Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  Meanwhile Rico is still in full flow. ‘There were more than forty anise factories in Rute, in the last century, and five hundred in Cordoba province. Phenomino, no? The spirit was made in every region of Spain, the Canaries, and the Balearics, estupendo, no? Cristina, look, anise from Barcelona, this one dates from 1885.’ And to emphasise the point, he sketches an imaginary date about a foot from her face. ‘Phenomino, no?’

  ‘Si, que bonito.’

  ‘These bottles are from Madreeth, friend. Look at the designs, 1889 this one is. Estupendo, no?’

  ‘Si, pressy-osa.’

  ‘And look here, Hee-HHON, Santander, San Sebastian, all in the north. Phenomino, no?’

  ‘Si, que mono.’ He will just have to think I’m a big girl. I’ve run out of things to say. And the will to live, quite honestly.

  Suddenly, from behind me comes a sound like a male elephant-seal in a state of arousal, I spin around and catch Elena mid-yawn, mouth wide open. Yeah, I saw you eating your breakfast, Mrs. I don’t need to see it again. ‘Oh my gaad, I am so boring. Bottles, bottles. Give me some more anneee, Rico!’

  I cannot help chuckling. They all get this one wrong. ‘We say I am so bored, Elena. I am bored, she is bored. The feeling is bored. But the situation is boring. This is so boring, that is so boring. Do you understand?’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha! Yees, you are bored, Cristina is bored, I am bored, we all bored! Come on Rico!’

  I was speaking generally, of course, but she is correct, I am bored rigid. As my mother-in-law might have said, seen one bottle of anneee, seen ‘em all. Still, the first few minutes of the tour were quite informative, and Rico is clearly passionate about his subject. Just as well he doesn’t speak English, though…

  Back in the bar, our guide produces more bottles, one of which he claims to be forty-eight per-cent proof. ‘Ha ha ha ha! This one please!’ giggles Elena. Narrowing her eyes, she squints at the rest of the line-up. ‘Then I will have the coffee, and the blueberry. Ha ha ha ha!’ Blimey, it seems you can infuse this stuff with just about anything, although, sadly, there doesn’t seem to be a Taunton Natural Dry version, which is probably just as well in the circumstances, given that my knees are a bit stiff these days. I could probably manage to do the Juke-Box Jive, but would need half an hour’s notice, to get limbered up.

  Time passes pleasantly, hazily, before raucous shouting from the street alerts us to the fact that the bus is about to depart, but not quite yet, apparently, as Elena has her purse out. ‘Rico, give me one dulce, one coffee, and the forty-eight! Ha ha ha ha!’

  He beams, widely. ‘That will be nine, twelve and fifteen euros, a total of thirty-six.’ Is it just me, or is everything in this town over-priced? Chrissie bought a bottle of the ordinary stuff last Christmas, from Mercadonna, and I swear it was only six-something. And it had a sultry maiden on the label. Keeping schtum this time, though, aren’t I? Look what happened before.

  We stumble into the blinding sunshine. ‘Pepe! Where is my suitcase! Ha ha ha ha! I need to put my anneee away!’

  ‘Did you buy an anneee, English?’ bellows the Wag.

  I indicate my former pupil, frantically stowing her purchases. ‘No. Elena bought the whole shop!’

  We crowd, laughing noisily, onto the bus, and Pepe sets off again. Did you buy any em-boo-tea-toes? Yes I got some booty-farra! What about the anneee? Yes two bottles! Coffee and seca! I got a kilo of sweets in the sugar museum! That Doo-Kessa is ugly! Did you see her lips? Putting on weight too! I want a garter like Marilyn Monroe! Give Alfonso a Christmas treat!

  After a few minutes we arrive at what appears to be the centre of the village, consisting of a huge square containing around a dozen market stalls, and the usual Spanish mayhem. An extremely ancient Old-Bill is frantically waving his arms, at no-one in particular, and Paco skillfully ignores him and steers his coach around the melee into a parking space, and switches off the engine. ‘It is just after two now, back here at six, please. Enjoy your lunch!’

  FOUR HOURS FOR LUNCH? OH MY GAAD! We only wanted a sandwich. What the devil are we going to do for four hours, for pity’s sake? Be easier to walk home, quite frankly. Elena however seems delighted at the prospect. ‘Yees, we have it above the table! Ha ha ha ha!’

  I beg your pardon? Did she actually say that? Have what, pray? I narrow my eyes, and do my best to look confused. ‘Can you repeat that, please?’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha! Yees, we have saying in Espain, sobre la mesa. It mean ‘above the table’. You no have above the table in Eengland?’

