Save Me…… from the diplomatic fall-out over a rock

So, update from last week, the university professor got it. Spain is now blue, not red. The election result was about as likely to happen as the sun coming up the next morning. Which it did.

On the diplomatic front, there have been rumblings between the two historic powerhouses Spain and the UK in our house in the past week. And it’s all over a lump of rock.

It raises its ugly head every few months in our house. And it seems to be no closer to a negotiated solution, so much so that UN peace keepers were drafted in on Monday, and now it’s difficult to get to the kitchen because of the demilitarized zone in front of the fridge.

The lump of rock in question is Gibraltar. And it is a source of endless fun and debate in our house. On the Spanish side is the wife. All red dresses, castanets and straw donkeys. On the British side is me, with a cup of tea, a bulldog and some fish ‘n’ chips wrapped up in newspaper.

It all kicked off again like this. We were talking about the possibility of buying a new computer as my one is getting a bit knackered and slow now and it takes ages for the water to heat up to drive the steam engine that runs it. I said I wanted one with an operating system in English. She said, well why don’t you think about going to Gibraltar to get it then. It’ll be in English, it might even be a bit cheaper, and it’s closer than getting on a plane and going to the UK. I said, good idea the wife. She said, yeah well, isn’t it about bloody time you gave it back? And I said, what, the computer? How can I give it back? I haven’t bought it yet. And she said, no you moron. I mean, Gibraltar. And I said, me give it back? I don’t own it. And then she said I was just being facetious and I knew damn well what she meant. And I said, oh bugger off.

Now, whenever this kicks off in our house, it always goes the same way. She says we - I like how she always makes me solely responsible for several hundred years of British diplomatic and political decisions. I was only born in 1970. She’d probably claim I was responsible for breaking up the Beatles if she could, but they’d already called it a day five months before I came along. She would no doubt suggest I was therefore already causing trouble before I’d even been born. Anyway, I digress – she says we (I am the British ambassador in our house apparently) nicked it (Gibraltar, not the Beatles) off the Spanish in 1770-something. I said, I always thought Spain gave it to Britain as a sort-of thank you for helping them to kick the French out of the Iberian peninsula. And she says, well, maybe, but that’s bollocks and you should give it back anyway as that was ages ago. And then I pull the Ace out of my sleeve and say, Ok then, when you (she is the Spanish ambassador in our house) give back the Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla to Morocco, we’ll give you back Gibraltar. (To give a bit of background, these are two tiny territories in Morocco, which were originally Portuguese, but then fell into Spanish hands sometime in the last couple of hundred years, and which Morocco itself says should now be handed back to them). This is always a bit of a low blow, because some of her family were born in Ceuta, so it’s a bit personal.

Anyway, she says, that’s completely different. And I say, yeah ain’t it just. How is it different exactly? And she says, it just is, so piss off. As you can see, the debate is detailed, well-thought-out and based on historical precedent.

However, this time, she threw me a curve ball which momentarily had me on the back foot, as it were.

As if trying to suggest giving things away was ridiculous and had no basis in law, she said suddenly that she wished the British had given Brighton away to the Germans in the Second World War. I’m guessing this was prompted by my snide remark about Ceuta.

Now, of course, this was an even lower blow. Brighton is my home town. And it’s hard to imagine it being annexed as a German enclave. I mean, they’d have to cut Hollingbury golf course in half just to put up the boundary posts and razor wire. And it would be total chaos as far as Brighton and Hove Albion football club goes, because their new stadium is just outside the town in Falmer. They’d never get any home supporters because they wouldn’t be able to get through the checkpoints in time for kick-off. Those Germans are sticklers when it comes to having the right paper work.

I said, where the hell did that come from? What a stupid, unconnected idea. You just said that to hurt me, didn’t you? Right then, two can play at that game. I’m going to write about this in my blog.

She then picked up my Beatles Anthology CD, threw it on the bed and said, write about that as well, you bastard and then stomped out. Well, she didn’t actually say “you bastard” but the way she said the first four words strongly implied that that what she meant.

