Southend and Rochford spending more money on beer than food rent and petrol put together and I did a 1,000miles a month in my many cars and bikes. I got to 25 and couldn’t cope with the hangovers so I stared running to keep fit and give me an excuse to not drink so much. Well I was out running round the city of Lleida, I stopped near a bus stop to warm down with some stretches and eyeballed a young blond. She didn’t get on the bus when it came so I said hello I’m English and she jumped on me ‘me encanta, me encanta’. I we exchanged numbers and she came to see me the night before I was due to fly back to home. I had no idea what she was saying and my flat mates thought she was dangerous but I’ve never laughed so much in bed with a bird. She was a hair model with lots of that classic Latin passion that we Brits get to hear about, but completely insane. We met up about a year later to repeat the event, after that I never saw her again.
Saturday 2 October 2010
An Englishman's Travels in Spain 2005-10
WARNING
Names have NOT been changed if you did it and I saw you –
ya guilty!
Dear Traveller (that's you, I know in books it should be first or third person, but what I’m gonna tell you here is all true – well most of it, so it's you and me here 1st and 2nd person)
If you thought Spain was all sunshine and flip-flops then you're in for a treat. There are things we need to know, how not to get blown up in an ETA car bomb, how to understand the southern accent, how to get out of a speeding fine and what to do when you're invited to a BBQ with the Spanish infantry.
If you have read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, or Notes from a Small country, all travel inspired observations but maybe my experiences is closer to 'A Year in the Merde', over 100,000 copies sold. If not then basically a English bloke trying to work in France. This is in the same ballpark though a bit further south. Ole!
If you're thinking about living, holidaying, or working in Spain or just want to take your head out the sand and know a bit more about where Penelope Cruz and comes from (Madrid) for example. Actually that's a lie she's not in the book though the capital city is, plus an insight to better actors.
This book is full of real life tales of how it is, where to go and not; with a smattering of special snapshot images hidden among the pages plus a few facts and figures to back it all up, not forgetting some historical stuff too.
If you have nothing else to do and some spare money buy my book 'cos need a new motorcycle. Oh and I'll teach you how not to mix up the words cushion, draw and bollocks.
Part One
Learning to swear ‘hijo de puta’
In a bar, of course, week one and I learn how to say ‘son of a bitch’ even getting the accent right – gargled at the back of the throat. Swearing in Spain is a national sport, inventing different things to shit on and in, for example Me cago en la leche, Shit in the milk, is one of my favourites, Coño is cunt, but it is very light, I have even see two old ladies use it as a greeting to each other from across the street. The Title of these tails is a play on the polite version of Hijo de la gran puta, son of a fucking bitch, changing the ending to Great Britain (Gran Bretaña). Another area is blasphemy, shitting on God, Dios is often changed to shitting on ten, diez. Swearing is a whole wonderful world of laughs were gods, mothers, shit, bitches and milk all form a natural part of conversion.
Names have NOT been changed if you did it and I saw you –
ya guilty!
Dear Traveller (that's you, I know in books it should be first or third person, but what I’m gonna tell you here is all true – well most of it, so it's you and me here 1st and 2nd person)
If you thought Spain was all sunshine and flip-flops then you're in for a treat. There are things we need to know, how not to get blown up in an ETA car bomb, how to understand the southern accent, how to get out of a speeding fine and what to do when you're invited to a BBQ with the Spanish infantry.
If you have read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, or Notes from a Small country, all travel inspired observations but maybe my experiences is closer to 'A Year in the Merde', over 100,000 copies sold. If not then basically a English bloke trying to work in France. This is in the same ballpark though a bit further south. Ole!
If you're thinking about living, holidaying, or working in Spain or just want to take your head out the sand and know a bit more about where Penelope Cruz and comes from (Madrid) for example. Actually that's a lie she's not in the book though the capital city is, plus an insight to better actors.
This book is full of real life tales of how it is, where to go and not; with a smattering of special snapshot images hidden among the pages plus a few facts and figures to back it all up, not forgetting some historical stuff too.
If you have nothing else to do and some spare money buy my book 'cos need a new motorcycle. Oh and I'll teach you how not to mix up the words cushion, draw and bollocks.
Part One
Learning to swear ‘hijo de puta’
In a bar, of course, week one and I learn how to say ‘son of a bitch’ even getting the accent right – gargled at the back of the throat. Swearing in Spain is a national sport, inventing different things to shit on and in, for example Me cago en la leche, Shit in the milk, is one of my favourites, Coño is cunt, but it is very light, I have even see two old ladies use it as a greeting to each other from across the street. The Title of these tails is a play on the polite version of Hijo de la gran puta, son of a fucking bitch, changing the ending to Great Britain (Gran Bretaña). Another area is blasphemy, shitting on God, Dios is often changed to shitting on ten, diez. Swearing is a whole wonderful world of laughs were gods, mothers, shit, bitches and milk all form a natural part of conversion.
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