Derby day in Alicante

There's something which forms a massive part of my life in Spain that, in getting on for two years of writing this blog, has barely had a mention. Until today that is, because it's now time for a spot of football and what better to write about than a bad tempered Alicante derby? Fair enough, Hercules versus Elche is hardly Celtic and Ranger or Liverpool against Man United, but as local rivalries go, these two sets of fans hate each other with a passion. Last season, 2010/11, Hercules embarked on an ill-starred single campaign in the Spanish top division, which, to the delight of their near neighbours and sworn enemies from just down the road ended with relegation back to the Segunda A at the first attempt. 

The Estadio Jose Rico Perez

Real Madrid and Barcelona, wherever the game takes place, dominate the football pages for a good week ahead of the clásico, a really good effort given the quantity of daily sports newspapers in Spain. For Elche and Herc, the big build up started on about the Thursday with the usual platitudes in the local press from both Chairmen about respect and their wish for the supporters to enjoy the day win, lose or draw. Fat chance. A few more days of that old tripe to exercise both factions then and Sunday November the 27th soon came around. Thankfully, for all concerned the weather was nice too because, with barely any cover at all, the Jose Rico Perez stadium in Alicante, really isn't a great place to be when it's peeing down. On that particular morning it wasn't that great a place to be for about seventeen thousand Alicantino's either, but I'll come to that presently.

Taking the dog for a walk on a Sunday morning

Back in the day, the heyday of top class British football hooliganism that is, British Rail used to lay on "football specials"  to move fans to and from away games, usually in knackered or obsolete rolling stock so it didn't matter how hard the fans tried to destroy them. Twice a season, when the two biggest teams in Alicante province are in the same division, BR's Spanish counterparts could do with something similar, this being Spain though, that kind of forethought is sadly lacking. The upshot of this absence meant some of the hardest and nastiest Elche fans, a good couple of hundred of them, piled onto the 30 minute scheduled service to Alicante's city centre railway station. From here, the Burberry clad hoolies and qite a few of their lady folk by the looks, were marched the twenty minutes across town to the ground by a huge contingent of Alicante law enforcement personnel and one or two of their faithful friends.

The Elche CF Twelfth man

First into their section of the ground, they were followed soon after by the occupants of the twenty or thirty coaches that had travelled in convoy along the A-7 motorway, most of whom I'd recently passed on my own journey to Alicante. One by one, the coaches disgorged their travelling Ilicitano's right outside the door and stewards hurriedly herded them inside; beyond the police cordon, blue and white clad locals yelled various obscenities to which the visitors returned verbal fire with unpleasantries of their own. Everyone safely ensconced, the singing began and carried on, and on, and on until the very end. The visiting Elche fans were absolutely magnificent the whole game long, and, from my privileged position close to the touchline in their corner, I could see first hand their increasing delight as the match progressed.

Nicki Bille feeling pleased with himself

Seventeen minutes in, Elche got their party properly started when full-back Edu Albacar slapped the ball beyond Falcon in the Hercules goal from the penalty spot. Seconds later he disappeared beneath a sizeable pile of grateful colleagues mid-way through sharing his moment of glory with the gleeful green and white hordes going berserk in the stand. Before they all had time to get their breath back barely a quarter of an hour later, the Spanish version of  "you're supposed to be at home" rang around the ground as Elche scored again. In this kind of tense game with local pride at stake, the goals don't need to be things of outstanding natural beauty, you just need to rack up more of them than the opposition. This was the task that befell Danish striker Nicki Bille and it's safe to say his effort wouldn't be making the November goal of the month shortlist. In point of fact, the hit-man seemed somewhat surprised his poked effort, prodded in at full stretch by the near post, wasn't ruled offside. That much was clear from the delayed reaction as he began his celebration. 

Just out of shot Tiago Gomes was checking he still had two legs

Somehow, Hercules have risen to the top of the Segunda A classification and it's difficult to believe they'd have managed the feat playing as poorly as they had thus far in this match. With less than twenty minutes left, they eventually managed to locate the scoresheet to set up something of a tense finale with the best goal of the match. A headed Elche defensive clearance got as far as the edge of the box, where, the waiting Michel absolutely creamed a volley past everyone to halve the deficit.The Hercules efforts to get back on terms were handed another boost before the end after a spiteful studs up job with both feet on Tiago Gomes by Beranger, who, once all the handbags had died down right in front of the home bench, was given a straight red. Had he done that on the street, the Elche midfielder would surely have been charged with something.

The Elche players lap up yet more applause

At about five minutes to two referee David Miranda Torres, (honestly that's his real name), blew for time to end the first Alicante derby of the season. 1-2 was the result, and, amid incredible scenes at the final whistle, the Elche players went to salute their adoring public. In the thick of all this jubilation I was soon joined by the rest of the press photographers, who, by now had made their way across the pitch from the other end of the ground to capture the celebrations on film for their various publications. The thing is, what goes for medical types treating injured players during the game also goes for the media apparently, you're supposed to walk round the perimeter and not take short cuts across the grass. Two stroppy emails from Hercules CF the following day complained about "pitch invasions by the photographic media" and threatened to withdraw accreditations. Honestly, talk about sore losers!!  No such drama though for the amazing Elche fans, an hour after everyone else they were let out to board their buses home and bask in the warm glow of a good derby win. To the best of my knowledge, not one of them got stabbed in the buttocks either.