Anyway, am hoping the UN soldiers will clear off by the weekend. There’s some sausages in the fridge with a sell-by date of Saturday and we’ve got to eat them.

Save Me…… from the same old same old

It comes down to the beard in the end. As far as I can work out, that’s about the only clear difference. And it’s not a great choice of beards either.

There’s the salt-and-pepper one sitting on the face of the nervous looking University professor or there’s the grey bush that inhabits the face of the stressed out little granddad.

This is the choice that Spaniards have this coming Sunday when they go to the polls to decide who will take over wrecking the country for the next four years.

November 20 is the Spanish general election and it’s a two-horse race between the incumbent Socialist PSOE, who’ve been in power since 2004, and the Conservative Popular Party (better known as the PP) who are saying the PSOE are rubbish and isn’t it about time they had a go instead.

In the red corner is the little granddad Alfredo Perez Rubalcaba, a man who is deputy Prime Minister of Spain. He concedes that he doesn’t sleep well and gets stressed out. He’s likes collecting old teapots and has a fondness for Smurfs.

In the blue corner is Mariano Rajoy, who was deputy Prime Minister of Spain for a time under the previous PP administration between 1996 and 2004. He’s a Pisces and wears jackets that make him look like a University professor. His favourite TV programme is Knight Rider and he always wears purple socks.

Ok, I’ve no idea if either of them like what I said they do. But I’m just trying to make them a bit more interesting, that’s all. Because in reality they’re not. Interesting. At. All.

Yes, there are numerous other parties all vying for power in the general election, but they’re all like UKIP in that they haven’t got a chance. And I’m not here to do an in-depth analysis of the political make-up of Spain anyway, so bollocks to them.

The Spanish aren’t great for making their minds up when it comes to elections. Since 1993, there have been hung parliaments for all but four years. But they have a rough idea of what they want.

For the past seven years, Mr Bean has been running the country. Well, at least a man who bears a striking resemblance to the character created by Rowan Atkinson, not just physically, but many would believe in his mannerisms and competence as well.

Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero – to give him his full, unfettered, unabridged name (all Spanish people have two surnames, but he’s got a middle name too, which makes it even longer) - has been Prime Minister of Spain since 2004. In fact, his Socialist party has been in power in Spain for 24 of the last 34 years.

Is it surprising when you consider Spain’s recent history? Not really. When you bear in mind that General Franco – a deeply conservative Catholic – was in power for 36 years, it’s a sort of two-fingered salute from the Spanish people to his legacy. It might also have had to do with the fact that Franco was a Fascist dictator who crushed all dissent to his authority with murder, imprisonment and torture during his “reign”. Four decades of suppressing the natural Spanish trait for defying authority has left a deep-seated need to redress the balance.

Two years after his death in 1975 – coincidentally also on November 20 - Spain had its first democratically elected government in more than 40 years, a Unity government headed by Adolfo Suarez. But he himself called it a day in 1979 and then in 1982 Spain settled into 14 unbroken years of Socialist government under Felipe Gonzalez, a politician who today still garners grudging respect across the political spectrum – a sort of Spanish Tony Benn. Franco would have been turning in his grave, no doubt. So lucky for Spain that they buried him under several feet of concrete at the Valle de los Caidos, north of Madrid. Good riddance, I say.

The big question now is who will be Prime Minister come Monday morning, November 21. The smart money is on Rajoy. Spain is in a bad way and people are not happy. Jobless figures are sky-high and economic growth is at zero.

But I’m not so sure either Rajoy or Rubalcaba are the right men for the job. Neither of them have huge presence or charisma and their parties aren’t that different really. Even their campaign slogans, hoisted up on banners and posters down every main street and in every metro station, don’t encourage confidence. They’re both a bit half-hearted in my opinion.

The PP’s slogan is “Sumate al cambio” (Join in the change), while the PSOE’s is “Pelea por lo que quieres” (Fight for what you what).

When the choice is a spam sandwich or a meat paste sandwich, you don’t really want either.  

