y viva espana
My first mid-70s visit to the Costa Brava hot-spot of Lloret de Mar did nothing if not confirm all my worst fears of us brits-abroad. And with recent ‘Shagaluf’ tales peppering our daily red-tops, nothing’s changed. It’s undeniable that we Brits have no equal when it comes to embarrassing ourselves abroad:
Boozing ‘til we drop – Watching Britons drink abroad is akin to watching the fall of the Roman empire: just imagine that final Bacchanalian orgy taking place as the huns and barbarians scaled the steps of the senate, and you get the idea. Or a little closer to home, envisage the final pre-prohibition-night in Chicago!
Sweating like a scouser in the dock – No other nation can sweat like the Brits. In fact most of us could sweat for Great Britain. Put us in a slightly-above-room-temperature environment and watch the sweat pour out of us by the bucket. In fact, just follow those sodden footsteps all the way to the nearest ‘Oirish pub.
Tan like there’s no tomorrow – Our Anglo-Saxon skin ain’t going to let it happen easily. I’m so pale, after two weeks in the sun, I go white. Or I’ve gone lobster red and already peeled back to pale by the time I arrive back on the runway.
Speaky the lingo – Over the years we’ve become far more adventurous and erudite with ‘the ol’ lingo’. These days, rather than merely pointing at things and shouting, in English, we all use a modern multilingualism that involves speaking English words but with a subtle European accent. And shouting.
Trying the food – July 1977, Playa de Palma, Majorca. The time & place is seared into my brain as the day I ate my first prawn. It was mistakenly placed in, or rather not removed, from a sandwich. I obviously hadn’t drunk enough. Garlic bread? Garlic AND bread, together? Let’s not even go there.
Take your bottled water when you travel – I know it’s hard to believe but even Spain, the 14th largest economy in the world, have adequate water sanitiation. Ditch the bottle.
Thankfully, this year I’m not off to sunny Spain. Y viva Espana!