Messing about on the water

Alicante port - courtesy of www.whatalicante.com

In October 2008 I whiled away countless very enjoyable hours mooching around Alicante port, just one of hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Volvo Ocean Race village; departure port and temporary home for the round the world yacht race of the same name. Had I not been asked to cobble together a few words for an English weekly newspaper, the entire event would have passed me by and I'd have been none the wiser, instead I popped along to see what it was all about and ended up hooked. Being somewhat new to it all, I half heartedly enquired about going out on a press boat on the day the fleet set sail and was given short shrift. In the end, my piece made the front page, was reasonably well received, and, to hoots of derision - or the Spanish equivalent - from the girlyfriend I spent the next nine and a bit months navigating my personal yacht, (blessed with her name), around the world in an online game.  

The VOR game - far safer than the real thing

Fast forward then to the next edition of the same event this year, also in Alicante, and guess who was still hanging around like some kind of sailing groupie? Me, and it's safe to say I was looking forward to the new one just a bit too. This time round I was altogether better organised and spent the 72 hours before departure day on November the 5th as excited as a seven year old on Christmas Eve; a state of mind inadvertently caused by Volvo, who, having secured my signature on their legal disclaimer were happy to allow me out on one of the hundreds of boats seeing the fleet off.  In 2008 race day was an absolutely filthy affair, the leaden skies over the entire Costa Blanca were quick to deposit gallons of water on Alicante, most of which was whipped into driving rain by gale force winds. Perfect for top class sailing apparently, but for me in retrospect quite a good day really to stay ashore. For this nervous landlubber, race day 2010 was a much kinder, albeit chilly, affair with blue-ish skies, no rain and decent looking sea conditions. Or so I thought!

Still one of my favourite places

I've only ever been sailing once before in my life, up the River Deben in Suffolk from Felixstowe Ferry to Waldringfield and back on my thirteenth birthday, absolutely loving it. Besides being thrilled by the experience, my abiding memories of that day in 1977 are of wanting to do it again and being extremely cold, so today I was taking no chances. Wrapped up beneath hat, scarf and fingerless mittens I couldn't help but notice how poorly prepared some of my fellow travellers appeared to be as we boarded Kon-Tiki IV, a passenger ferry usually employed to trundle between Santa Pola and Tabarca Island. Once clear of the parts of Alicante port the public rarely see, a real eyesore truth be told, Kon-Tiki IV picked up speed as she cleared the harbour wall and headed out to sea with my clothing choices already paying dividends.

As a spectator sport, sailing is right up there with windsurfing, it matters not how close you are to the action, you're never really certain what's actually going on. It's a hell of a spectacle though and to be a part of it was quite exhilarating to be honest. From my vantage point just level with the start line, the six competing yachts seemed to cruise around rather aimlessly, as 1400 beckoned though everything suddenly became extremely serious. His Royal Highness Principe Felipe, on board a nearby Spanish navy patrol boat, activated the cannon that signalled the start proper, unleashing the beasts who were well into their stride before the ball of smoke generated by HRH had even vanished on the wind.

The inshore race course on departure day

By now Kon Tiki IV was holding station just beyond the start line, deftly manoeuvred by the skillful application of her throttles as all around us spectactor, press and VIP boats jostled for position as the fleet rounded the first mark and headed back to the start finish line to begin one circuit of a tri-angular inshore course. How these million pound racing thoroughbreds can be made to scrub all that speed and execute hair-pin turns in just seconds is incredible to watch at close quarters, that's why only the best sailors in the world need apply I suppose. Forty five or so minutes later, Spanish entry Camper with Emirates Team New Zealand came hammering past for the final time, her gaudy red and white sails leading the fleet out onto the open sea for the beginning of an epic adventure. She was quickly followed by her five rivals with French entry Groupama bringing up the rear a long way distant having had to perform a penalty turn for an earlier infringement.

One by one, Camper, Puma, Telefonica, Abu Dhabi, Sanya and Groupama were chased out to sea by a flotilla of official rigid inflatable boats, (RIB's), some containing photographers and others cameramen, their media duties shared with at least three helicopters clattering away overhead beaming live television pictures around the world. Three hours after casting off, Kon Tiki IV headed back in and my work was done for the day, It sounds simple sitting on a boat trying to write notes whilst loosing off a few shots with a camera, but try doing either when the boat in question is pitching and tossing on an increasingly choppy sea. As I tried to stand upright by planting my feet and bracing myself with my thighs, the grin on my face got wider and wider as each shot with my trusty old Nikon missed its intended target by miles. More by luck than judgement I ended up with a reasonable collection of photographs. What an amazing experience!

Tapas or not tapas

Sangria - rarely drunk by the natives

Mention Spain and it won't be much longer before you'll also pop sun or sangria into the conversation or piece of writing, I've even done the same here myself. Sangria, a kind of red wine, chunks of fruit and dash of whatever hard stuff you fancy concoction, is as synonymous with Spain as Real Madrid or the Costa del Crime. Sun, sangria and sex is the oft quoted phrase which, in the opinion of many, typifies Spain perfectly. This may well be absolutely correct for say, Magalluf during August, but there's vastly more to Spain than getting sunstroke, drunk or incapable and your leg over a random stranger.