If you were to put a gun to my head (and if you were Franco, that’s what you’d be doing now) I suppose ultimately the best choice would probably be a PP victory. Change is needed, a fresh pair of slippers as it were, even if the new ones are a little boring, a bit worn out and with that sort of 1970s retro pattern-look which makes them look like the cat’s thrown up on them.

People who know me might be surprised to see me write this as my personal politics swing fairly strongly to the left. In fact, if anything, I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more left-wing I get.

But sometimes there’s nothing like a change of jockey to give an old nag a much-needed kick up the arse.

Save Me…… from Sundays, big balloons and confusing toilets

If Seville is anything to go by, Sundays are a day Spanish families put on hold their bitter arguments, snide remarks and angry plate-throwing tantrums to pile out en masse to cafes, bars and restaurants for a big meal.

Everyone from the dribbling, yelling, wheelchair-bound granny to the dribbling, yelling, pooping six-month-old brat is dragged out to take part in the weekly tradition that is the seven-hour-long Sunday lunch.

Places are packed with parties rarely numbering less than ten. Smaller families are looked on with suspicion, while couples are often chased out of eateries because any family without at least three generations all living in the same house and eating at the same restaurant table must be thieves or burglars just there to case the joint.

So it was with this thought in mind that me and the wife ventured out into our neighbourhood last Sunday to experience this phenomenon. Perhaps it was the visit I made less than two weeks ago to a Toby Carvery in the UK, where families and friends get through truck-loads of roast potatoes, Swede, Yorkshire Puddings and Roast Beef every Sunday that put the idea in my head.

Although why on earth we decided to go to a TGI Friday’s is beyond me. It was my idea. I admit it. My brain was obviously not working properly that day.

We had been thinking about going to this nice Irish pub we sometimes go to. They do good, simple, cheap food and the atmosphere is nice. But I hadn’t been to a TGI Friday for three years and the unpleasant experience I had had the last time had mysteriously and temporarily been wiped from my mind, so we decided to go there instead. It was also one stop closer on the Metro.

Deep down I knew it was a mistake, as we were led to our table by a waiter wearing a pirate’s hat. What does a pirate’s hat have to do with serving food, I thought? This was what I wanted to ask him. But I didn’t. Maybe it was because I was briefly distracted by the other waiting staff who were wearing bunny ears, what looked like a train driver’s cap, a jester’s hat and another who looked like they had two toilets rolls glued to their head. All this had the effect of numbing the voice deep inside me which was saying: “Get out, run now. The Irish pub is only one stop away.”

So we took a seat in a booth and the pirate took our order. As we waited for what were frankly very over-priced starters – again, the strategically placed waiters’ headgear and the gaudy decorations on the walls including old baseball gloves, traffic lights and pictures of rock-and-roll stars were all numbing the senses and making rationale thought impossible – I became aware of a large family group sitting behind me, and in particular a little boy who repeatedly bashed the back of my head with his TGI balloon. Yet another brilliant helium-filled marketing ploy to take the focus off the pricey but poor food. Genius!

I turned around, ready to proffer a kindly smile that gave the impression I thought he was a lovely child and weren’t his parents lucky to have him, while also subtly hinting that should he continue to keep hitting me, his balloon – and, let’s face it, probably him too – was liable to get a fork jammed into it.

Naturally, it took me a few seconds to create the facial expression that could exude these subtle messages all at the same time. Enough time, it seemed however, for the little angel to have a pre-emptive rebuttal ready to go.

For, as I turned around, he promptly let go with a huge, raspy, burger-encrusted burp right in my face and then gave me a ketchup-stained toothy grin.

I was momentarily stunned, my smile now exuding yet another message that, had it been a speech bubble appearing above my head, would have said: “What the fuck?”.

His parents said and did nothing, ashamed, I like to think, that they had produced such an evil offspring. My wife, sensing my discomfort and ever the sympathetic and caring woman that she is, promptly burst out laughing.

