Save Me…… from strange measurements by hand

I swore that when I started writing this blog I would always be brutally honest, even if that meant, at times, personal embarrassment or direct and provocative opinions. Here’s where that commitment is put to the test.

I had a very strange, surreal and bizarre conversation with my wife the other day. It was all to do with poo. So when I told her that I wanted to write about it, she was, perhaps understandably, mortified. So much so, in fact, that she said if I did put pen to paper, so to speak, she would kick me in the bollocks.

Now, my wife is Spanish and has a quirky sense of humour, which is why I loved this particular conversation we had and why I was so keen to write about it. She can make me laugh out loud often with her humour and sarcasm. I’m not saying all Spanish people have a quirky sense of humour, but she does. Also, as she’s Spanish, she’s can be quite fiery at times – that old saying “fuego en la sangre” (“fire in the blood”) is very true in this case. And I do love her and don’t want to cause her unnecessary embarrassment and mortification. I also don’t want to get kicked in the bollocks.

So, to assuage her anger, the following conversation takes place between me and my Spanish friend “Pedro”.

I had the most bizarre conversation with my Spanish friend Pedro the evening we got back from holiday recently. We’d collapsed on the bed in our little flat in Seville, totally exhausted from a full day´s travelling by car, bus, train and taxi, and he turned to me and totally straight-faced, said: “I did a really big poo on the train. It was bigger than my hand.”

For a moment I lay there, wondering what to say in response. Thoughts flashed through my mind of him rolling up his sleeve, reaching into the toilet, pulling out the offending turd and holding it up against his other hand to measure it. Did he do it with his left or right hand, I wondered? Was it done upright or did he put it down on the side next to the tiny train toilet sink before measuring it? Then I thought, what the hell am I thinking?

So, after a considered few seconds, I decided to continue with the surreal nature of the conversation and, paying homage to that woman off the telly – if you’re not from the UK, then google “Gillian McKeith” and “Channel 4” and “poo” - who gets people to poo into a plastic box before examining it and telling them how unhealthy they are, I asked Pedro: “So what colour was it then?”

“Brown, of course,” was his answer, as I realized the stupidity of my question.

“No, I know that,” I said, recovering quickly: “What I meant was, what shade of brown was it?” I was starting to really get into this now and was keen to see where it would go.

“It was dark brown,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I tried to remember what the poo lady off the telly had said about dark brown poo. Was it good or bad? Did it mean Pedro had too much roughage in her – sorry, his - diet, or not enough? Or was it just that he was eating a lot of dark brown food perhaps?

I also found myself assessing the state and shade of my own poo in the last week. After all, it had been a holiday week and, boy, had we eaten a lot of holiday stuff in that time. Most of it was sea food, ice cream, peanuts, sweets and other rich foods (we were on holiday, after all). Maybe that was the type of food that produced dark brown poo. In which case, then surely it must be bad, I thought.

“I think that´s not a very good shade of poo,” I said, “It probably means you´ve eaten a lot of bad things recently.”

“Well, better out than in then,” said Pedro. He had me there. Good point, well made. We lay on the bed, quietly contemplating what we had learnt about poo.

I then realized, I still hadn´t quizzed him on how he’d come to the conclusion that his poo was bigger than his hand. But by then the moment had passed.

Think I might still be in for a kick in the bollocks, though.

Save Me……from the moment killers

It’s late at night. You’re curled up with your partner on the sofa in front of the TV, a bowl of peanuts on your lap and a cold beer in your hand. You’re watching your favourite film. You know, the one that you’ve seen a hundred times but just have to watch again when it comes back on the telly because, hell, it’s just such a great film.

You’re sitting there silently mouthing each line of dialogue as the characters speak it. You know every glance, every nuance, every word and every feeling that so encapsulates this perfect movie. Maybe it’s the one you saw that time at the cinema on the first date together. Maybe it’s the one that you watch every Christmas because it brings the happy memories flooding back.

Maybe it’s Casablanca. As you sit there, you’re revelling in every moment, from Humphrey Bogart’s line to Sam the piano player:  “You played it for her, you can play it for me.” The end approaches and you’re welling up inside, grabbing the sofa cushion tightly, as the plane takes off carrying Ingrid Bergman into the arms of undeserving Victor Laszlo.

Then it’s time for that line. That line.

As Bogart and Claude Rains walk off into the mist and the music swells, forcing you to bite your lip even harder, Bogie says: “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Only he doesn’t.