Something else the natives don't do

For visitors or permanent residents not forming part of the 18-30 set giving resorts up and down the Spanish coast a bad name, sun and sangria, (derived from the Spanish word for blood - sangre), are more often than not joined by a newcomer tapas. The noun tapas represents the huge variety of small snacks and appetizers, served hot or cold, to accompany a small beer or glass of wine that together can be taken at any time of the day. Quite often, the bars and cafeteria's with their fingers on the customer service pulse offer a small bowl of olives or mixed nuts free of charge when serving drinks. Items such as these typically feature somewhere near the bottom of the tapas food chain, which depending on how much you're willing to pay, can stretch to one or two quite exotic specimens.

Handy

For certain visitors to Spain whose sartorial elegance rarely stretches much beyond a jesus creepers and white socks combo, a plate of chips with ketchup and pint of Heineken is a perfectly adequate way in which to get fed and watered whilst enjoying a few rays. That was me too when I first arrivded here in 2006, minus the footwear of course. Back in the day I quickly figured out the words for chips, (patatas fritas), and beer, (cerveza), and was soon well away in my new home. A very small blunder soon changed that though and by accident opened up a world of interesting and alternative eating options. My mistake was to order "patatas bravas" and expect chips; shortly after I was served something much nicer, a large helping of irrugularly shaped, cooked spuds smothered in a hot and spicy tomato based sauce. I had just given away my tapas virginity.

Nice one Garçon

Stories abound concerning where and how tapas originated, just pick which one you like, many though can be taken with a pinch of salt, the likliest explanation is a variation on the following theme. In the "olden days" when folk went around dressed like Blackadder, Spanish King Alfonso the 10th was travelling on horseback through   the south of the country and stopped for a comfort break at an inn near Cádiz. Just as his wine was being served, the wind got up bringing with it grains of sand from nearby North Africa. Quick as a flash the alert waiter, probably fearing for his head, covered His Majesty's goblet with a small plate, on top of which he placed slices of ham. Thus, allegedly, was born a popular Spanish tradition which has survived to this day. Tapas incidentally, comes from the verb tapar meaning to cover.

History and language lessons over, I'll bash on. Not only has tapas survived it's also thrived and is a popular money spinner, especially for many, many small bars and cafeterias, some of whom offer a gottle o' gear and a tapa for as little as 1.50€. Splendid value if you're a tad peckish just before tea-time or on the way home from work.. An equally pleasant way to spend time and a few more euros is to forego the typical menu and share three or four different small plates from the list of tapas, in one or two of the larger establishments, these can run to two or three pages.

Come to Spain and miss out at your peril. 

Quality time in the beer tent

There are some things in life that typical blokes can't do without. For example, and in no particular order, football, the occasional shag, cash and a cheeky ale or two once in a while. Perm any three from those four and a manly smile is virtually guaranteed. I think I might be a typical bloke!

Yes they do apparently

Every now and again, quite rarely actually, someone drops something into the conversation that overwhelmingly appeals. Instead of biting her hand off, (it's almost always the wife or girlfriend doing the suggesting), the trick seems to be to appear nonchalant and, if you can, make the whole thing seem like a chore you're happy to help out with. My personal "do bears shit in the woods moment" where I had to pretend not to be dead excited occurred yesterday afternoon, when the girlfriend casually asked -

 "Tonight should we check out the beer festival at Elche University?"
"Yeah - can do" I deadpanned back.

And that was that, a proper result!

Little and Large

I could hear the Oompah Band about twelve streets away, which, co-incidentally was also about the time I began salivating at the thought of all that lager. But, as John Motson said whilst commentating on Germany's good hiding at the hands of England in 2001, "this is getting better and better and better."  The reason for my increasingly euphoric state of mind was quite simple really. I caught sight of the size of jars of beer people were necking and nearly messed myself. Visualize a medium sized tree trunk, say a foot deep and six inches round, hollow it out and then fill it full of super strength German alcohol and you'd be getting there. Honestly, I could have used one of these behemoths at home to store our spare bedding.  I could tell from fairly early on this going to be quite a pleasant evening out and so it proved.

Top hat you've got their Fritz

In keeping with the Spanish way at most large gatherings, the system is simple and it works. You pay for what you want at one place, take the ticket to a second and away you go. Five euros and seventy cents later, the opening couple of bevvies were ordered up not yet collected. Next up, some chow. Same again at the food counter, where eight euros each were exchanged for a chubbing great, spicy frankfurter, another slightly smaller one, a generous helping of french fries and sauerkraut, a first for me. They also threw in a beer for the price. Bargain. Well fed and nicely teased by the first wee drinky it was time to tackle one of the monsters we'd spotted earlier. Full of beer they were bloody heavy so I quickly worked out the best way to make them lighter. Empty them. This I was to do three times, the perfect way to end up feeling no pain.

Gorgeous. The staff were nice too

This really was an authentic Mediterranean Oktoberfest, yeah they do exist and they're better than the German ones because there aren't any of those weird men in lederhosen mincing around like Morris Dancers either. Sure, we had barmen in curious pixie hats and couldn't hold a conversation because of the incessant music which grated after about quarter of an hour, but flitting around the place were loads of slinky, Spanish style serving wenches. Not for us those brusque, teutonic German frauleins called Gretchen or Hildegard, on no. All this took place in a cavernous tent with row upon row of trestle type tables, each of which was occupied by young people, old folk, couples like us and complete families, including small children. Stick two and a half thousand Brits in a massive tent, fill them full of lager and fights would flare up all over the place. The only problem last night was stumbling to the bogs and back.

