Humour

A hanging Johnny in the parque

The last day of my week’s holiday was certainly full of activity, and was topped off with very weird find in a parque.

I actually set my alarm for 7.30am. You see, I’m one of those weird people who like to set their alarm half an hour before they actually have to get up on the Monday after a holiday; just to get myself in the routine. So I did. It was horrible after 10 days of no official alarms (just my son running in), but alas, we did get up at 8am on a Sunday, which meant we could go to Parque Porzuma.

We’d been meaning to go to Parque Porzuma for some time. It’s about a 30 minute walk from where we live, out in Mairena del Aljarafe in Sevilla, and it’s perfect weather now to go and spend the morning there.

As usual, even though we got up early, we didn’t leave the house till 11am. It’s one of those mysteries that I can’t get my head round. During the week, when the kids have to be up and out the house by 8.45am, we manage it. Of course with the usual stress of force feeding our kids and making sure they have the right pair of shoes on and have clean faces, but we’ve never been late (at least I haven’t). But when the weekend comes, no matter where we go in the morning, we never get out before 11am.

bty

By the time we got to Porzuma, the sun was in full swing and the kids were eager to arrive to the parque.
“Donde esta? – Where is it?” asked my son, 15 times in the 30 minute walk. Each time he asked I did actually explain it to him, but as he’s only 3 so he doesn’t understand directions. He was still asking when we got near the entrance.

“Where’s the parque Daddy?”
“Just there, where those people are.” A couple were walking towards us. When they got to us, they’d obviously gone passed the door.
“Now Daddy?”
“No, it’s still up there a bit.”

When we finally got to the parque, my son ran up the steep welcome hill and almost fell over at the top. Then he went barmy when he saw the huge tunnel – slide (it must have been at least 6 times his height so no wonder he got a bit overjoyed). He jumped up and down and shouted that he’d seen a massive tunnel.

My daughter was equally excited, so much so that she started to take off her shoes. She’s only 2 and forgets that she needs shoes to walk, at least she does in the parque. So off we went to the huge tunnel, and I had a great time throwing myself down it, as did my son of course.

If you live in Sevilla, or are ever passing through then I’d recommend exploring Parque Porzuma. You can take a picnic and there are those funny public barbecues that people share. There’s also a great path all the way round and takes you past pretty flowers, and a dog training place, an overgrowing allotment, and two lakes, one which has water, and one which has dried up. This is where we set off next.

It was a struggle getting my son away from the parque, but I felt I had to. For some reason a couple of 6 years old Spanish kids were discussing the benefits of adding the word ‘f$cking’ to the phrase ‘Oh my God’. An interesting conversation, but not one for a 3 year old. So I had to get my son out of there because he’s picking up so much language recently.

So we got to the lake, which was my favourite part because I’m a fisherman at heart. I always wanted to give up my A Levels to become a professional fisherman, but my Dad wouldn’t let me. Or hang on, was that a footballer? Anyway, we got to the lake and saw a few turtles, so, as you do, we chucked in a biscuit. Then the carps started to come out. My son was as fascinated as I was. So I jumped over the protective fence and lifted him over so we could get a closer look.

bty

This was great, but I forgot his sense of spacial awareness isn’t great so got plenty of frights each time he darted for the water. We emptied a good 20 biscuits or so in the lake for the fish and turtles. My daughter was getting annoyed though, she was making the usual moaning noises. So I did a swap to give her a closer look as well, she was just as eager to do a belly-flop in the lake, so we went round the other side in the hunt for some frogs.

It was the perfect end to a great holiday with my kids: being with nature, animal spotting, and just chilling out before going back to work. Luckily I had my new phone with me, so I managed to get some lovely photos too.

bdr

Then we saw the hanging Johnny.

We were on our way back to the massive tunnel, my son hoping to throw himself down it again, and I hoping to avoid any ‘Oh my God’ swearing kids, when I noticed a security bloke on a motorbike stop in front of us. My first thought was ‘Oh my Jesus he spotted me jumping over the fence,’ but I wasn’t the guilty one.