  Not in polite company, certainly. I steal a furtive glance at my wife. ‘Have what above the table, Elena?’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha! Lunch, of course! We find table, we have lunch, sobre la mesa. Come on, follow me plees!’

  Oh well, what can we do? We will just have to spin out the time as best we can, I suppose. But seriously, four hours? Have you ever heard anything like it? Still, the thirty-second rule of travel states that if a Spaniard invites you above a table for four hours, just go with it, so why not?

  Still cackling, bonkers-woman leads us to a building marked Taberna, which clearly means ‘tavern’, into which around five hundred people have crammed and all started shouting at the same time, and the prospect of spending four minutes, let alone four hours, in this bedlam is laughable. Not to mention the fact that there is barely a square inch free, let alone a table, so we won’t be sobre la mesa any time soon, that’s for sure. However, as has happened before in this ridiculous country, I am proved wrong. ‘Elena, I am here! You come, plees!’ All I can see are bodies, but we squeeze in the general direction of the voice, then my heart sinks into my boots. Oh. Please. No. It is tray-girl, from the Too-Ron factory. Writhing with embarrassment, wishing a large hole would open up, a sickly grin on my face, we approach her table, which is less than a yard square. Oh what a shame, no space.

  ‘Anna!’ cries the mad one. ‘How are you! Ha ha ha ha! Do you have room for us?’ It appears she does. Sliding a stool for Elena from beneath the table, she directs Chrissie and I to what might optimistically be described as a ‘window-seat’, but which actually would be better characterised as a ‘plank’, and we shoe-horn ourselves in.

  Right. I am British. I have to get this cleared up. ‘Look, Anna, I am sorry about the Too-Ron, and Mercadonna.’ And I adopt my best contrite-face.

  It seems I was concerned about nothing, however. ‘Ah do not worry!’ smiles tray-Anna. ‘I am student of Eengliss at University of Granada, thees is holiday job only, for the Crees-mas. I hate thees, the customers are goats, and you are correct, the too-ron is cheaper in the supermarket!’ Phew! She then grabs a passing waiter by the bum. Not, mark you, a playful pinch, but a full-on handful of butt-cheek. The startled young man spins on his heels, ashen-faced, almost dropping his tray, then bursts into a wild fit of giggling. ‘Thees my boyfriend, Alberto! Say hello to Elena, and my new Eengliss friends…’

  ‘Cristina and John’ I smile, keeping my hands in full view.

  ‘’Ello’ he splutters. ‘Anna, she ver bad! What you like, plees?’

  Unbelievable. We’ve done it again. And there was me thinking it would take about a hundred years to get served in here, and now we have our own personal server. Plus, it appears, a choice of tapas. Now that, Rico, is estupendo, no? Three beers appear as if by magic, together with a plate of king prawns, and bearing in mind the thirty-first rule of travel states if someone offers you free shellfish whilst seated on a plank, just wolf it down, we do.

  Suddenly, my eyes are drawn to a TV screen in the corner showing what appears to be a funeral, of someone quite famous, I imagine. There are shots of the cortege, then old footage of a woman with a poodle haircut, trout lips, a turned up nose and a bit of a belly…hang on a minute, isn’t that the Duchess of record-players? ‘Look at that’ I command of no-one in particular, ‘is that the Doo-Kessa de Decca? Is she dead? We only saw her half-an-hour ago, just down the street!’

  Chrissie almost chokes on a sliver of shell. �
��Not Decca, you blithering idiot, Alba!’

  ‘Well who cares if she is called Decca, Bush, Ferguson, PYE, HMV or Dansette, quite honestly? We were just looking at her!’

  The Spanish girls are roaring with laughter, although it is doubtful they get the references to ancient British radiograms. ‘Yes, she is dead!’ giggles tray-Anna.

  Right, this is Spain, so if the funeral is today, that must mean she died, what, yesterday? What a hell of a coincidence. ‘Did she die this week?’

  Elena is still chuckling, although I’m still uncertain it’s about the Hi-fi joke. Surely she is too young to have had a collection of forty-fives? ‘Ha ha ha ha! She die three, maybe four jeers, I forgetting now!’

  Chrissie is looking puzzled. ‘So why are they showing the funeral on TV today?’

  Tray-Anna is concentrating. ‘Yes, I think maybe four years ago, but it was thees time of year, Chreesmas time. ALBERTO!’ Her boyfriend is passing with a loaded tray, but thankfully for those standing within range of a possible spillage, notably me, he escapes another groping. ‘When did La Alba die?’