 I enjoyed myself so much I think I might go again next weekend.

Our two year old house guest

Calpol not required

Call us daft and question our sanity if you want, but we've recently had a two year old stay at our house without his parents. That isn't actually as intrepid as it sounds though, because the little bloke has stayed with us before and seemed to love every minute. So did we!! Not for the pair of us though, shitty nappies, sleepless nights and Calpol every four hours, because, to the very best of my knowledge young dogs don't do, have or need any of those three things.

Leto, is a two year old Carlino, (Pug in English), usually resident with the girlyfriend's sister and her husband, who, this week were travelling and left their precious little boy in our capable hands. As house guests go, little Leto was impeccably behaved and huge fun to have around; not once during the five days of his most recent visit did he get pissed, puke everywhere and then pass out, which, in times gone by has been characteristic of one or two of our human houseparty invitees who've stayed over.

Spain's best looking dog ?

That though isn't to say everything the loveable little rascal got up to was warmly welcomed by senior management and I, particularly me. Not being blessed with the patience of Job, it would have been nice to be slightly more with it in the mornings before the assault on my bare feet began, especially on my first journey of the day between bed, bog and back for that all important opening pee. It seems clear that, for a two year old dog toes are fair game and, as luck wouldn't have it, no-one in Spain wears any kind of footwear indoors during the hot months of July and August. The problem is, this little bloke was just too affectionate, fun and simply great to be around, even at seven in the morning. During his rare quieter moments, Letito, (ito on the end of any male Spanish word indicates very small - diminituvo), he had to ensure you knew he was nearby by either brushing against you or flopping on the floor with one paw or the other, often both together, strategically placed over my feet.

Leto in a rare thoughtful moment

Outside on the street though was where the fun really began. Three times a day for a good fifteen minutes each time, he and I would hit the pavements around our city centre apartment, ostensibly to allow chummy to make his mark upside the most convenient lamp post or car tyre and attempt his most recent "deposit." However hard we tried, for Leto the call of nature seemed to occur fairly early on after we left the house; as regular as clockwork after closing the door behind us, mother nature would be on the phone with the next emergency. Unfortunately for me, a quick dash across a rather busy two lane road was interrupted by his need for the next bowel movement. No problem as it goes because we(I)  had the foresight to change pavements on a zebra crossing; half way over though, his back legs assumed the position and with my self conscious nod to both first in line car drivers, Leto did the business. He wasn't quite quick enough though because mid-way through the lights changed, leaving me with a bit of a dilemma......

The scene of my moral dilemma

.......Not so long back, I had a bit of a moan of my own about inconsiderate dog owners too idle to clear up after their pets and on this particular morning I actually became one. Ablutions just completed in the middle of a zebra crossing with traffic lights on green, what do I do? hurry on to the safety of the other side or stop for a couple of seconds longer and bag up Leto's, quite sizeable, recent doings?  In the end discretion was the better part of valour and so the pair of us carried on, me feeling somewhat shamefaced and refusing to look back, him completely impervious. Ten minutes later, on our way home, we passed that same zebra crossing and Leto's tea from the afternoon before was nowhere to be seen, squashed flat by various passing vehicles and presumably being carted around the city deep in the tread pattern of a Michelin tyre.

Hmm, I wonder if Leto's on facebook

Initially, I guess it must be quite difficult for a dog, being in a strange house with foster parents instead of Mum and Dad. For Leto, after a short time, his confusion disappeared and he began to feel much more at home and, soon began to test the boundaries of his new surroundings. On the furniture for example. At home we have a lengthy L-shaped sofa, half of which I covered in a sheet to accommodate pooch, guess where he chose to curl up? I soon put a stop to that and it did help that he's quite a quick learner. I have no idea whatsoever of the rules and regulations in his own home but I'm willing bet between us the girlfriend and I probably broke most of them. Last thing at night he'd squash himself into his padded basket and nod off, at sometime during the small hours he would, unbeknown to the pair of us, find his way onto our bed and remain there until being discovered first thing in the morning.

Kids run amok at their Grandparents house don't they because it's a lot less strict than at home, then, when they return it's the parents left to pick up the pieces. If that's the case with Leto, I'm really sorry Lourdes and Juan.

A bit of a bike ride

A painful 70's memory

I didn't know what hit me, that does tend to be the way when things happen very suddenly. My last recollection was pedalling along, minding my own business, trying to shield the black face of my digital watch from the bright sunshine with one hand whilst using the other to press the button at the side to make the red numbers appear. I don't think I was even moving that fast, you don't need to be cycling particularly quickly when colliding with a moving car to know it's soon going to hurt though. A split second before I hit the ground I saw my shadow and the bike wasn't even in the same frame, an abiding memory of the incident. The attractive lady driver of the silver Audi stopped a few yards down the road and immediately came to my aid, pretty magnanimous considering the accident was all my own work.

A thing of the past

That was a true story from circa 1979 and thankfully, less than ten years later I had acquired a driving licence, thus enabling myself to get about in relative safety. Obviously, shortly after I was legally entitled to drive, the push bike became a thing of the past and so too were any completely unplanned encounters with random passing motorists. Aside from a couple of years in my late-thirties, when the small English village in which I lived was miles from anywhere, I've not parked my arse on a bike for absolutely ages. In point of fact I sold my "hog" six years ago before embarking on the odyssey that life in Spain rapidly became. Even now, aged nearer to fifty than forty, the exercise bikes at the gym represent the kind of challenge I can't refuse and I devour televised professional cycling; something I've enjoyed for twenty years.

