Spanish Fly

Doing this kind of thing isn’t always easy you know. Inspiration doesn’t grow on trees sadly. Constantly trying to come up with clever and witty ideas that are not only entertaining but also suit my (some might say limited) style is not something that comes naturally.

Ideas are like constipation. You know there is one there, waiting to come out but its not always easiest to get it out of you. The more you push it…the harder it seems. And just like constipation as long as its stuck in there, life is a pain and you never ever to properly relax.

If you ask any doctor what’s the best way to deal with these things, they might advise that prevention is better than the cure. Eat plenty of fibre and make sure you don’t eat too much junk food. Well this writing lark is kind of the same.

I try to hang out with inspiring people (they being the metaphorical fibre) and I try not to watch too much rubbish on TV (the junk food). I’ve spoken before about how T.V. can rot your brain and is at least partially responsible for the increase in the amount of stupid fuckmonkeys you see walk the streets these days. So I won’t dwell on the negative.

I’m very lucky person in that my friends are, almost to a man, intelligent, erudite and funny people. Everyone of them possesses a sense of humour that marks them out as special. I draw a lot from their friendships. And when I say draw I sometimes mean outright steal…but they love me so they forgive me.

I could write an article on each one of them and how they are an important part of my life and how they give me cause to celebrate knowing them. But I won’t. A little of that is because I’m incredibly lazy. Part of that is because some of them have enormous egos and I’m not about to feed that. (You know who you are, you big headed bastard.)

This last week I have been incredibly fortunate to have made a lot of new friends. I went on my second Pueblo Ingles programme. Pueblo Ingles is an English language immersion programme for Spaniards to improve their grasp on everyday use of the old Queens English.

It is kind of a cross between Big Brother and that episode of The Simpsons where Bart goes to France as an exchange student. Taken from their homes and families and transplanted into a village in the middle of nowhere 21 Spanish Nationals (and Juan, who was from Chile) where surrounded by 22 native English speakers, talking complete nonsense in a variety of accents and speeds.

Intimidating and scary is probably putting it mildly. How would you feel if you in a situation where you felt like you would spend a week not understanding a word that anyone said to you. Imagine you had to communicate with strangers for 13 hours a day and not being unsure if anything you say makes sense.

This is Pueblo Ingles.

My role there was to spend my waking hours chatting to Spanish people. Get them used to my accent (tirty tree not thirty three) and my way of talking. Even though it was my second programme I was still a little nervous. It was one thing if I could make them understand my Jimmy Rabbite accent I still had to manage to be entertaining and interesting from 9 in the morning till at least 11 at night or as happened on more that one occasion 6 the following morning.

What if they didn’t get my sense of humour? What if they sensed I was bit of charlatan? ‘You call yourself a writer? And yet you have published nothing’ they might say. What if they just thought I was really boring? The last time I did the programme I was very lucky that the group of people I was with where all lovely people. Surely the law of averages dictates that this group was going to be full of assholes?

Not at all. I’m so happy to report that this group was just as nice as the first. Everyone was open and honest. Prepared to talk about anything as long as you were willing to listen and able to understand. I love Spanish people. They are so genuine that it took a while for someone as cynical as me to believe it was true. They are warm people, friendly and very comfortable with themselves. They think nothing of giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder, just because you are standing there.

In the last week, people who I did not know two weeks ago, told me stuff about their families, their jobs, life ambitions, hobbies, losses and fears. We spoke as if we had been friends for years. In return I tried to return the openness and was always as honest as possible.

Bonds of friendships were forged over the course of the week. Many bottles of rioja (I’m actually gone a bit off red wine at the moment,) cerveza and Cuba libre where shared. Stories and anecdotes from each of our lives told. Group activities and theatre showed everyone was open and up for a laugh.

All of these united us but nothing as strongly as the beauty of the English Language in the form of swear words. We imparted all the knowledge we could in relation to abusing and insulting other people, how to deal with stressful situations, shouting at a soccer referee and how to tell a lady you enjoyed her appearance, (Nice Funbags.)

Yes, I know swearing isn’t big or clever, but it can be very funny…kind of like me.

By the end of the week I felt I had made some real friends with people who I wouldn’t normally get an opportunity to meet. High level business men with intense jobs, Spanish Senoritas who are ‘so lovely’, New Zealand grannies and two English People who reminded me so much the friends who I have had since I went to college 15 years ago, that I had to check that I hadn’t gone and sat in some kind Delorean or Hot Tub Time Machine.

One of these English people pointed out something on Saturday as we were having a stroll around the Reterio in Madrid. On Friday night when the course was over and Spanish people no longer ‘had’ to speak to each other in English and could go back to their mother tongue, they didn’t. They continued to speak to us in a English. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to talk to us. Their friends.