  He turns aggressively towards the TV, and despite his burden, still manages an obscene one-handed gesture. ‘Ah who cares, the old puta!’ So not a fan, then.

  And so the time passes companionably, but strangely the lunchtime rush shows no sign of dying down. I would have expected the place to start thinning out a bit, but if anything it is more crowded than when we came in. People are squeezed into impossibly small spaces, standing-room only, tapas balanced in one hand, drink in the other. Is this what they mean by over the table? Is this the only bar in town? Who is that with their elbow in my neck? Will my hearing ever recover from this cacophony? Will Elena ever stop cackling? Who knows?

  The TV is now showing a clip of the Doo-Kessa standing next to Camilla Parker Bowles, an image which will surely disturb my sleep this night, so easing my tortured posterior off of the plank, but well away from tray-Anna’s reach, I indicate to Alberto, who appears to be taking a short break, that he might like to take my place on the board for a few minutes, take the weight off possibly. And get me facing away from the telly. ‘I am estudent of engineer at University Granada’ he begins, ‘and is necessary for me have exam in Eengliss. Phew!’ And he shakes his head, sadly. ‘Anna much better, but for me is ver diffy-cool.’ Just as we are about to sympathise just how diffy-cool learning a foreign language is, he catapults off the seat. ‘Me gas! Me gas!’ Oh. Please. No. Surely he is not about to break wind? In front of strangers? In this already stifling atmosphere? Completely hemmed in, he is twisting his body, painfully, like Uncle Tom Cobley’s old grey mare, with a nasty dose of colic. Whatever is coming, is gonna be a biggie. I recognise the symptoms.

  Elena, meanwhile, is jerked to her feet, as if attached by wires. ‘Me gas! Ha ha ha ha! You want me-gas, plees?’ What is this, a farting contest? Has the appearance of the Doo-Kessa, or dare I say it, Camilla, sparked an outbreak of competitive flatulence? Alberto is squeezing his way through the crowd, although he should presumably be heading for the door, or the gents, surely. The noise is unbelievable, people are pushing and shoving, whereas Chrissie and I are still perched precariously, open-mouthed at this lunacy, on our window seat.

  Tray-Anna seems to be the only sane person left on the planet. ‘You ever had me-gas?’ My wife is shaking with laughter but what can I say? We were only formally introduced to the girl half an hour ago, and this is not the rugby club. Quite honestly I can think of at least half a dozen ribald replies, each one less suitable than the last, and having already blotted my copybook earlier this morning, I am tongue-tied.

  Before either of us can frame a suitable response, Alberto comes weaving through the throng clutching a large plate of what appears to be something you might find splattered across the pavement outside a Wimpy Bar, on a Sunday morning, together with a hand-full of forks. ‘I have the last plate!’ he cries, triumphantly, ‘you take, plees!’

  Not a chance mate. Peter Allen’s sausage-dog would surely not have given this concoction a sniff, and neither will I. ‘Er, what actually is it?’ enquires Chrissie, peering dubiously at the greeny-brown, lumpy, congealed concoction.

  ‘Fried breath!’ Elena confirms, cheerfully. ‘Hoder! Ha ha ha ha! Eengliss ver difficult. Breadth. Breathd.’

  ‘Fried bread!’ Anna corrects, better able to get her tongue around the pronunciation.

  They have to be joking. I am a lifelong consumer of fried bread, usually with an egg on top, admittedly, and never before have I seen anything even remotely resembling this. What on earth have they done to it? Has to be just about the easiest thing in the world to cook, surely? Oil in the pan, in with the slice, turn a couple of times and leave to go the required shade of brown. Add fried egg, job done. This stuff looks like it has been pulverised by sumo wrestlers, left outside to rot, and blended with giblets. And that might be talking it up, to be honest. Still, other people’s countries and all that, and besides, Alberto went to war to get it for us, didn’t he, so we don’t want to appear ungrateful. I smile warmly, inwardly cringing, although hopefully only I know that. ‘It looks very different from the fried bread we have in England!’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha! Eengliss brax-fass! Oh my gaad!’ Elena giggles. ‘I see thees in my school book!’ Al right, all right, just don’t mention the cheese-rolling, OK?