Route 66 ?

Try to imagine, I'm sure you can, the excitement of a six year old on Christmas Eve and then picture an adult with that same sense of anticipation. That adult was me on hearing the news the route of the 2011 Tour of Spain, La Vuelta a España, cycle race would be passing by my house on it's journey round the country. Everyone in the known universe has heard of the Tour de France but did you know there are two other 'Grand Tours' I thought not! Italy - in May - and Spain at the end of August/start of September are the other prestige events on the calendar. Spain though does things rather differently and, unlike France, most certainly isn't up it's own arse when it comes to hosting a simple, three week bicycle race. French towns and villages grovel to pay the organisers thousands of euros for the privilege of having the tour swing past and in the process whole areas are off limits all day. Spain appears to understand the route has to pass somewhere and, until the men on bikes arrive, life continues pretty much as normal.

The most curious of spectator sports

Day two of the twenty one day event, Sunday August 21st, began in La Nucia near Benidorm at about one thirty pm and was due to wind it's way 174 kilometres south towards Torrevieja. Just about half way along the route was Elche, 107 kilometres into the stage, (only Spain, Italy and France are licensed to hold road races of three weeks where each day is designated as a stage). Such are the nuances of the way the route is planned, to drive between La Nucia and Elche is a distance of only 74 clicks, this is what makes the Grand Tours so difficult. That and the stupid temperatures during Spain in August, which, when the race left the start of the stage had the poor sods taking part having to cope with 37 odd degrees of heat. While more than one hundred and ninety cyclists were punishing their minds and bodies out on the road, Elche went about it's business seemingly oblivious to the high speed convoy approaching at quite a rate of knots. Until about fifteen before it was due to hit town that is.

Four men in a breakaway

One by one, with no discernible sense of urgency, people emerged from their houses and gathered to wait on the streets outside, save for the occasional bus trundling past there wasn't actually a fat lot to watch but it was obvious something was about to happen. An eerie silence followed, akin to one of those tumble-weed moments, and was eventually broken by a pair of police motorcyclists, yellow flags fluttering from their mounts who were soon followed by a couple more, this time with much more urgent looking red flags. Then all hell broke loose as a breakaway group of four riders emerged through the distant heat haze, anything in their path being bulldozed aside by official cars, more police and assorted hangers on. Overhead a TV helicopter clattered away beaming live shots shots to households around the country. Thirty seconds later the first four flashed noiselessly past to ripples of applause and shouts of encouragement from the crowd, by now three deep on the pavements.

La Vuelta detritus

Four minutes down the road, the rest of the peloton, in arrowhead formation, soon followed amid similar chaotic scenes to the recently passed leaders. Preceded by official cars, even more police and flanked by press motorcyclists with precariously perched cameramen and photographers, stood up for the most part on the rear pedals, the long train, a riot of colour, snaked past. The stragglers, desperately trying to keep up, were quickly followed by all of the Tour apparatus; immaculately liveried team cars, atop which sat spare bikes, medical teams and the dreaded "broom wagon" the facetiously name people carrier charged with the task of "sweeping up" race retiree's. Five minutes later, it was as if nothing had happened, the gathered watchers had drifted away leaving behind haphazardly discarded drinking bottles, the only real clue as to what had just gone.

Pro' cycling really is the most curious of spectator sports but on an event such as La Vuelta, millions will line the streets for it's three weeks duration to snatch the briefest glimpse as the protagonists fly past. Just like I did.

Losing the will to live

Simply writing these words brings back painful memories of a recent morning I'd much rather forget but can't.

I bungled

From time to time in Spain, whether you'd prefer to or not, the occasional brush with officialdom  is unavoidable and, by association, so too is the ordeal the experience quickly becomes. It was my turn the other day! Those awfully decent people at SERVEF, the Valencian employment agency, requested the pleasure of my company for a face to face conversation about a matter we'd been communicating over for weeks by mail. Because they're the kind of organisation it's best to keep onside, I readily agreed. My obsequious 'tactical' agreement was shortly to become the mother of all blunders.

A nice Moroccan man explained the system

The morning started off alright, like most of mine do, with coffee and toast in an agreeable cafeteria near to my house, thereafter it got steadily worse and my leisurely brekkie was quickly forgotten. Being somewhat new to Government agencies catering for the self employed and those with no work at all, I didn't think anything of the lengthy line of people all clutching various pieces of paper. Until I reached the SERVEF office that is, where, spookily the queue ended and a swarthy Moroccan bloke playfully suggested "I f*** off to the back of the line and wait like everyone else!"  "Sure thing" I meekly agreed., before retracing my steps for a good three furlongs.

Argos - a system that really caught on in Spain

When eventually I made it into the rather depressing surroundings, where, unknowingly I was about to spend the next four and a bit hours fighting the urge to top myself, I appeared to have been joined by most of the population of Elche. Spain being Spain, and it doesn't matter whether you're in a bank, the butchers, the Post Office or a mobile phone shop, the system is simple and it works a treat. You take a numbered ticket, park your arse and wait to be called or simply keep an eye on giant screens. A bit like Argos in the UK I suppose. Unfortunately, SERVEF seem to have a bit of an evil system featuring two different prefixes, 'A' and 'P', on the numbered tickets. I quickly established the sixteenth letter and not the first was what I needed and my speed on the uptake was rewarded with P042

Forty five minutes after I joined the heaving mass of unemployed Elche humanity, the green screen indicating which waiting client wouild be atttended to next had ticked along, at glacial speed, to P003. Meanwhile, the altogether more fortunate bearers of 'A' sequence tickets barely had time to spark up a conversation with the person next to them as their big red screen galloped up to number A044. With all that time on my hands, I'd long since given up on the game I play in the bank by trying to guess which cashier will serve me, in favour of sussing out the waiting punters. That proved to be altogether more interesting.