“Hi,” said my wife as we got closer.
“Can you believe it?” he said, nodding towards the outdoor gym, specifically to some pull-up rings.
“What’s that?” my wife said.
“It’s a hanging Johnny,” I wanted to say, but neither of them would have known what a hanging Johnny was, plus the security guard wouldn’t have been pleased with my joke.
“Can you believe it,” he said, again.
“But how? Isn’t the parque shut at night?” asked my wife.
“They jump over the fences and do what they need to do.” Literally. “At least I have gloves,” he said, tightening up the straps on his gloves. Rather him than me.

What did you do at the parque today Darling?
Oh, just the usual, stopped some fathers and kids from emptying biscuits into the lake, and tore off a used condom from the pull-up rings.

Que asco,” said my wife, which my son repeated, even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t know exactly what was disgusting (you see how he’s picking up everything so fast?)
We didn’t stick around (or hang around) to find out how the security guard got off the Johnny. I was desperate to take a photo, but my wife wouldn’t let me. He survived though as we saw him a little further up the road telling someone else about the hanging johnny.

Thinking back, it was pretty sick, but I suppose when young people need to do their thang, then they have nowhere else to go. But it was a bit harsh to tie the used condom up on the ring. Did they not think that someone had to pull it down again?

I’d still recommend going to the park though; it’s a great place for kids, has a massive tunnel, and a lovely spot to feed some fish, turtles, and go frog spotting.

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Diary

Have you seen my badger book?

Been killing my brain this week about setting up a new blog, but I just can’t face it. Having such a great week with my kids gave me loads of ideas to write about them and start a Daddy blog. I was going to call it Daddypapa.com, but in the end have decided to keep focused on my dream of becoming a novelist, so that was just a waste of brain power.

After reading this post on Writers Write I’ve decided to take their advice and just go with the flow and keep an author diary. I do actually love writing in diary form; I have ever since I was a kid.

I kept one at Uni and each time I went away on a lad’s holiday I also wrote down funny anecdotes, including catch phrases that we invented. It was so much fun. I’ll have to dig them out one day write up a couple.

Badger book
That is one scary badger. Maybe it ate my book. Photo by janetmck

The first one was called The Badger Book, which was a book with a badger on it. I wrote it with a mate of mine, Tony, who won a trip to Denmark on a booze cruise. We got absolutely wasted for 3 days and kept a diary. It probably just had a load of silly comments, most illegible as we were rather hammered, but I bloody lost it, and we were gutted. If you’ve found it, then let me know and I’ll send you my address.

Not as gutted as we were about the weather though. The last 48 hours of the trip was horrific. We were actually delayed arriving back to England thanks to stormy seas. It was so rocky at one point I was holding on to the bed and retching on the floor. We spent two days puking our guts up in a cabin. When we finally got on dry land it still felt as though we were rocking about; seasickness is an awful feeling. I remember distinctly not being able to taste coke for about a week afterwards because my insides had taken such a battering.

Anyway, so I plan to write this diary when I can or if anything interesting happens to me or not; normally not, but I’ll try and have a bash at making it entertaining or funny somehow.

I managed to get out of cleaning the patio outside today (there you go, now that’s exciting). It’s about 35 degrees here in Seville and thanks to a crazy week watching processions and carrying my two kids about I’ve pulled my lower back, which is a pain, literally, but it does mean I don’t have to clean the patio, one of my pet hate jobs.

One shouldn’t have to clean an outdoor patio darling, well, I’m afraid you do. To be fair, this time it’s exceptionally dirty. A group of birds decided to use our favourite plant/bush as a dumping ground and sprayed it a nice shade of white and brown. This also attracted the bloody ants, which come out every year at this time. So the other afternoon, while the kids were asleep, I got on my hands and knees and cleaned the ants nest festering underneath. I also sprayed some new ants spray (we’ve tried 3 different ones) and the concoction with last years powder has had a positive effect and got rid of the ants. Trouble is the brown and white graffiti is still on the floor, so my poor wife is cleaning it up (sorry Darling, trying to keep this diary as honest as possible). I’ll do the next one.

