Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Beni on the loose! Beni on the loose!

The breathtaking grandeur of the Costa Blanca coastline





Hola amigos! Que pasa?


As you may have guessed I have just returned from the continent. The continent of Europe. Fifteen of us visited the picturesque Spanish town of Benidorm for a long weekend of cultural activities. Street theatre, exhibitions of flamenco dancing, a spot of chamber music, that type of thing.


Imagine our dismay when we realised that the place has sold it's soul and gone all touristy. Every other establishment is a frightful alehouse replete with gaudy advertisements for lesbian shows, "blue" comedians and ladies who propel ping-pongs balls from their vaginas.


Not my cup of tea, but one has to go with the flow when in foreign parts, yes?


Firstly, a word regarding John Q. Spaniard ideas vis a vis hotel arrangements. If I was to let a room to four guests, do you know how many beds I would provide in said room? That's right, there would be four beds. Not so Carlos X. Kickaball, he thinks that two beds is plenty, the paella-munching fool.


Anyhow, having gambled on the spin of a coin and lost, I was allotted a camp bed in the sitting room area of our cramped luxury suite. Ironically, despite the fact one is probably allowed to pick up and swing cats in confined spaces in Spain, there wasn't the room to do so in our studio apartment. Pick the bones out of that one, Alanis Morrissettes!


Mithering aside, it was straight out into the midday sun for some cold drinks and hot ladies. Most of our chaps, being manual workers and well-used to strutting about with no shirt on, were soon parading around shamelessly like bantam cocks, albeit bantams cocks that smelled of coconut oil.


I, on the other hand, resemble a pale sack of blancmange that has been filled to bursting point, so I eschewed the topless look in favour of a more modest black t-shirt.


By jingo, it gets hot in Spain. Who knew, eh? I had been lead to believe there was a lot of plain-based rainfall there.


After a turn along the seafront and some overpriced bottled lager in a foul bar where a chap played excruciating fret-wanking guitar rock, it was into the main town to attempt to "get into" any of the young ladies with suspect morals from one of the many hen parties in town.


That didn't happen.


I don't know if this has happened to you, but the combination of a 4am start, baking heat, too many long, cold ones and the constant hassle of having to let down those chaps that tug at your sleeve and inform you that their cabaret is just about to start, tends to rather befuddle a chap. One slips into the habit of talking utter rot to anyone one meets, including scary prostitutes patrolling the seedier streets of a strange town.


This was probably a tactical error. I was pursued for about three blocks by a scary black lady who, while claiming that she wanted to "suck my cock" back at my hotel, probably intended to stab me up and rummage through my belongings for currency and valuable items. Even the fiendishly clever tactic of stumbling into a bar and barreling through the crowd and leaving by the alternative exit couldn't shake off my wily pursuer (or should I say willy pursuer!!!LOL!!1!!!1!!!!!€50!!!!!)


Eventually, the masterstroke of telling her to "fuck off, you mentaller!" and hopping into a nearby taxi did the trick.


Unfortunately, such unconsumated whoring shenanigans meant that I was in the shameful position of being first back at the hotel room on the first night. This is the unmistakable mark of the lightweight, the putz, the two-pot screamer, if you will.


This in turn leads to much sport being made of a chap for the remainder of one's holiday. Solicitous enquiries as to whether one is feeling a little tired at 9pm and suggestions that mammy's little soldier gets himself home for a little nap, that sort of thing. Quite right, too. I'd have doled out exactly the same treatment had the situation been different.


I expect it builds character.


Days two and three were pretty much a repeat of the first day, with the exception that I was directed home by a group of Scottish lasses on the second night, who knew better than I did where my hotel was. My offer that any one of them would be welcome to accompany me to my room for the night were met with a polite but firm refusal.


The third day, in a dreadful bar with a mechanical bull, my attempts at wooing were foiled by a belligerent Manchester United fan intent on preserving the honour of all and sundry. I was having a pleasant chat with a charming young lady when our Manyoo loving chum leans over my shoulder and tells me "She's my sister and she's only sixteen!".


Somewhat taken aback, I quickly reminded him that sixteen is perfectly legal and that having a conversation with her didn't make me Gary Glitters. Though this spiked his guns momentarily, I made a tactical withdrawal and went to talk to a more mature looking blonde woman who I imagined for some reason had been giving me the glad-eye all evening.


As we were getting on like a house on fire, matey boy appears again at my shoulder and exclaims "That's me mam!". A little exasperated by now I take him to one side and inquire whether he could point out any women in this bar that weren't blood relations of his, as I would quite like to have a conversation without him breaking it up with his accusatory mutterings.


The atmosphere having been ruined irretrievably, I finished up my drink, drew myself up to my full height and bellowed "Ronaldo's a diving little cunt" at him before scuttling out the nearest door.


That's him told.


Another thing about Benidorm is the Sticky Vicky phenomenon. This hard-working titan of the vaginal gymnastics scene seems to be booked to appear in about every third bar in town at different times of the evening. Now I'm as broadminded as a Dutchman, but it appears that a very mainstream audience of all ages goes to see these frankly filthy shows which, if one was to visit them anywhere else would see one labelled as a porvort, a finger-sniffer or a puppy-squeezer.


However, a few jugs of sangria down the line, a fairly vanilla crowd of grans and granddad, couples with bairns and regular Joe Sweatsocks will happily roll up to see an old lady firing table tennis balls out her blart or Sexy Barbra (her main rival, as far as I can tell) smoking cigars in an unorthodox fashion with her "Magic Minge" as the flyers would have it.


Dashed odd, I call it.



Also, what's the deal with the upside down question marks these Spaniards use? Call me old-fashioned but I'm English and I like my question marks the right way up.


I'll bid you buenos noches.

2 comments:

izzy said...

Hey you...I featured you in a post in my blog. Not that you deserve it or anything.

Colonel Knowledge said...

Giddy up!