The food took a while to come, it was very average and not at all worth the 50 euro bill. As we waited for the cheesecake dessert – by this time we had become a bit more savvy and had ordered only one dessert and two spoons – I decided to pay a visit to the loo.

Going in wasn’t the problem. From the restaurant there was a pristine white corridor which led to the toilets. Coming back out was where it got interesting. I opened the door back to the restaurant and found myself in a completely different place – a Japanese eatery.

 Had the staff and customers of TGI, including my wife, played a joke on me and changed the entire look of the restaurant in the three minutes I’d been having a pee? For a second I thought Jeremy Beadle was going to come out from behind a pot plant and tell me I’d been framed or something. But then I remembered he was dead, so that wasn’t going to happen. I turned around and did the only thing I could think of. I went back into the pristine corridor, like some pervert hanging around public toilets. It was only then that I realised TGI and the next door Japanese restaurant shared the same bogs and I’d taken the wrong door.

After that, I was in no mood for cheesecake. Or balloons. Or Sundays. Next week I’m going straight from Saturday to Monday.

Save Me…… from being confused by apparently altered perceptions of a sporadically grim yet comfortingly familiar landscape

First things first and an update from last week. I didn’t win the lottery. Bummer.

Now, normally I have plenty of things I want to write about each week and have no problem putting pen to paper. But this week, I’ve found it quite a struggle. Not that I don’t know what to write about. I do.

But it’s because I’m not quite sure how exactly I feel about it. It’s got me in somewhat of a dilemma. So I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, rather than writing. However, deadlines loom. Friday comes around all too quickly. In fact, I’ve found to my cost that it’s at exactly the same time each week.

So here it is. This last week I made a flying visit back to the UK, to Croydon to see friends. I don’t get to travel back much, so it’s nice to go and it’s nice to catch up on things I miss when I do. It was great to go back, to see friends, to see old places, to have a Sunday lunch and a proper Indian.

But I was also very aware of how odd some things seemed. In fact, how depressing they actually seemed in some cases.

The first thing was a pub in the centre. It’s a pub I’ve often been in, it’s a pub I like. It opens for breakfasts every morning and there are tables and seats outside the front for the smokers to congregate. But on the morning I walked past it this week at about 9.30am, the tables out front were packed with a dozen old men in various stages of scruffiness. Each one was gulping from a pint of lager and dragging on a roll-up fag. Not a breakfast between them. Even the one old man, who I’ve seen there many times before, and who dresses like some 1920s dandy, complete with brightly-coloured waistcoat and beige jacket, corduroy trousers, orange flower, smartly polished brown shoes, an elaborately decorated walking cane, and a hat that makes him look like Terry Thomas or a well-turned-out Dick Dastardly.

And most of them were still there when I walked past again at about 4pm, each with a pint and a roll-up. This, it seemed, was their life. No doubt many, if not all of them, would be there at closing time and would then be back again the next morning at opening time. I wouldn’t be surprised that at least a few of them have requested in their wills that they be stuffed and mounted on the bar when they finally pop it (which I would guess, won’t be long now). It totally depressed me.

The second thing on my visit back was the darkness. It seemed dark, darkly obscure, blackly dim. Darkly black. It wasn’t raining. It was just dark, like the sky was lower or something. I don’t know, maybe it was because the clocks went back and it was dark at 4.30pm instead of 5.30pm. But it seemed to have the effect of closing things in.

Both these things made me feel uneasy. I found myself questioning how I felt about coming back. Was this how I remembered Croydon? Was it as grim as this? Was it as depressing? Or was it simply the perception of an expat flushed through with two-and-a-half years of sun and ice-cold beers in Seville? Was I just seeing it from a different point of view now? Maybe during the time I lived in Croydon I had become accustomed to it and so had become desensitized. I had witnessed this year’s summer riots in Croydon – where a decades-old family furniture shop had been burned to the ground – through the news websites while in Spain. I had read about the pessimistic jobs forecasts and the poverty gripping the nation on the same websites. And yet even then, when I was reading about these things from 1,300 miles away, it hadn’t seemed that depressing to me. It was as if I almost expected it. After all, it is Croydon. It’s not exactly Chelsea or “Poshington-on-Sea”. I had never felt like that living there. Other people who knew me thought I was mad to live in Croydon, because of its reputation. But not me, I thought it was fine. I was only ever threatened with being stabbed twice in the whole time I lived there. It was great.

