Spain's mean streets.

I believe that the man who introduced moped's to the Iberian Peninsula should be taken out the back to have his bollocks drilled off. Some more of that in a bit though. As an adopted home, Spain is truly fabulous and so are it's people. I just wish they'd kept the horse and cart and never evolved into motorists.

The scores on the door

Spain has and does, at a conservative estimate, about a thousand things better than the UK, way too many to mention individually so you're going to have to trust me on that. Quite often though the smallest things are the most irritating, especially on the roads, which is where the indigenous drivers excel themselves, not!!  The clues are there and you don't really need to go looking for them. Take for example the Spanish motorways, every fifteen kilometres or so you'll pass huge luminescent red display boards with useful information to assist people on their journey. On a slow news day, these same boards helpfully inform the pilots of passing cars and trucks how many people have been killed over the previous week-end on the roads. For me, reading that kind of shit is quite sobering, not so it seems for everyone. Shortly after Easter and during all of July and August that big red number can hit three figures as folk from inland head for the coast in their millions, frequently leaving their brains behind in Madrid or wherever.

Elche's new traffic concept - the truck lane

A green man only means  "I dare you" 

In town it isn't much safer either, I know this because I live in a small sized city, where, the only difference is cars and stuff are compelled to go slightly slower by the sheer volume of traffic. The reduced speed doesn't necessarily mean car drivers will obey annoying things like traffic lights or pedestrian crossings either, far from it. Only the lucky few avoid being a bonnet mascot on various SEAT models. In my large town, the fabulous Elche, we have bus lanes, the purpose of which is to encourage more use of public transport, and by association less car usage, because the designated routes are unimpeded, nope!!  For some it's an overtaking lane or convenient place to stop whilst dashing into and out of a shop, I know this too because I've done it! Zebra crossings also mean very little to the natives in my world, to many it's just an attractively painted piece of street on which to leave the car.

Terry Fuckwit's new moped

Now, back to those mopeds, which, in Spain appear to come with two optional extra's, stealth mode and no indicators. The indicator thing I can live with because cars here are the same and I've become an expert at guessing their intentions and jumping back onto the pavement when I get it wrong. The effort involved in deploying eight muscles and a third of a second to flick the stalk up or down is clearly far too onerous, but I digress. Assuming you manage to negotiate that left or right turn without being t-boned in the passenger door by a moped that wasn't in the bus lane the last four times you checked the wing mirror, you may well come across a stationary car in the street without an occupant. It seems it's perfectly okay to just abandon your vehicle anywhere you fancy with no thought for other road users who have to attempt to pass because you thoughtfully put the hazard lamps on. I kid you not, a few weeks back a bloke left his van double parked in a street with cars either side just to spend twenty minutes in a cafeteria with a large glass of wine and a small beer before work. If you get lucky and manage to park on the street within ten minutes of beginning the search, (my personal best is over thirty minutes of cruising round and round town whilst desperate for a pee), don't be too smug. The chances are very high that the space either end of your motor you allowed yourself in order to get out will have been used by a brain damaged moped owner, if you're really unlucky, and this happens, his or her equally dim witted brother or sister will have abandoned his or her hog in the gap at the other end too.

Safer in Calcutta

Periodically, the people in charge in the Town Hall change the side of the street on which you are permitted to park, no seriously, they do. Quite why no-one has adequately explained to me, but imagine trying to turn left into a one-way street and it just so happens this month cars can park on the left hand side of the road. You edge out and edge out and have to trust to luck you aren't going to get a moped rider airborne anytime soon. The chance would be a fine thing.

In fairness, it's way too easy to criticise my adopted country, sure, the lack of road manners is infuriating but I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the world.

The Hurt Game comes to Benidorm

Sweat glisten under the floodlights

For most of the Brits present, this was the first time they had stepped foot inside a bullring, but oh what a bullring. Steeped in history, looking slightly scruffy, and decorated by the National colours of red and yellow, the perfect circle of its whitewashed stone steps was interrupted only by four mature spruce trees. Madison Square Gardens it isn’t but the Plaza de Toros in Benidorm was the venue for an evening of International boxing featuring one or two local favourites. On this occasion the viewing public could expect to see six somewhat fairer contests.

Double world champion Joe Calzaghe, looking unfeasibly handsome, was the guest of honour for the evening, greeted like an old mate by complete strangers, he patiently posed for photographs and signed autographs for his lengthening queue of admirers, just as well actually, because in traditional Spanish style proceedings began about ninety minutes late.