He gets as far as saying: “Louis, I think…” and then some fake-tanned tosser holding up a can of oven cleaner, and with a grin so white you just want to smash his face in, blunders on to the screen wanting you to buy his product. The temptation to hurl both your beer bottle and the bowl of peanuts through the TV is overwhelming.

This is Spanish commercial television.

Spanish TV is now digital, which means that although virtually every foreign film is dubbed into Spanish, you can actually press a button and switch it back to English. Which is good.

But for some unfathomable reason, some reason that defies common decency, the people who schedule the advert breaks for Spanish TV don’t wait for the end of a scene, not even the end of a line, they just ram the things in like a policeman bashing in a rioter’s head with his truncheon.

Why??? At what point did they decide this? I mean, they must have decided to do it like that because the adverts don’t happen by themselves. Which pea-brained, backward, pathetic, friendless excuse for a human being sat down and said: “I know, let’s jam these adverts in at the most sensitive, climactic moments, just so we can piss off the viewers. That’ll definitely get them to want to buy the stuff we’re advertising!”

You see, here’s the thing. Spanish adverts are not like British adverts. First off, it’s common knowledge that Spanish TV adverts go on for ages – sometimes 15 minutes at a time! Now, this I’ve got used to. But what makes me foam at the mouth, what makes me want to hunt these advert schedulers down and force feed them their own shit, is the fact that their adverts cut perfect scenes in half, come two minutes after a new programme or film has started – yes, really! – or two minutes before it ends! There’s virtually never an ad break between programmes, like you’d expect in the normal world.  You just plough from one programme to the next - even the film credits are cut - without so much as a “Thank you ma’am. That was delightful. We must have dinner soon. I’ll call you.”

Imagine watching that climactic scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader says: “Obi Wan never told you what happened to your father.” Luke: “He told me enough. He told me you killed him.” Darth Vader: “No….I am your father.”

“Fuck that”, think the advert schedulers, “Whack an advert for tampons in the middle of that speech, right at the point where he’s just about to say “…..your father”.”

Maybe it’s Gone With The Wind and Scarlett O’Hara is pleading with Rhett Butler asking him where she should go, what should she do. And he, of course, doesn’t say: “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”, because some moron with bongos crashes on to the screen trying to sell you car insurance.

Don’t the advertisers themselves have something to say about this? I mean, don’t they think people would be more inclined to buy their crap razors and underarm deodorants if the adverts didn’t dump all over their viewing pleasure as much?

As I sit there in front of the TV, seething, imagining what I would say to the advert schedulers if I could confront them, two iconic lines of dialogue come to mind; Firstly, Peter Finch in Network: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more.”

But what I’d really like to say to them is what axe-wielding Jack Nicholson says in The Shining: “I'm just gonna bash your brains in. I'm gonna bash 'em right the fuck in."

Save Me……from empty spaces

July and August are normally stiflingly hot in Seville with temperatures in the mid-40s nearly every day. In fact, it gets so hot that even Sevillanos themselves bugger off to the beach and to their summer houses during these months.

But this year, when September 1 arrived, as if on cue, the heavens opened big time in Seville and it rained. It really rained. I don’t mean the persistent drizzle that permeates the very core of the British psyche, I mean big, heavy, loud, hard, huge rain. Oh, and add in some pretty hefty thunder claps (which make British thunder sound like a whoopee cushion) and lightning that arches across the sky as if God himself got a static shock from rubbing his slippers too hard on the carpet again.

Hoards of people came flooding back from the coast, clutching suitcases, deckchairs, hold-alls, ice boxes, flip-flops and boxes of food. The train and bus stations looked like evacuation centres for nicely-tanned refugees.

But then on September 2, as quickly as it arrived, the rain disappeared and it went back to being summer again. For a moment, the refugees considered turning round and heading back, but then they realised reluctantly that they had to go back to work.

But I’ve gone off the point somewhat.

What I wanted to talk about was second homes. This exodus to the coast is something which fascinates me. It’s not because the population of Seville during this time is mostly made up of tourists, and it’s not because Noel Coward was right when he said, “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun” - Spanish people aren’t necessarily any better at dealing with the heat than the Brits, they just sit in the shade with their Vino Tintos laughing at the sweaty, pasty white, red-blotchy, sandal-and-sock wearing brigade sitting in the full glare of the sun, pretending they’re having a good time.

No, what fascinates me is this. Despite Spain being in the grip of an economic meltdown, I’m amazed at how many Spanish families actually have second homes.