Maybe that’s why I was so taken aback at how grim it seemed to me this last week.

But, here’s the funny thing. I knew the moment I stepped back off the plane at Seville airport on my return, that I missed it. Even though it seemed grim. Grimmer than being locked in a shed with perpetually bubbly Timmy Mallet and having no weapons to hand. Grimmer than being kicked in the bollocks by a one-legged donkey who then proceeds to poo on you as well. Grimmer than being trapped in a windowless room where you’re forced to watch endless re-runs of Jim’ll Fix It (yes, I’m sorry he’s died too, but let’s be honest, he was weird wasn’t he?)

So what does that say about me? I don’t have a clue. Even as I’ve sat here and written this, as I’ve tried to explain what I felt, I still can’t work it out. Answers on a postcard please.

Maybe I’ll find the answer by buying a lottery ticket again this week. Perhaps this blog does have special powers, but it just skips a week now and again.

I’ll let you know.

Save Me…… from divine interventions in the weather forecast

And lo it was that on the day after, God did readeth the blog and saweth that there was much sun and that it was still hot in Seville and that, yea, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth over such intemperate affairs.

And like an episodeth from the 1960s Batman TV series where ye Caped Crusader fighteth the bad guys and the words “Blam” and “Kapow” splasheth across the screen, God dideth punch the sun right in the gob.

Well, I figure this is the only way it could have happened. It must be written down in scripture somewhere, because last week I wrote on this very blog about how hacked off I was with all the sunny weather and the hot temperatures and how I wished for some rain and a good dose of cold.

And sure enough, a matter of mere hours after I posted the blog, the heavens opened here and the thermometer dropped about 12 degrees. I kid you not. I was gobsmacked.

The only conclusion I can come to is that God reads my blog and he got on the phone to the lower ranking sun god to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing hanging around in Seville when it was the end of October.

Up until last Saturday we were still getting temperatures in the early 30s. Then, just like that, the weather turned, the thermometer is now a distinctly chilly 21C and the rain is battering us with an enthusiasm it hasn’t mustered for about six months.

It’s wonderful. It really is. I’d nearly forgotten what rain sounded like. And as for the cold, well it’s a relief to be able to turn the fan off at night for the first time in ages.

Yes, 21C during the day is chilly. So chilly in fact, that during the night, we’ve even had to break out the duvet again. Up until Sunday, we’d been sleeping without covers. I even wore a jumper – for the first time since April – when we went out on Sunday evening. We were at a party and, I don’t quite know how it happened, but the women were all inside sitting around on the sofas while the men had banished themselves to the terrace outside, shivering slightly and occasionally saying “My, it’s a bit nippy out here isn’t it?” in Spanish. And it was. But even as I pulled my jumper sleeves down as far as they would go over my arms, I kept having to tell myself that if this were the UK we’d be sitting there in T-shirts, flip-flops and shorts reveling in our “Indian summer” (I always thought an “Indian summer” was just like a normal summer except that it happened in India).

When you’ve been through five months of temperatures not dropping below 33C and regularly being above 40C during July and August, 21C is cold. Trust me. It’s positively freezing, frankly.

Rain is good, it brings green back to our parched little valley. Cold is good, because it sends the scuttling cockroaches that hang around your bathtub during the hot months like a gang out of West Side Story, back to their subterranean shitholes.

But, of course, if this year is anything like last year and the year before that, we’ll have constant rain for the next three or four months and I’ll be back on here moaning again about how I’m sick of the rain and the cold and isn’t it about time the sun came out.