In an apparent act of defiant refusal to give in to his circumstances laced with a huge dollop of personal pride, one bloke seemed to have turned up in his best togs; matching Armani polo shirt and chino's combined with a pair of stylish brown loafers. His appearance was in stark contrast to the rest of the assembled customers.

The old girl tried to make friends

Posh boy clearly got lucky because within fifteen minutes he'd been and gone, unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the talkative, big built lady that I initially thought worked there. It turned she was just a bit of a busybody with no life who absolutely loved the sound of her own voice! Sat next to the ticket machine, desperate to be somewhere else, I was a prime target for random strangers who couldn't figure out how to operate the thing, thankfully the old fish wife was soon on hand to put her ample nervous energy to one more good use. The problem with folk like her is that once you even offer a flicker of acknowledgement they're in like Flynn, behave like they've known you for years and really do persevere. In the end I scarpered for a coffee.

The moment my number came up

She was still there talking shit to anyone who would listen forty minutes later. On the upside, when I got back there were considerably fewer people, the 'P' screen had racked up 31 not out and every recipient of an 'A' ticket was being seen immediately. An hour or so earlier, cursing myself for not bringing my shaving kit, I was starting to worry I might even have to spend christmas, still five months away yet, in this godforesaken place. All of a sudden, with closing time rapidly approaching, (Spanish civil servants knock off at 1400), three additional staff miraculously became available and for the itinerants, me too, things began to look up. Then, about ten minutes before last orders, the unthinkable happened and P042 clicked into view, an event I witnessed with childlike excitement.

Less than ninety seconds later, the time it took an extremely helpful lady to photocopy my passport and green residency certificate, it was all over and, in something of a dazed state I emerged back into the daylight, blinking like a Chilean miner. I've still got that poxy ticket!!

A world of sport

The Spanish World Champion is still awaited

Way back in the mists of time, when I was a much younger and fitter man, at certain times of the year, one or two televised sporting events would kind of prick my conscience and inspire me to copy the paid professionals off the box. Mid to late April was always a favourite period because at this time of year Sheffield always hosted the World Snooker Championship and, yup, you've guessed it,I'd take my bat down to the snooker hall and try and emulate Steve Davis. The realisation I was a bit shite soon kicked in though and within about six weeks, quite often sooner, I'd turn my attentions to a different ball game, just in time for the Wimbledon fortnight.

English footy fans/Spanish cyclists, not a lot of difference really. in the beer gut stakes.

Tennis too was soon added to the list of sports I really enjoyed, had a bit of a bash at, and quickly discovered I'd never be much good at. Following a three hour and five set marathon, (that I lost), a badly sun burnt me retired gracefully on a gallant defeat. Nowadays, I've grown out of all that stuff and, aside from the very occasional game of golf in late spring, (just about when The Masters is televised), I've not hit a ball of any kind in anger for quite a while. Thinking about it, there's probably not a better phrase anywhere to describe my lack of sporting prowess than "hitting -  snooker, tennis or golf - balls in anger". In Spain there is a sizeable group of people, middle aged and slightly overweight men in the main, who should have done what I did but still haven't. For them, professional cyclists are the inspiration and they don't look like growing out of their adulation anytime soon either.

Aspe cycling club - 2011 team foto

As the weather warms up, more and more of these otherwise perfectly sensible blokes squeeze their portly frames into luridly coloured spandex clobber, climb aboard their expensive looking bikes and ride off into the sunrise. Unfortunately, they seem to do this every weekend in increasingly large numbers and in the process completely forget about, or more to the point ignore, other road users. July hereabouts is always something of a misery because for three weeks the Tour de France takes place and is beamed live and direct into households around the country, thereby provoking even more interest amongst the Spanish cycling fraternity. Not being weighed down by an over abundance of patience, you can probably imagine my state of mind when just last weekend I had the misfortune to chance across a latter day Miguel Indurain and about fifteen of his mates.

A recent view from behind my steering wheel

I have a regular Saturday morning appointment at nine o'clock in Aspe, the next small town west of Elche about twelve kilometres away. Getting there was fine, I didn't even have one of those heart stopping moments that catching sight of one of the many random Guardia Civil drink driving controls, (a feature of Spanish motoring), usually induces after a skinful the night before..The journey home though became something of an ordeal as Big Mig and his peloton of cronies, all dressed like fucking Power Rangers, bimbled along four abreast oblivious to the lengthy and increasingly frustrated queue of motorists behind headed by yours truly. So slowly were they moving I had time to steer with my knees, retrieve my mobile phone from my pocket and loose off three or four perfectly focussed photos of the inconsiderate group of two wheeled tossers.