I mean, really, how many families in the UK have a second home by the beach or in the countryside which they disappear off to at weekends and in the summer? Plenty, you say. Bollocks, most of them struggle to keep up with the mortgage on their shoeboxes in the city. Those that do have a summer home often don’t use it anyway as they’re off holidaying in Barbados or Mustique with their butlers, while the residents of the quaint little villages where their empty holiday homes sit idly, have to regularly quell the urge to burn them down or daub graffiti on them, as they’ve pushed house prices up and pushed the locals out.

The fact is that a lot of Spanish families do have second homes. But this doesn’t really have anything to do with the economy. It’s historical. Homes are passed from generation to generation – and the same ones too. It is quite common here for people to keep the same house where they were born and pass it on to their children. Yes, this does happen in the UK, but nowhere near as much as it does here – it’s a fraction.

It also reflects the fact that here in Spain, it’s not uncommon for children to remain in the family home even after growing up and getting jobs. In the UK, it’s far more common for kids to sprint out the door on their 18^th birthday and hole up in a grubby flat somewhere in a part of the city that’s always on fire, because that’s all they can afford. But then anything is better than spending another minute with the parents!

Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of flats here in Spain – huge numbers. I mean, they spread out before you and continue on to the horizon. And more are being built every day.

The problem is that no-one is living in them! Here in Seville and in its suburbs there are blocks and blocks of flats totally empty. In one suburb about 5km outside the city, there are streets full of these deserted shells – it’s like being in some horror movie where all the inhabitants have run off or got killed!

While there are plenty of second homes here, there just isn’t the population to fill all the other ones desperate for owners. So, if you’re thinking of moving to Spain, I think you’ll probably be able to find somewhere quite easily. Come on over, it’s still summer!

Save Me……from the man who can’t tell the time

Stereotypes are dangerous things. While they may be convenient and occasionally funny ways to pigeonhole groups of people, they are for the vast majority of the time, simply not true.

One such stereotype of the Spanish is their relaxed attitude to timekeeping. Well, in my experience, it simply doesn’t apply. The trains, buses and metros generally run on time – far more than they do in the UK – and appointments with doctors, dentists, estate agents and others are also satisfyingly prompt most of the time. The stereotype does exist and a perfect example are the TV schedules – don’t bother with them, programmes never start on time. Ever.

But that stereotype here in Spain is as common as the stereotype that all English people eat roast beef, drink tea, have pictures of the Queen in their living rooms and have bad teeth. It’s not true, of course it’s not. They’re too busy looting off-licences and burning down furniture shops to be eating roast beef, and they’re too busy chugging down cheap cider and vodka before throwing up in bus stops to be drinking tea. Pictures of the Queen? Well, if her name is Chantelle or Jordan and she’s a pull-out picture from a lads’ mag with big tits, then maybe. Bad teeth? Yeah, that is true, they’ve all got bad teeth.

However, there is a thing with poor time keeping here in Spain that does get my goat – big time! When people are late or just don’t turn up at all, it’s far more common to give a shrug of the shoulders as if saying “so what, I’m here now, aren’t I?” than to apologise. It’s socially acceptable.

I don’t mean turning up at the bar or pub an hour late. That’s ok. Even I don’t mind that. What I’m talking about is appointments with professional people, people who you pay money to for a service.

And here in Seville, there is one man who, in my experience, is doing his very best to keep the stereotype alive single-handedly. Recently, I’ve been having some work done on correcting a sports injury I suffered years ago. Long story short, I injured my ankle badly 20 years ago playing rugby, it never really healed properly, and even since then I’ve always walked a bit lop-sided. I don’t mean I looked like a circus freak, but even though it was barely noticeable, the long period of time without correction has made it worse and worse.

So recently, I’ve had some quite painful physiotherapy and other electrical things strapped to my ankle, which have made it feel funny, and I’ve also had insoles made for my shoes. I have to wear them with whatever shoes I’m wearing so that my foot sits correctly and I don’t walk like a gorilla. Anyway, I’ve had appointments to check on the effectiveness of these insoles and three times now the idiot at the place I go to has screwed up the appointment times. Once is fair enough, we all make mistakes. But three times – this week was the latest – is really starting to push me towards the gun drawer in my bedroom.

“Wait a minute, “ you’re saying. “Three times? So what! Big deal, calm down. Relax, take a pill.” But, like I said, an apology would go a long way to easing my homicidal tendancies. But it just isn’t forthcoming. “It’s not my fault, I didn’t make the appointment,” said the reception staff. Even the bloke himself wasn’t bothered, when he finally got around to calling me to reschedule. Last time he just told us he was doing something else.