What is your pet hate around the house?

That’s all for the first diary entry, hope I haven’t scared you off too much.

Semana Santa

Semana Santa, but where’s Santa?

Semana Santa, that mental festival where everyone dresses up in funny cloaks and pointy hats and scares all the non-religious people out of the city, has come round again.

Cristo de Burgos
El Cristo de Burgos leaving the church in San Pedro. I’m in this procession, but not this year! Photo by ErKillo

I’ve got mixed feelings about it this year. I was all up for doing my procession, or penitence, but things haven’t worked out. I’ve participated in the Cristo de Burgos for the last 6 years (yes, I wear a cloak and a funny pointy hat) apart from one year when I flew back to Blighty just after my son was born. So, unfortunately, because I’m quite proud of wearing my cloak and pointy hat, I won’t be participating. My suegro (father-in-law) has had a bad leg for a while and my cuñao (brother-in-law) is working in Malaga and can’t get the time off.

If I had more balls, then I’d do it on my own. For at least 6 hours of it I am, technically, alone, apart from the 500 or so other Nazarenos. But going to the church alone, being inside alone, and leaning against the pillars when we return to the church in San Pedro to relieve the severe back pain on my own, just seems too much.

Being part of a 3 century year old procession is an honour too. I don’t know of any other guiris actually in one, so if you are then get in touch. Most expats and teachers I know are not all that up for it and most try to get away for the week and escape the scariness.

If I wasn’t living out in the sticks I’d probably just do it. But it’s the whole journey of going from here (Mairena, about 10km away) on the metro with all my gear (I carry the cloak and pointy hat, even though I thought I was going to wear it last year, until I realised no other Nazareno was dressed up on the metro). Plus I have to get a cab home after too, so I won’t arrive until about 3am. And knowing that my son has a habit of running in with whatever his latest favourite toy is and smashing me on the conker with it, has swayed my decision to give it a miss this year.

Deep down I’m pretty gutted, but I can still enjoy the festival. I love Semana Santa though: the atmosphere, the music, the jamón, beers, smell of incense, bumping into my students and feeling popular, the goosebumps, and the special memories I have.

While watching processions I spend most of my time reminiscing. I think back to when I first got to know my wife properly during my first Holy Week, and starting to know her family too. Also one year my Dad was over for it, and another year my mum too when my daughter was born, so each procession that I’ve seen always holds special memories.

At least I’ll be in form for the Madrugada though. I’m often knackered after doing the procession on the Wednesday, but this year I’ve been given permission to go and watch the most spectacular part on Thursday night through to Friday morning. Once the kids are wrapped up in bed I’ll be out and about, probably to see El Silencio, El Gran Poder, and if I can Los Gitanos, which are my 3 favourites. My plan is to come home, have a kip, and then go back again; this time with my wife and kids, to catch one or two in the morning, but as most things in life now, it’s not as easy with kids.

Take yesterday for example. Domingo Ramos. Every year that we lived in the centre, it was a doddle. We met up with family for lunch, then went out and saw a few processions, but now it’s a whole different ball game. Firstly it took us 2 hours to get ready. Then we had to get the metro in, with our packed lunches, bags, and the pram. On the metro we had to fold up the pram to make room for the thousand other prams (when I was kid free I always used to curse the people with prams, but now I totally get it; you try carrying a 18kg son about all day).

It was actually less busy than I thought it would be. I was expecting to get mobbed, squashed into the corner with my kids screaming, but we had a seat and getting off wasn’t too bad, just a minute extra in the queue at the other side.