Lisbon bouncer Avalindo Vira

With the opening bouts out of the way, two uneventful five round affairs, featuring what looked like fourteen year olds, into the ring stepped 32 year old Briton Robert Lyndon from Daya Nueva for only his second fight. His opponent, a suspiciously tubby Avalindo Vira from Portugal, would have been better suited to the stage of Benidorm Palace just down the road, his efforts were more suited to a pantomime than any serious attempt at sport. After five lacklustre rounds, Lyndon emerged victorious with an easy points win. Somehow he managed to stay upright for the final three minutes despite being caught flush in the plums by a booming left hand, a punch which probably started the journey to his knackers from somewhere near La Villajoyosa, fifteen kilometres down the road. Thinking about it, Vira’s training regime is probably limited to a bit of sparring with aspiring locals outside a Lisbon nightclub at 3am on a Friday and Saturday where he minds the door.

Next up, “La Sensacion” local Spaniard Kiko Martinez, thirty seconds later, with his opponents record now reading 7 fights – 7 losses, the Alicante man went for a wander amongst his adoring public without even bothering to shower and change. I’d hardly describe his gold tasselled shorts as sensational but wouldn’t recommend saying so to his face.

The best fight of a highly entertaining evening was between Sento Martinez and Armando Candel; two Costa Blanca based Spaniards who clearly don’t see eye to eye. This old fashioned tear up was fantastic and worth the admission money by itself. Toe to toe, the action was relentless, each lighting fast hammer blow sending sprays of sweat, glistening under the powerful lights, four rows back from ringside. Scheduled to last eight rounds, the contest ended controversially with a badly cut Candel unable to continue. Everywhere else in the boxing world, the retiree is declared loser on a Technical Knockout, under Valencian regulations however, the fighter ahead on points at the time of the stoppage is declared the winner, in this case Candel. Bit of a shame that because judging by the insults hurled between the two corners afterwards, both men seemed very eager to continue.

Two adult returns to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch please

With ample time on the journey home to reflect on what I’d just witnessed, my thoughts were dominated by how unfair it is that one man, Calzaghe, can be so good looking, wealthy and hard. Quite possibly the toughest thing to come out of Wales since the language!!!  

Living in sin, sorry, Elche.

I liked living by myself, I could take my laptop or newspaper to the bog when I wanted to park my dinner, I could fart whenever I wanted to, and I never used to bollock myself for leaving the loo seat up or shaving stubble in the bathroom sink. Life was simple and I could watch telly in bed and if I fell asleep with it still talking to itself, I’d save myself a job turning it back on again in the morning.

Elche - my new home town for the foreseeable future

Within the space of about three short Christmas weeks, yours truly went from being a porn surfing, beer swilling, pizza eating, loud music aficionado single man in a vast seafront apartment to domestic bliss in the centre of what is really a very agreeable small city. The thing is there’s so much more to that statement than is immediately obvious. When you move in with the girlyfriend, however hard you try it’s always a bit like losing some old, unhealthy habits and quickly trying to acquire some new, altogether better ones.

A baffling machine

Let me explain, simple things like I had no idea what a vegetable was two or three months or so ago and now I look forward to them, pizza once a week on a Friday night, instead of daily, is eagerly awaited and once I’d figured out where to buy the Daily Telegraph on a Saturday things began to look up. On the down side, kitchens and the notion of cooking food has always scared me; with a fairly compliant girlfriend, day one of the new living arrangements involved ground rules, which were, you cook and I’ll tidy up afterwards, no need to waste perfectly good grub trying to make me cook it heh? Having said that, our mutually agreed simple etiquette wasn’t without complications, like most organised ladies, she who must be obeyed also has a dishwasher. Given that I’m the sort of bloke that a washing machine strikes the fear of God into, I leave well alone the difficult process of pressing three buttons in the right order and limit my contribution to loading it and putting stuff away afterwards. For sure something I’ve put away in the wrong place which will have long since been replaced and she’ll end up with two because she stumbled across the first one I inadvertently hid.

Carrefour supermarket - not the cheapest

Overall, I can’t believe the huge upheaval in my life has gone so well, sure it’s still a bit strange seeing my books and CD’s on different shelves and my sea view has been replaced by a BBVA branch, but Elche is an amazing place and everywhere nice is within walking distance. At this point it would probably be courteous to extend a sincere apology to the lads at San Miguel and Marlboro whose plummeting share prices coincided with me no longer being a single man living alone. Things though could have been so much different; a week after I moved in the good lady asked me to take her “somewhere expensive” so I did. When we got to Carrefour she bloody moaned!!