Inspired observations gained from my travels, matched to a music track and made into a quirky blog from a recalcitrant Lancastrian.
recalcitrant
rɪˈkalsɪtr(ə)nt/
adjective
1.
having an obstinately uncooperative attitude towards authority or discipline.
noun
1.
a person with a recalcitrant attitude.
"a stiff-necked recalcitrant and troublemaker"
☯️
Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable.
Franz Kafka.
Next trip coming soon….
All good things come to an end and it’s time to stop living the dream and say “Felice Navidad” to Plaza de los Pescadores.
What have we learnt?
There is a lot of volcanic mountainous lunar nothingness, barren areas that would bore a camel but we stayed on the bus to the south and found a small town where we have enjoyed tapas and papas, eaten a goat and even a piece of a pigs face. We spent time on the beach and the weather was kind to us, so that’s it for this edition as we head for the airport with a stuffed donkey under my arm…
The Tide that left and never came back…a beautiful song, performed here live by The Veils frontman.
After a few days in the sunshine and I am like a bronzed Adonis with a lovely golden brown all-over tan developing...well, that is apart from the area below my nose, both my cheeks and my chin where I now have a stupid pasty-white patch where Iv had to wear my Covid19 muzzle all day.
So unless I want to walk around looking like an in-bred panda, I think I’m going to have to purchase a false beard and moustache combo if I want to go back down on the naturist beach again with my dignity intact.
While I was there I got chatting to a nice tattooed couple of fellas who told me that I could enhance my look with a couple of body piercings and promptly displayed me their matching PA,s *
Splendid workmanship, well polished and glistening in the summer sunshine.
They kindly helped me to slap on a good lather of factor 50 in the areas I couldn’t reach and then it was time for the volleyball…
…hot and sweaty from the beach sports we ran giddy like headlong into the Atlantic Ocean…I wasn’t expecting the sea water to be so cold or the currents so strong as the first wave broke on my head, the riptide swept me off my feet and before I knew it, I was heading towards the rocks. Suddenly a strong tanned arm went around my bare bedraggled torso and I was lifted majestically up onto the strong broad shoulders of my new found friend as he heroically waded back and placed me safely back onto the sandy beach to another happy throng of onlookers…
* Prince Albert (PA) piercing is a type of genital piercing in which a ring or barbell jewelry is inserted through the opening (urethral opening) at the end of the penis, and it comes out through the undersurface of the penis.
The food in these parts need a mention, my God it’s tasty….
Being an epicure, I have to be a bit careful with what I eat on my holidays. Food is an important part of the culture and the delicacies identify with the people of an area.
You are what you eat…
I scoured the helpful photos of plates of food for tourists dating back to 1973 ignoring the Cock’O’Van, the Steak ‘Pie-Ella’ and the ‘All Dayo Breakfasto’ in search of a dish the locals would be tucking into.
Bearing in mind my grandad had already warned me that the soup here would be served cold, from when he mistakenly ordered it in Benidorm and had to complain to the waiter and get it microwaved.
I was exhausted by the long list of tempting dishes so opted for the local ‘Platto du jour’ to give me a full flavour of the country in a dining experience.
The ten euro set menu consisted of a healthy option seafood starter called ‘Percebes’ translated as ‘Goose barnacles’ followed by a mystery meaty main course entitled ‘Ballons du Toro con Morcilla’. A generous portion too and as I had ordered it medium rare, it arrived a little chewy and undercooked but after half an hour I had shifted the biggest lumps. I had fancied some oven chips with it but the nearest I got was something named ‘Patatas Bravas’. All perfectly crisp, succulent and seasoned well.
For desert I chose the strangely popular deep fried octopus stuffed with Nutella served on a bed of cold tapioca and washed it all down with a 3litre jug of Sangria.
On the long walk back to the accommodation I stopped off at the Supermercato and picked up a couple of extra toilet rolls, just in case...well you never know because you are not supposed to even drink the water on holiday…
Is this lump outta my head?
I think so!
A little mid 90s rock from The Presidents of the USA boys…
Getting to know the locals is most important when holidaying abroad so today I stepped foot into a local hostelry for a drink. Luckily, the bartender of the ‘Ye Olde Pig & Whistle’ spoke a bit of English, albeit with a Nottinghamshire accent and asked what my tipple was? I studied the alcoholic beverages on the bar taps and opted for a local brew called ‘Guinness’. Served cold, it was a thick, creamy stout pleasantly delicious and complimentary to the palate.
Many bars in this country operate a discount period, designated a "happy hour" or discount of the day to encourage off-peak-time patronage.
Some locals had now gathered to watch a strange game being beamed in on the satellite TV where some big fellas in blue shirts were scurrying about trying to hide an odd-shaped ball up their jumpers while the opposing blokes in white just stood around watching…oh, how we did laugh!