Seeing the processions for the first real time with my son was special. It was tricky to explain the concept of Semana Santa to him though. There’s no way a 3 year old would understand the concept of a weekly procession to remember what Jesus did. In fact, when I first watched processions on the tele, he came up with a tricky question.

“This is Semana Santa,” I said as a Virgen came out the church hiding behind some candles.
“Papi,” he said (a name which I hate him calling me).
“Daddy, yeah?”
“But where’s Santa?”
He stumped me. It was a great question and one that had never even crossed my mind before. All I could come up with was.
“He’s sleeping.”
“Why?”
“Because that night in Christmas took it right out of him, so he’s still tired.”
“Okay.”

Exif_JPEG_PICTURE
Photo by glezserna

Pure innocence. He was fascinated by the drums though, and spent the next 2 days asking when we were going to see the drums.

When we finally turned up to watch La Paz, round by the Parque Maria Luisa, he was blown away by the bands. The look on his face of pure joy as the drums went passed did clog up my throat a little. In my first Semana Santa the music had moved me rather than the actual pasos. Seeing his little face lit up was a dream.

That was at about 2pm, and it was heating up, so after a break back at the in-laws gaff, we set off again to see La Estrella.

Stupidly we picked one of the longest processions of the day, and arrived just as the Cruz de Guia (the first main cross) got over the bridge. So we had to watch the whole thing. Well, we didn’t have to, but my son was then all set on getting as many sweets as possible from the Nazarenos, and my daughter was hell bent on organising them in her own special way in the pram. So we stayed, on the bridge, hot, sweaty, tired, for about an hour.

It was worth the wait though. Just as the Christ got to the end of the bridge it stopped, then the band played some lovely music as it continued down towards the city. I must have had about 5 or 6 sets of goosebumps as it went along, mainly because I was there now with my son on my shoulders and my wife holding our daughter. It was a lovely moment, and one that I knew we wouldn’t beat today, which is why we didn’t bother to go into the centre and just chilled at home and went to the park up the road (a massive bonus of living out of the centre during Semana Santa; you can chose when you see it, not the other way round).

The worst part of the day was getting back. Walking from el Puente de Triana and up to Plaza Cuba carrying my daughter in the 30 degree was a penitence in itself, the only consolation was that she did give me several kisses- without me asking. For the trip home on the metro my son began to question about Semana Santa though.

“Papi?”
“Daddy, yeah?”
“Where was Santa?”
“He was tired mate.”
“Why?”
“Because he probably spent the afternoon watching pasos, and that just wears you out.”
“Okay. Can we see the drums again tomorrow?”

“If you’re a good boy.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

Priceless.

Culture Shock

Helping out the street sellers in Spain!

I’m guessing people have been selling stuff on the streets in Spain ever since they invented the peseta. I’m not a massive fan of actually buying stuff from street sellers in Sevilla because necklaces, handbags, and scarves just ain’t my thing.

street seller in spain
Paco Vender, the first street seller in Spain. Photo by dreabjb

Saying that, I was impressed when I read this article on El Pais in English about how Barcelona street vendours are living less in fear from the police. It states that in Barcelona the City Hall seem to be helping the street sellers to gain work visas, give them training, and provide them with grants.

I think it’s great that people in charge in Barcelona are slightly more open-minded than ones down in the South of Spain. It’s good to see the government helping immigrants to make some hard earned cash while they provide a service for the public. I can never imagine that happening down in Andalucía.

I find it quite entertaining to watch the street sellers in action in Seville, especially down the Avenida Constitucíon, Sierpes or around Nervion Plaza. They often set up their products for sale over blankets on the floor, so they can snap them up and leg it when the police are close. They signal to each other by whistling, then wrap up their stock and scarper up the road; normally hiding in shop doorways or round the back-streets.