You can trust the driver of this vehicle

In that situation, being first car back is quite a responsibility you know and the decisions come thick and fast. In actual fact, of these two adjectives, only the former couild be applied to the posse up front because they certainly weren't pedalling very quickly. Their leisurely speed therefore presented me with something of a dilemma; whether to patiently wait and continue to crawl along or attempt a risky overtake without knowing how long their train stretched out before me. Five minutes and less than a kilometre of contemplation later, the decision was made for me, when, on a reasonably straight bit of road, the black SEAT Leon directly behind me dropped it down to second and came blatting past. 'Sod it' I thought, and, trusting to luck, I slipstreamed the very young looking pilot. Thankfully, I had chosen to follow one of only nine Spanish car drivers in the entire country with his wits about him, who, not only passed the lycra clad pensioners but kept going at full chat so as to allow me to pull in too.

Imagine the "fun" I'm going to have when the Tour of Spain, (La Vuelta de España) starts in the last week of August. Perhaps that would be a good time to buy a bike!!

Gizza job

Everybody moans and groans about their job at some point don't they? it's human nature. Unless you're say, the Pope or Cristiano Ronaldo, both of whom only have to step outside their respective front doors to get mobbed by thousands, job satisfaction appears to be pretty hard to come by. Obviously, there's already a Holy Father and Real Madrid don't need any more diving cheats, so where does that leave the rest of us? Well, judging by some of the employment opportunities in Spain, on that one I'd have to say better off than most, truth be told.

Destination United Kingdom

Spain doesn't have as generous a welfare system as the United Kingdom so for this reason it isn't as popular with Somali's and sundry other bogus asylum claimants, the majority of whom know Article 8 of the Human Rights Act off pat before they even clamber down from the back of the trailer at Dover. Unemployment benefit does exist in Spain but to claim it you have to have paid into the system for at least a year beforehand. If you can't provide payslips, (nominas), to substantiate the claim and prove exactly what contributions have been made then you're going to be out of luck. With a safety net with that many holes in, it's hardly surprising therefore an underclass of citizen exists in Spanish towns and cities who scratch a meagre living any way they can. So tomorrow, when you head back to the office, shop or wherever else it is you do your complaining, spare a thought for a few of these poor buggers, or better still, a few of the even poorer buggers, (me for example), that same underclass of citizen regularly aggravates.

Except if they work near Elche hospital

I shouldn't really denigrate the efforts of others to earn a few quid for themselves, but to be perfectly honest, some people don't do much if anything to garner sympathy for their cause. Take for example, and I so wish somebody in authority would, the car parking "helpers" This group are invariably found close to large public and busy buildings or anywhere guaranteed a half decent crowd. Elche hospital is one such example where parking the car is notoriously difficult. Their modus operandi for want of a better phrase is to stand in the road and helpfully point out a parking space you've already seen and were going to use anyway. If it's quite a small gap, by means of dramatic hand signals, they'll enthusiastically assist as you back in inch by inch. Proud of yourself for getting it in there pretty straight, you emerge from your immaculately parked car to be met by an outstretched palm expecting at least a euro to be placed there. That filthy palm belongs to the hobo you almost ran over. I once had a massive row with one of these itinerants outside the Rico Perez football stadium in Alicante, refused to hand over anything and then proceeded not to enjoy Hercules versus Tenerife because I was shit scared the mush outside had damaged my car.

Splash and dash at the lights

Quite a few large Spanish towns have major thoroughfares, these are frequently two lane jobbies, with traffic lights to disrupt the flow of vehicles. The problem is when the smooth progress of motorists has been interrupted by, say, a red light which really can't be ignored, from nowhere comes a horde of bucket and sponge wielding carwashers. Whether you want them to or not, they then proceed to remove all the dead flies and crap of your windscreen, again in exchange for a handful of small coins or a couple of euros. In the approximately thirty seconds it takes for the lights to change, these extremely well practised folk can knock off four or five shampoos and sets, and, given the time available to them, they do a really good job. So too though can my windscreen wipers and washer bottle and these two are nowhere near as aggressive as the South Americans outside. Over time and because I know many of the likely ambush spots, some of which you just can't avoid, I've become pretty adept at second guessing the old red, amber and green. This invariably entails either absolutely blatting it past, a split second after the Spanish Highway Code demands I stop or hanging back in second gear two hundred metres from the junction before picking up the revs and cruising past with a cheery wave of my middle finger.

Slightly whiffy in the summer

Perhaps the most unfortunate of all the people who have fallen between the pretty wide cracks of the Spanish system are the late night bin scavengers, the hours are shitty, and, judging by the clothes they wear the work isn't that well paid either. Unike the United Kingdom, where household refuse is collected every three weeks if the weather isn't too bad, Spain has a daily trash collection, (usually in the early hours of the morning), with a weekly run for things like paper and glass. At this point it's worth mentioning, just for clarity, that our towns and cities have huge neighbourhood bins every couple or three blocks for the entire local community to make use of. This then represents a heaven sent opportunity for the less fussy to go rummaging through before the arrival of the nightly truck, (in the heat of summer the scent is sometimes altogether different and fucking horrible)!! The occasionally pungent aroma doesn't deter the intrepid scroungers though, who can often be seen, late into the evening, wielding long sticks, supermarket trolleys for their plunder and all manner of metal objects liberated from the piles of debris left at the side of colour coded skip thingy's. I've even seen tiny kids emerging empty handed from the receptacles after unsuccessful sortie's

Why not let Judy decide?