  Tray-Anna comes to the rescue. ‘Crumbs. Crumbs of bread. And you have different bread in Eengland, no? Here in Espain we have the pan, Espanee pan, so we use the crumbs from yesterday, mix with garlic, olive-oil. Espain was ver poor, years ago, people have no food, me-gas was cheap, fill the stomach. You can mix me-gas with chorizo, shoshage, beans, anything. You take, plees.’ Yes, wondering when this was coming. Not too keen to be honest, although the ingredients sound innocuous enough, don’t they? I just don’t understand, that being the case, why it’s the colour of bile. Still, you know what they say, Pete’s dachshund was a right wussy little creature. Get a forkful down you, Jonno. So I do, and I have to tell you, it tastes fine. Nothing to set the taste buds alight, and I doubt I’d order it by choice, although bung a few lumps of shoshage in and I might think about it. The Spaniards show no such reticence, however, digging in with relish, although that is it for me thank you very much, not being a fan of sticking my fork where other people have just had theirs. Not terribly hygienic, is it, especially among strangers? Is there a shortage of crockery in this town? Or washer-uppers? Search me.

  The Doo-Kessa is now strolling regally, arm-in-arm with some ageing lothario, although Camilla appears to have disappeared, a Black Sabbath number is belting out from a speaker, and all around the bar the locals are wolfing down their crumbs of breathd like there is no tomorrow. Never like this at the Rose and Crown on a lunchtime, was it? Which is the whole point about living in another country, obviously. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I feel decidedly mellow. Whether it is the manty-cado, the polbo, the too-ron, Ronaldo’s tiny todger, the gentleman’s club, the truncheon, the Pope, six tots of anneee, Marilyn Monroe’s garter, Old Trout Lips, or, unlikely as it may seem, Camilla, or maybe a combination of all of the above, I am overcome by peace and goodwill. Well, it is Christmas, right? Chrissie, sensing my mood, squeezes my hand. I smile lovingly. ‘You don’t happen to have a pair of ear-defenders in your bag, by any chance, do you!’

  Thus passes the afternoon, and before we know it, incredibly, the spell is broken by irritable honking from the street, and Pepe’s coach appears outside the window. The stragglers are being rounded up. Us. Have we really been four hours above the table? Incredibly, it appears we have. Climbing the steps to ironic applause, the Wag is still in full flow. ‘Get lost, English, did you?!’

  I smile warmly, and crinkle my eyes. ‘No. Sobre la mesa!’

  We slump into our seats, and suddenly I am overwhelmed by weariness. Back with my head, I am asleep in seco……Wrong! ‘Got any DVD’s, Pepe?’ hollers Elena. And there was me thinking she would be worn out, enabling me to catch forty winks.
Our nutty driver performs the usual swerving manoeuvre as he rummages for the tape, and suddenly the two tellies on the ceiling crackle into life and the opening credits of a Mister Bean film are rolling. Surely not? Will the Spanish find this funny? Isn’t he a bit, well, British? OK so there is no dialogue to worry about, but are the bumbling antics of a tweed-jacketed Englishman humourous, to the locals? It would appear so. A buzz of anticipation grips the passengers, and within seconds virtually the whole bus is shaking with laughter, tears streaming down cheeks, tissues being produced, proving beyond doubt that comedy is universal. Incredible. ‘Would you like the middle seat, Elena, so you can see better?’ I enquire, always the gentleman, although only I know that I really mean so that I can wedge myself into the corner and nod-off. Which I do, although I would have been better awake, quite honestly, as I drift off into a tortured nightmare where I am being pursued by a thirty-foot sausage, with hundreds of legs, which suddenly morphs into the Loch Ness Monster, with dragon’s wings and a huge scaly head, breathing fire. In sheer terror I dive through a doorway into a Gentleman’s Club, where Michael Jackson, wearing only a frilly red garter, is selling tickets to a stage show featuring the Doo-Kessa, dressed in a pink catsuit, who proceeds to whip me painfully with electricity cable whilst screaming ‘I AM ALBA! NOT DECCA!’ Whack. ‘I AM NOT FERGUSON!’ Whack. ‘THAT IS A DIFFERENT DOO-KESSA!’ Whack. ‘I AM ALBA! ALBA! ALBA!’ Elena then appears, dressed in gold spangly jodhpurs, impales me through the groin with a six-inch stiletto and wallops me with a copper’s truncheon, bellowing ‘CLASSES OF EENGLISS! HAHAHAHAHA! CLASSES OF EENGLISS! I WANT CLASSES OF EENGLISS, EVERY DAY! EVERY NIGHT! PLEES, I SHOW YOU MY COCK! CLASSES OF EENGLISS!’