It might seem sad, but most of the time they are laughing as they play hide and seek. I guess they see it as a type of game, albeit a dangerous one. On a few occasions I’ve actually warned them that the cops are close to help them out. I’ve never seen the sellers get caught though. The police must know they are there, but are probably too lazy to do anything about it, can’t be bothered with all the paperwork involved, or fancy getting a new handbag.

You can also catch some guys selling packets of Kleenex at the traffic lights. It always baffles me how they make any money and how they survive, but I guess they earn more than they do in their own country.

The most famous street seller in Seville has to be Howard Jackson, the guy who sells packets of Kleenex by the traffic lights in front of Plaza de Armas. I used to live by that area and everyday I’d see him in a different outfit, normally of the female type, strutting his stuff, joking about and selling tissues.

A couple of times I also saw him pissed out of his head; dancing about to music and having a laugh. Good on him. The guy has had it hard, after losing his family in a war in Liberia, he battled hard to get to Spain and is now studying law.

I wonder just how many of the street sellers in Spain have a similar story.

What do you think of the street sellers where you live in Spain? Are they more integrated or constantly being hunted by the police? What do you think can be done about it?

Annoying things in Spain

The Week from Hell!

It all started on Monday morning when I nearly had a punch up with a posh banking women on the metro. Okay, it was partly my fault for penning all the commuters into a tiny space with my wife’s enormously long bike, but mine was being repaired. I’d acted like an professional sheepdog, mounting a blue push bike and barking at everyone to get back. To be fair, there was a tiny gap for people to pass by and gain access to a huge open area, but they’d somehow gathered like frightened sheep, no doubt hungover on a Monday morning.

Let's get those bikers
Let’s get those bikers!

The metro stopped at my penultimate stop, and loads of people got on.
“Can’t you move your bike?” asked a blond banker, wearing her shades with pride.
“Do I look like I can move my bike?” I said, turning round to highlight just how much space I didn’t have. My smarmy answer caused a stir.
“But no one can pass.”
“There’s plenty of room there,” I said, looking back, but as I did the driver pulled away and a different woman almost fell over my bike. The banker woman squeezed past and continued to have a go.
“I have a bike like that, and I wouldn’t dream of bringing it on the metro.”
“I don’t normally,” I said, in a softer, more apologetic tone, looking for some sympathy. “It’s just mine is broke and I have to take this one.”
“You should be more thoughtful of other people.”
“Sure, sure, just like you, you mean?” I looked ahead as my blood started to boil. Who did she think she was? What right did she have to assume I wasn’t thoughtful of others? I’d spent the whole night worrying how I’d affect the sheep on the train and had attempted to find the least offensive place, but it turned out to be the worst one.

Recently I’ve begun to hate going on the metro in the morning with my bike; tolerance levels are zero, especially from stuck up bankers. She really pissed me off. And I blame her for kicking off my worst week in a long time.

I rushed home after class, still annoyed from the woman, and barged through the door.
“Is he coming?” I said to my wife.
“He hasn’t called,” she said.
“Typical.” I said, referring to this guy we know, Mani Manitas; the local handy man who comes round and does all the stupid jobs that I can’t do, or am too scared to do. He’s fixed our oven, light switches, changed locks, and our latest project is to fix a dodgy antenna, which has been swaying back and forth this winter like a pole vaulting champion’s floppy stick.

I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t called, because he’s about as reliable as a Spanish politician, but it was probably just as well as the rain had started to pour, and the bad luck omen I had hanging over my shoulders would surely have caused a catastrophe.

Then came Tuesday, and until about 10.30pm, I was doing fine. I’d got through the day at work without too many aggravating moments and enjoyed a couple of classes, but suddenly I felt cold, strangely cold, and began to shiver on the way home. When I turned up, I was physically shivering. Luckily my wife had done some thoughtful soup, and within 30 minutes I was shivering in bed.

