Birds have a rich diet in Calahonda

A strange thing happened to me last night as I was going through my receipts and trying to figure out what I had spent so far and what my budget might be for the coming month: I couldn’t work out what day it was, Now, I know, a lot of this is due to my chronic jetlag (last night I went to bed at 7.30 having fallen asleep at the table; woke up at 10; got up at 12; went back to bed at 3, after having gone for an hour-long walk; and got up at 10.45 this morning), but still, it was quite disconcerting. Essentially, I have gained a day. Maybe that is the secret to a longer and more fulfilled life: if you break your days into four periods (two sleeps, to waking times) instead of two, then you think you are living twice as long. Gaining an extra day after three days is quite impressive. It’s just a pity I am doing it when Liverpool are not at their best. It would be good for any Manchester City fans though, well both of them, but just think how bad it would be if you were an Evertonian. Mind you, that holds true for any context.

Spent much of the day staring at a blank screen and wondering why none of the words in my head actually looked good when they were written down. So I thought ‘screw it’, picked up my cap and walked over to Chambao Beach to see if Fran, the owner, remembered me. Failing that, I was pretty sure he’d remember Ottawacker Jr. Or if he didn’t, I certainly remembered the pork ribs he’d cooked, so that would compensate.

It was a slow evening, so we spent a lot of time catching up – and then, of course, we got onto Brexit. If there is a subject likely to encourage my holding forth, there it is. Halfway through, a gaggle of geriatric Englishmen walked in: they walked past Felipe, the barman, the last one past turned round as he was going and said ‘four gins, three tonics’ and pointed to a table where the coffin dodgers were heading. No effort to be polite; no attempt to speak the language of the country in which they were; no humanity.

I looked at Fran and asked if that was typical. He said it was, but it’s a tourist resort, so they expect it. That group, he said, lived there. He’d been open seven years and had seen them before. He also said he didn’t get many English people, because “they don’t like Spanish food”. He had to rush off to serve a group of late diners, so I started earwigging the geriatrics. In between their false teeth falling out and hearing aids not working, it wasn’t difficult. Like many of my compatriots, they tend to shout.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was to be expected; I started to take notes. “Boris is the best politician this country has ever had,” said one of them. “He only got kicked out because the establishment hate him. He’s a rebel.” “I’ve no idea why we joined the Common Market in the first place,” said another. “It’s brought the tone of Britain down by a mile.” And the pièce de résistance? “Worst decision we made coming to live in Spain. Bloody Europeans have torpedoed our currency. That’s the thanks we get for Dunkirk.”


Where in the name of God do you start with that level of pig ignorant stupidity? Every single trope was distorted Daily Express bile. They left after one drink, and I apologized to Fran. He’d spent a year living and studying in Manchester, so he said he’d heard it all – or variants on the same theme – since Day 1. I asked him why he puts up with it? The answer put me to shame. “Because not everyone is like that. Most people from England are friendly and polite, and are embarrassed if they don’t understand – well, most young people. There are just as many idiots in Spain.”

So I taught him the word “wanker”, how to pronounce it,  and when to use it. I stayed there much of the night and staggered home over the footbridge at around 1.30 the next morning. I slept.