I'll finish up with a true story, or at least I think it is, about a couple who appeared on the Spanish equivalent of Judge Judy. The television show is called De Buena Ley, (A good law), and airs on Telecinco, the national channel five. A couple of weeks back it featured a bloke suing his wife because he objected to her job. Which was, wait for it, a sex line operator! So there you go, some people aren't simply content with bitching about their own work - this ungrateful sod saw fit to moan about his old lady's efforts for the family budget too.

Elche: City of..............

 ............a million palm trees and hardly any British people. Obviously there's loads of other stuff because more than 200,000 people live here, but I just used those two as my examples to grab your attention. A few blog entries ago, I can't recall which one otherwise I would have linked to it, I rather sarcastically suggested Elche only has two good things about it; a football club and the bypass on the edge of town. Some weeks after that rather stroppy event, I realise I was completely mistaken, should have chosen my words rather more carefully, and did my smashing adopted city a bit of a disservice. So here goes with my belated attempt to make amends.

A fabulous Moorish legacy

I've already done to death things that really bother me about the place, but what I would just add to that statement is check out this article a friend recommended, it's about a small Welsh town the author could easily have replaced with Elche. Anyway, I'll bash on now in an altogether more positive tone about the city. Over time it's been home to various invaders, many of whom have left their own legacies. A couple of thousand years ago the Romans arrived and promptly called the place "Illice" (pronounced ee-ye-they with the 'th' of they spoken very softly), to this day locals are still known as Ilicitano's or, for a single female, Ilicitana. Next up to try their luck were invading armies of North African Arabs, (Moors), who, upon finding very little sand and no dates, began to feel somewhat homesick. Their little leaving gift, just prior to being kicked out by some angry Christians, was hundreds of thousands of palm trees, which, these days are protected by law. The Greeks too also had a brief stay and nowadays one or two local organisations still bare the name Helike, although this Grecian handle is nowhere near as prevalent as the much better known Roman moniker.

Altamira Castle - in the heart of Elche city centre

Right bang up to date, estimates put the population of Elche, twinned with Toulouse in France and Oran in Algeria, at anywhere between 210,000 and 250,000 people; it's not at all scientific but taking the mean of these two puts it on a par with the city of Derby in the UK. I've never actually been to Derby, I'm sure it's really nice, given the choice though I'll stick with Elche, dog shit and graffiti notwithstanding, it's the kind of city that looks and feels old, I quite like that. Packed with historic buildings, and architectural gems, including Altamira Castle and the Basilica of Santa Maria, Elche combines the very best of ancient and modern, which are at ease with each other sitting side by side in comfort.

The Elche Alicante Santa Pola triangle, far safer than the one in Bermuda

Geographically, Elche is give or take twenty kilometres inland from one of my most favourite places, Santa Pola, the resort and fishing port that I once called home. Imagine, if you will, a triangle with these two places as the bottom corners, at the top about the same distance away and also on the coast is Alicante, the provincial capital. Rather curiously, folk from each of the three places aren't that fond of each other; so much so that I have it on reasonably good authority that not long back an Elche businessman was compelled to close his cafeteria/bar in Santa Pola because the locals refused to use it. Urban myth it may be but certainly one with a little credibility. (Is that not an oxymoron?).

A beauty spot within a beauty spot

I have to say, I first came to Elche for a day out years ago not long after arriving in Spain and, truth be told, I hated it. The city centre had a complicated one-way system, car parking was, (and still is bloody expensive), and on a stifling hot August day, I was scrabbling around for shade in a city I didn't know well. A very cleverly engineered chance encounter in April 2007 changed that biased opinion and since then I've grown to understand and love a very underrated small city. Elche doesn't have the cache of say, Granada or Salamanca, two of the more famous and historic Spanish cities, but it's no less nice. Visitor numbers are increasing year on year, and, thanks to a town council with an abundance of the handy pairing of civic pride and nous, so too are the amenities and attractions on offer. What doesn't half help to raise the Elche profile is the title, (in Spanish); Patrimonio de la Humanidad. Bestowed upon the city by UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation, it's a World Heritage award given to the Elche Palmeral Park, a fabulous green oasis, one of many, in the heart of the city. For first time visitors, this ungrateful sod excepted, that is just the start of the surprises.

I wonder if they do mature students

Educational, Scientific and Cultural sum up Elche pretty well perfectly in just three words. A leisurely stroll through the city centre and beyond offers up a wall to wall cultural experience second to none, you can also add to that half decent culinary and shopping experiences too. Educational is taken care of in fine style by not just one but two seats of learning. The Miguel Hernandez University, (UMH), is a publicly funded facility that enjoys a burgeoning reputation with five campuses shared around the region, one of which is situated in Orihuela, birthplace of the Spanish poet after whom the University is named. The second, University Cardinal Herrera - CEU, is a private establishment and altogether smaller. It's the first of these two that does the business with the scientific in the shape of institutions specialising in neuroscience, bio-engineering and all matters biological, molecular and cellular amongst loads of other really complicated stuff.

The Basilica of Santa Maria

2011 is my fourth year living in Elche, and, having been so rude about the place a while back I hope these words have painted an altogether more flattering picture. I certainly intended them to. During the creation of this blog entry I've done quite a bit of walking around and it's only when you stop and stare that you can appreciate your surroundings. I live no more than five minutes away from the very best the city can offer and it's only recently I've started to realise how lucky I am. If you get the chance do pop by, Elche won't disappoint. As I began to say at the start, it's a city of so much.