Even punk bands can make novelty records...got to Number 7 in the hit parade!
I made a bit of a holiday error yesterday as from a promo board on the beach, I booked myself on something named ‘Excursiones Diarias’ ??
Struggling with the lingo a bit I thought I was going on a cultural trip to see some caves and a nearby church in a minibus.
Imagine my surprise when a cool, tattooed and tanned surfer dude wearing a baseball hat on back to front awkwardly helped me slither into a smelly wetsuit and then strapped on a pink parachute and fastened me to the back of a speedboat!
We set off briskly and I shot up into the air at breakneck speed, so I pulled on a safety toggle, as previously instructed, and shot back down, hitting the water face first. I then promptly started to get dragged along in the wake coughing and spluttering. Now twisted in the ropes, the parachute caught the wind again and I suddenly shot back up into the air, but now I was facing the wrong way with my goggles now full of salty-water I was unable to see. Just as my 20 minutes was up I heard a rip and started to plummet once again this time impacting the ocean backwards but this time it was arse first at what felt like about 95mph…
Back on the beach, with a crowd of onlookers the medic said it was lucky that it was a solo flight so no one else got hurt as he emptied my colon with a funnel into a plastic bucket.
Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, cinco, seís…
and all the girlies say I’m Pretty Fly (for a white guy)
We touched down and a thin fella with a pencil moustache stamped my passport and I was officially ‘Out of Office’. I hadn’t won on the ‘Bingo Lotto’ on the plane but I had been persuaded by the special offer of the ‘Egyptian Magic Cream’, an eco-friendly,slightly pungent holiday lotion, made I suspect, from refined camel semen, to slap on to repel insects and attract the ladies in a handy 5kg ‘travel’ tub.
Totally prepared, I was now in the market for some ‘budget’ beach house ‘all inclusive’ luxury accommodation, close to all the amenities and in the heart of all the tourist attractions but all the shutters were up and the signs said ‘No Vacancies’? I consulted ‘MuchoGrandeHotelo.com on the intranet and five minutes later I was setting off to find my allocated room following the signs away from the beach towards the quaint sounding ‘Industrial Zona’. The lads were just putting the final touches to the foundations when I arrived.
Fred Dibnah is famous in these parts, with a statue to commemorate all the happy ‘Saga’ holidays he had here away from all the steam and chimney dust. He would come here every August on a bus from Bolton until he died in a jet skiing accident.
Enjoy this wonderful version of Summer in the City by another favourite band ‘Eels’
After the recent storms the weather in Lancashire was looking again rather unsettled with some heavy thundery showers forecast and the temperatures dipping down again to bloody freezing 🥶
So I decided, I’m off....
I scraped the early morning frost off the windscreen and saddled up the old Fiesta to trundle off up to the airport in search of some glorious warm sunshine.
Arriving at the security, in the standard holiday attire, I was duly instructed to take off my bright white trainers, my Sergio Tacchini tracksuit (circa.1985) and remove my industrial headphones 🎧over my alpine bobble hat. After a quick but clammy frisk I skipped nonchalantly straight through the X-ray barrier and continued on into the airport lounge of ‘Wetherspoons’ in just my leopard skin Lycra thong, smudged fake tan and sunglasses 😎.
Jeez, was I ready for a pint or two of Tenants Xtra....
This morning I felt like a winner...
I’d got through security successfully with a box of 350 Yorkshire teabags, 3lb of Cumberland sausage and a bottle of HP brown sauce so now I just needed to pickup two 1litre bottles of vodka and my favourite ‘Hai Karate’ aftershave from the Duty Free and I was in the holiday groove.
A few pints later and it was time to meander over t’Th’EeesyJet departure gate 13 where scary Brenda was not amused with my luggage allowance and insisted that I shed some weight. It took another half an hour, bent over, trying to snap off the wheels and prise off the handle from my case before I could get the bugger to fit into the prescribed baggage scales.
Apologising to the impatient queue of priority boarders, I ended up also having to leave her with my spare pair of flippers, an inflatable deckchair and 4 loose cans of Weston’s Old Rosie vintage cider before she waved me on to the plane ✈️
We accelerated up the runway and entered the fog.
Finally I could relax...
...but then the fat bloke next to me took off his shoes and opened his egg butties
🥪....Pfhwaar!
“Any drinks or snacks?”.....By now I was Hank Marvin starvin’ so I stuck the recommended ‘Plat du Jour’ aka ‘artisan’ fish and chips 🍟and a half bottle of warm ‘Liebfraumilch’ on the credit card and kicked off my boots too!
...a steal at €36 euros plus bank charges(termsandconditionsapply#53%APR)
I was on my way, Jose...(pronounced ‘Ho-zay’)
Today I’m going to honour you with a perfect holiday tune courtesy of Sir Shane of McGowan and his merry band of little Pogues to get your tiny toes tapping....