An apology may not solve everything, but it certainly goes a long way to easing the urge to twist his head off and dump down his neck. It wasn’t as if he was delayed by another patient. I was his first appointment of the day. He just didn’t come into the office until two hours later! I don’t know, maybe he couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed. Ok, beheading him and defecating down the gap is probably a bit of an over-reaction. And let’s be honest. I’d probably get arrested. I accept that. Maybe what he needs is a calm, measured reminder of how important it is to keep your appointments with your clients. Maybe.

Or maybe what he really needs is my insole-corrected size 11 boot up his useless, fat, stupid, unapologetic, can’t-read-his-own-watch arse.

Save Me……from empty-headed TV nonsense

Spanish TV is an enigma. It produces some of the most intelligent, insightful, funny, satirical and challenging programmes I’ve ever come across. But as Isaac Newton so aptly put it: “For every action there is an equal and opposition reaction.” And so it was therefore inevitable that Spanish TV would also produce programmes such as “Salvame”.

The utter pointlessness of “Salvame” – translation “Save Me” – is so huge it produces it’s own gravitational field that sucks in other crap shows as well. The Spanish affectionately refer to such programmes as “telebasura”, in other words “rubbish TV”.

“Salvame” has a special place in my heart. I’ve had hours of therapy in an attempt to remove it, but as yet, no success. In fact, it is a concept so burned into my soul that it forms the very name of this blog. It’s the TV equivalent of Guantanamo Bay – it’s horrific torture that should be outlawed, but too many stupid people think it’s necessary and revealing.

Let me explain. “Salvame” is essentially a topical debate programme – a panel of experts in front of a live studio audience. It’s on for four hours (yes, four hours!!) every weekday on a channel called Telecinco. The topics of debate include the threat of terrorism, unemployment, green issues……hah! No they don’t. The topics of debate include which minor celebrity is shagging who and why, whether another bland, pointless celebrity has chosen the right handbag, and if yet another worthless celeb’s shit stinks or not. Ok, I made the last one up, but frankly I’m convinced it’ll be the subject of a week-long special before long.

The “Salvame” panel is made up of pointless Z-list “celebrities” (including an ex-Big Brother housemate, a celebrity agent, the ex-wife of a former professional tennis player and another ex-partner of a famous bullfighter) whose only contribution to society is that they have a tan, a big gob, an opinion and can shout a lot. (For legal purposes, I should point out at this juncture that this is, of course, my honestly-held opinion and fair comment. It really is my honestly-held opinion, it is that horrific.)

The debate basically takes the form of all the panel members shouting at each other at the same time with the audience clapping when it gets particularly aggressive. Occasionally the presenter and “chairman” Jorge Javier Vazquez – a sort of Graham Norton-type character, only without the humour and with no self-awareness of just how ironic his existence is - will interject with a “new” twist in the saga, and the shouting kicks off again, interspersed with regular panellist storm-offs and even storm-ons (when panellists conveniently arrive in the studio “late” to confront the others).

At the centre of many of these “debates” is panel member Belen Esteban, former partner of now-retired famous bullfighter Jesulin de Ubrigue. When they were together, they were all over the gossip magazines. Since their acrimonious split, Esteban has made a living from the glare of the paparazzi’s cameras. She is famous only for being famous and nearly every aspect of her pointless existence is played out in front of the cameras. Esteban is an aggressive, loud, opinionated, blond, bulging-eyed plastic surgery catalogue on legs, with a gob like a fog horn. She makes Jade Goody – God rest her soul – sound like Audrey Hepburn.

“Salvame” desperately wants to be taken seriously. But it’s so vacuous, it would float away if it wasn’t weighed down by the gross egos it parades over the airwaves every afternoon.

Oh, and if after watching that, you still crave more empty, fatuous, soul-crushing celebrity tedium, Telecinco will happily serve up “Salvame Deluxe”, a even longer – four and-a-half hours!! - weekly analysis of the same crap they’ve been talking about already. Then there’s “Vuelveme Loca” (“Drive me Crazy”),  which does pretty much the same thing, only with different presenters, then there’s “Enemigos Intimos” (“Intimate Enemies”), which squares up celebrities to shout at each other over some witless disagreement they’ve had. Finally, there’s “La Noria” (“The Big Wheel”), which basically does the same as the rest, only on Saturday nights, again for more than four hours!

You think Channel Five in the UK is bad. Its Spanish namesake takes the Oscar for crap TV.