I would also like to mention two Spanish ladies from my last Pueblo Ingles programme who came in to meet me when I was in Madrid. The beautiful Mayte who works long days (well when she is on time) and then comes in to see a ‘giddy’ like me and the lovely Inma who on her day off drove me to see the medieval town of Toledo. Thank you both very much even if Inma’s driving was a little scary. I’m joking of course. (not really)

I learned a lot this week. Some very handy Spanish swear words. That putting on a pink straw hat does not look good on me. That just because you’re a self conscious Irishman you can still just reach out and put your arm around someone and be friendly (probably not in Ireland though). Mostly I (re)learned that being with Spanish people is a great way to spend your time.

The Man

I was planning to write something today about job titles. The thinking behind it being that I am going to on another Pueblo Ingles programme tomorrow (Volcano permitting) and I was imagining that when people ask me what I do I would tell them I am a writer. Even though I’ve never actually made any money from writing, other than the IR£10 pounds I won in ‘93 for a short story about ‘Drug abuse in the Inner City’ (it goes on, you know).

Like I said that was my plan. And I might write about that later when I’ve had a couple of drinks and am feeling a little more jovial. At the moment I am just too amazed by two of the most mind fuddling, brain dead, head-in-the-arse, petty bureaucratic decisions I have ever come been unfortunate enough to come across.

The first one is one that happened in the UK. A young man by the name of Paul Chambers, who was training to become a chartered accountant, was due to catch a flight from Yorkshire to Belfast in January. You remember January. Cold, snow, pretty miserable. Paul was worried when he heard that the airport was closed due to weather and was a bit miffed. He, like I have often done, decided to share his frustration with cyberspace.

Paul posted this on his twitter a/c. "Crap! Robin Hood Airport is closed. You've got a week... otherwise I'm blowing the airport sky high!" Not particularly funny but not something that anyone would take as serious bomb threat.

Unless of course you are were the Doncaster Police and the Criminal Prosecution Service in the UK. Paul has just been found guilty under the Communications Act of sending and indecent, obscene or menacing act. He was fined 1000 sterling and now has a criminal record. He can no longer become a chartered accountant with a criminal record and I imagine he will have a great time trying to get access to countries like the USA.

I’m not the greatest legal or political commentator. This blog here goes explains legally how this is so unbelievably unjust and covers the matter in more detail than I could do justice to. There is also a really good post about the absurdity of it all by Father Ted and Black Books writer Graham Linehan here. I’m just amazed that this can happen and that despite what I always believed about freedom of speech and expression, a man is being punished for an ill conceived comment.

At least that happened in the UK, right? There would be no such boneheaded decisions by Irish policy makers? And yet here we are. 2010, and our government have without resort to consultation or proof or reason, have banned a number of substances sold in ‘Head shops.’

These substances ‘mimic’ the effects of illegal drugs such as cocaine, cannabis and ecstasy. How do they know? What testing have they done. What evidence is there that these ‘legal highs’ are any more dangerous than the 24 bottles of Carlsberg that you can pick up in your local convenience store.

If, that’s if underlined, they are as harmful to people and society as the average Joe Duffy listener claims, then fair enough. I’m behind banning them. However what I’m not behind is the legislation that was brought in today to do so. This little piece of governmental people control states that An Garda Siochanna have the right to seek a court order to shut down any of the shops they ‘suspect’ of selling these newly illegal substances with the onus being on the shop owner to prove that they haven’t.

So basically if a garda is not happy with one of these shops he or she can set into motion the process of getting a legitimate business shut down on the grounds of nothing more than a suspicion. Anyone who is naïve enough to assume that every member of our police force is beyond reproach is in for an eye opener. How long before claims (false and true) are bandied about Garda taking or demanding bribes?

It also says a lot for the short sightedness of the government. Heaven forbid that someone is trying to make a living. It certainly seems by the increase in the number of these shops that it is a thriving industry in a time when we don’t have a lot of thriving industries. Maybe regulation, rather than criminalising is what is required here.

I know what you are going to say. “Won’t someone please think of the children?” I have news for you. If your child wants to get high, they are going to get high. Surely its better that they get something that can be monitored and regulated as opposed to the stuff they buy on the streets that could be cut with all kinds of poisons far worse than the narcotic itself.? Just an idea

Oh and in case anyone is wondering. I’ve never been in a head shop. I’ve never bought any ‘legal highs’. I only found out today while researching that they are things called mephadrone and spice products.

I just think we need to be more aware of how are liberties are encroached on everyday. I remember when I was kid and I was doing something a bit smart alec-y and someone would tell me stop. I’d come back with the always witty “it’s a free country.” Ah, the innocence of youth.