Wednesday morning I considered calling in sick. I’d slept terribly, had been shivering, felt dizzy, and my back was hurting. But I forced myself up so I could take my kids to school, took a mix of paracetamol and ibuprofen, and managed to edit some of my novel for a couple of hours. By then I wasn’t too bad, and managed to get through the day at work, even if the last 30 minutes were quite painful. That night I sweat it all out again by shivering and wet the bed- with sweat.

Thursday morning came and I still felt weird, but I battled on. After we dropped the kids in, we went for a coffee and waited for the local bike shop to open so I could pick up my own bike, and avoid any unwanted penning in of innocent commuters on the metro the next morning. I almost got into a ruck with the woman in the shop though.

Just to fill you in with a bit of a flashback; I met this woman before when she tried to overcharge me for a previous bike repair, only by 3 euros, but still, it was the way she looked down on me because my Spanish wasn’t perfect. Sound familiar?

So we turned up and I asked about my bike. This is how the conversation went, all in Spanish.

“Hi, I left a bike here the other day.”
“Oh yeah, it’s not ready yet; we are waiting for a few pieces.”
“Oh right, it’s just I need it for tomorrow.”
“Right, well, it probably won’t be ready. You see, a guy came the other day and brought the wrong wheel.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, and it was missing some parts, the, actually, why bother telling you the bits as you won’t understand me.”

I frowned in annoyance and was about to blurt out something when my wife stepped in.
“Sorry, but my husband has lived here for 12 years. He understands you perfectly.”
“Oh, you’re Spanish,” she said, blanking me now. “Oh, well in that case I’ll tell you.”
“But he understands you,” she said.

At this point I would have normally gone in with some harsh words, but I just didn’t have it in me. We arranged to come back on Friday at some point.

I left fuming. Why had she just completely blanked me once she knew my wife was Spanish? It was such a typical response from people here in the town. The rest of the day wasn’t too bad, but that woman’s disapproving look lingered in my thoughts.

Friday morning I was back on my wife’s bike, and had to get out a stop before my usual one as the carriage was filling up and I didn’t want to run into any moany bankers. I was still feeling weak too, and my throat was also beginning to hurt.

When I got back home and picked up my daughter, they informed me there was a virus going round (surprise, surprise) and our daughter had the squits.

The week just wasn’t getting any easier.

I shot off for a quick class, then when I came back, I stupidly left my daughter in her pram on a step outside our front door. As I was cleaning some pee pee off the floor from my son, I heard a crash, followed by a scream. I ran outside and my daughter was lying on the floor with the pram on her, with her face all cut up. My son did look guilty, but he was also smirking a little. I had to have a go, but felt bad afterwards. It was my fault for leaving it there after all.

On Saturday I woke up with a clenched throat, dreading going to 4 hours of oral examining. Luckily we had some antibiotics left over, which worked a treat and I got through the afternoon stress free.

So that just left Sunday; Father’s Day. I was allowed a lie in till 9am, to chill out after an exhausting week. I woke up in a decent mood, rested, and my throat was okay.

We were chatting in the kitchen, when the dog started to lick the floor. At first I thought she’d been sick, but then realised the dishwasher was leaking. A perfect extra job for Daddy to do on his ‘day off.’

We managed to sort out the mess, and did have a reasonable Sunday, largely helped by half a bottle of my favourite red wine, Beronia, and a victory by Spurs.

What a week though!

Annoying things in Spain

The Dreaded Movifart Monopoly

They’ve got us good and proper, ain’t they? Bloomin’ Movistar, controlling the telecommunications market like that; not letting any of the other companies in. At least not where I live I old boy.

Movistar spain
It’s the Monopoly guy! Photo by Jamesks

We’ve been with Movifart for about ten years. They seem to be the best telecommunications company in Spain, but I haven’t got loads to compare them with.

We were with orange for a while, but they messed us about with bills and ridiculous, deceitful offers.

“Sure, you can have free minutes, but they are not actually free, and in fact double the price that we quoted you.” When we tried to cancel the deal, even though we were at the end of the contract, they still took money from us. It was also a nightmare transferring to Movistar.