That’s Seville, you see. It’s a land of extremes. Loads of sun for flipping ages, then loads of rain for months on end. If only there was some sort of middle way the weather could take down here that kept me happy. Yeah, just me, no-one else. The UK may have generally crap weather, but at least it’s changeable. Wait 20 minutes and something new comes along.

I’m off there tomorrow for a few days. No doubt I’ll be freezing my arse off and grumbling again.

Mind you, I’ve got to look on the bright side. If my blog does in fact have the divine power to predict and even shape future events, as this last week has so clearly and unambiguously shown, then I hereby state for the record that I think I’m due to win ten million Euros on the lottery next week.

I’ll keep you posted.

Save Me…… from a shortage of mushy peas

It’s funny the things you find you miss when you live in another country. I’ve been living in Spain for a couple of years now and have actually not been back to the UK very much at all in that time. Four times in fact, and each one for a short visit. I’ve spent less than three whole weeks in total in the UK in over two years.

And while I don’t actually miss the UK that much – not at the moment anyway, I have no immediate desire to move back there, at least not yet - I do, of course, miss certain things, like my friends.  I also miss the strangest things about it.

Take the weather for example. Yes, really. Here in Seville, deep in the heart of southern Spain, there’s a lot of sun. A huge amount. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the sun. It’s great. It’s brilliant. Since June it’s rained here just twice. And there’s not even a water shortage. The Spanish got that figured out a few years ago by building a lot of reservoirs so that water is always available, even if it only rains twice in five months.

But here lies the problem. While I love the sun, it’s getting towards the end of October now and I’m getting a little sick of it, quite frankly. I mean, come on. Enough’s enough. When is it going to be get colder again? The sun’s great. But it’s like when you buy a packet of Custard Creams (my favourite biscuit) and eat them all in one go. You love them, but you don’t really want any more for a while. You know what I mean.

As far as the sun goes, I’ve had more than a few packets of it these last few months and I could really do with a nice big jumbo cash-and-carry packet of rain and a big family pack of cold too! And that leads me to what I really miss.

I miss Custard Creams (although my friend Paul very generously took up some of his baggage allowance to bring me a pack when he flew over for a visit in July). I miss sausages. Proper sausages. Not the processed frankfurter-type with non-specific meat you can get here in plentiful quantities, but the real, proper pork bangers that you can whack under the grill (not that we have a grill in our tiny flat, but if I could get proper sausages I’d go out and buy one). I miss mushy peas, the ones you can get in a chip shop. I miss chip shops. And I miss proper chips. You get chips here, but they’re not proper chips, not the thick, crispy, crunchy chips. I miss cabbage and Brussels Sprouts and mashed potato and roast potatoes and roast beef and gravy. God, I miss gravy. Yorkshire pudding, trifle. Curry!! God, how did I forget that?? There are a total of just two Indian restaurants here in Seville. Two! And they’re both quite expensive. If living in Seville was like living in the Sahara, the oasis’ would be filled with Chicken Korma and poppadoms and the palm trees would be made of onion bhajis.

That’s not to say that the food here in Spain is bad. It’s not. It’s great. But sometimes it all gets a bit “samey”.  Tapas are a staple diet here for people visiting the bars and cafes. But almost everything comes out of the frying pan! Except the salads of course, but when you’ve had 500 salads in a single summer, you don’t want salads for a while.

All this listing of food is making me hungry. But I still don’t have the urge to move back to the UK. That’s the dilemma. Apart from arranging food parcels to be sent here every month, which would cost a lot, I can’t think of any other way to satisfy these cravings. Yes, the packet of custard creams my friend Paul brought were brilliant. But they filled a very tiny part of a very big hole in my stomach.

I am back in London next week, but only for a flying visit. I hope, when I’m there, to visit my favourite south Indian café and have a Sunday roast in a pub.

Maybe these short visits will be enough to keep me going for a few months more. I hope so. If not, I just hope someone is planning to open a Happy Shopper here in Seville soon. They’re the only places you can get a full English breakfast in a tin, a packet of Black Jacks and a Curly Wurly! God, I miss Curly Wurly’s.

Save Me……from dull, boring, patient lines

Let’s be honest. When it comes to the economy and jobs, the Spanish aren’t very good. Turning up on time is something else they have difficulty with as well.

But there is one thing they are good at. In fact, one thing they excel at. And that is sports.

There’s football for a start. They are world champions and Barcelona are probably the best club team in the world at the moment. Then there’s basketball. Currently, Spain are the European champions and are second in the world rankings. Then tennis. There’s some bloke called Rafa Nadal who’s not bad with the racquet. After that, you’ve got cycling – Alberto Contador, Miguel Indurain, Carlos Sastre to name just a few who have won the Tour De France in recent years.

But there is one sport the Spanish have so completely, totally and utterly mastered, that, if planet Earth were Star Wars, they would be Yoda.

It is the sport of “queuing.”

Hang on just a minute, I hear you say. Some mistake surely! The plucky, fair-playing Brits are world champions at that discipline, I hear you shout as you shake your fist at the computer screen.

No Sir. They think they are. But they are not. Not even close. In fact, if there really were a world championships for queuing, the Brits wouldn’t even make the play-offs. You’d probably be knocked out by queuing minnows Montenegro or Fiji. Why? Because you’re too obsessed with making sure everyone sticks to the rules and doesn’t step out of line (literally). That is so yesterday!

You see, as has been their way with football, the Spanish have developed a flair for the sport of queuing, a mastery that leaves other nations open-mouthed at their brilliance. They have taken the rule book and turned it on its head. As if we weren’t already overloaded with metaphors, analogies and similes, if the art of queuing were a swimming pool, the Brits would be stubbornly – but fairly – ploughing up and down the middle lane with their dull, but efficient breast stroke. The Spanish meanwhile would have ripped up the lane dividers and would be doing a hugely complicated synchronised swimming routine that would probably include dolphins.

What the hell am I going on about, you ask? I’ll tell you. For it is sublime in its simplicity, yet flexible enough to still allow for some irritated looks and angry finger-waggery.

Let’s take the average bank, for example. In the UK, people come in, stand patiently in a line and wait their turn. Should anyone feel the need not to wait their turn, they will, of course, receive the obligatory tut-tut-ing and stares that, while polite and measured, suggest the possibility of extreme violence should said queue-jumper be inclined to continue such a risky strategy.

Meanwhile in the Spanish bank there’s no line, just a gaggle of people standing randomly somewhere near the counter. But wait, what’s this? It may look random, but in fact it’s not. This is because each new person who walks in the door simply says to the assembled throng: “Who’s last?”. One person puts up their hand, having asked exactly the same question themselves when they walked in just two minutes before. This way, everyone knows who’s before them. They don’t know who’s before the person who’s before them. But then why should they need to? Information overload! And so, each person is served in turn and everyone’s happy. This is freestyle queuing at its best. As Einstein said: “From chaos comes perfection.” (Well, I don’t know if he actually said it or not, Wikipedia doesn’t mention it and then I tried Googling it and that didn’t work either, but it sounds like something he would say).

But wait a minute. The Spanish have queue-jumpers too. They take two forms in Spain. The first is ALL old people. Old people in Spain don’t queue. This has got nothing to do with the Spanish being nice to old people. It’s just that they come from a time when nobody queued in Spain and as far as they’re concerned no jumped–up little youngster is going to make them start doing it now. The second type is the one who says “Sola una preguntita.” (“Only a little question”) as they ignore everyone else and stride confidently to the counter.

When both of these events happen, the people in the queue don’t actually do much. They give a few looks and occasionally wag their fingers, but there isn’t the underlying threat of horrific violence that marks the British discipline. It’s like they’re afraid to complain, but they’ll still call the queue-jumper a “wanker” under their breaths.

You see? Sublime. Perfect. “Douze Pointe” as they’d say in the Eurovision Song Contest.

That is until a Spanish person comes to the UK, tries the same thing, and gets ripped limb from limb. That’s its only flaw. It doesn’t travel well.