Our relationship with Movistar has been an addictive, dependence one; like a strange hypnotic drug which gets into your blood stream and takes over your mind.

At first we just had the telephone line and a mobile, then we got a TV deal, and then we got football and movies. The price has gradually risen over the years, but it’s like the Euribor, there’s nothing you can do about it.

The football package is pretty darn amazing though. It used to be only 25 euros a month for everything: 5 premiership games per weekend, 8 Spanish ones, including the big derbies, and also all Champions League and Europa League football, so it’s not a bad deal.

The great thing is that you can record the games, useful when your team plays on Monday night and you are working late (like most ESL teachers), or if the games are on when your kids are running riot.

My daughter seems to know when Spurs are playing, as it’s the only time in the week she actually latches on to me. A couple of times she’s almost ended up in our bedroom when we scored though: it’s directly above the lounge. I managed to hold on to her, albeit a tad loosely.

My son is not really into football yet, although he know who Spurs are (but only because he doesn’t really know the other teams yet). He picks the opposite team every time I ask him though.

“Spurs or Liverpool?” (Me)

“Liverpool.”

“No, rubbish.”

“Spurs or Seville.”

“Seville.”

“No, rubbish.”

It’s the same every week.

Admittedly he said he preferred green to red the other day, when Seville were playing Betis, and in the end he was saying Verde Caca…Green is pooey.

Anyway, back to Movistar. Since Christmas I’ve been on an amazing deal, which included all the footy, films, series, and a great playback option so you can see everything in the last 7 days. The package was worth 65 euros a month, and we got it for free. But now we have a taster for it. Damn you Movifarts.

Right now I’m paying 70 a month for normal Movistar TV, a landline, and one mobile line. The problem is we don’t have football, or decent films anymore. So it’s a bit of a rip off.

As it’s the end of the football year, I want to be able to see Spurs mess up the season again (it’s only tradition). Plus it’s about time I had a contract too, and I only have an iPhone 4, which is a great phone, but waiting ten minutes for my emails to load is starting to get annoying.

So I’ve been shopping around, but I’ve realised that I’m stuck.

Orange have a great deal, for two phones, plus TV for about 70 euros. The problem is there’s no premiership games, plus a friend of mine said you have to actually rent most of the kid’s films and series, which is a typical orange scam. No thanks.

Vodafone seems okay: two phone lines for about 70 euros, but they don’t have the rights to fit the TV lines where I live. Plus they don’t have the premiership games.

So, if I want footy, I’m stuck with Movistar. I know I could stream it, but I just can’t deal with that anymore. Also I want to be able to record it, and get decent movies for the weekend, although I normally end up dribbling in my own saliva on the sofa most Friday and Saturday nights: such is the life of fatherhood.

The latest Movistar deal with two mobile lines, the complete football package, or just Spanish football with films and series, plus a new mobile is about 125 euros. I’m edging towards it, but only because it’s our only form of entertainment at the moment; we haven’t been to the cinema in four years.

It grates me that I can only have Movistar though. They have a total monopoly on the TV and telephone lines, which is no wonder they are so expensive. Maybe there is another solution?

What do you think? What telephone company are you with? Have you had enough of the Movifart Monopoly?

Brexit

Oi, why are you ignoring us expats?

And it’s all gone quiet, all gone quiet, all gone quiet over there. Where? In the UK government, who are ignoring all the Brits in Europe following Berkexit.

buskers-brexit
Busker in Spain, admittedly probably Spanish. Photo by SnapDoc

It’s easy enough for all involved in Berkexit back home to ignore those it might effect in Europe. Like all those retired people who deserve a peaceful end to their days, all those English teachers who are providing locals with life skills, and all those free spirited buskers who are putting smiles on people’s faces. Those currently living in Europe; the free continent, that is no longer so free.

This week I read an article on The Local titled Brits in Europe blast UK government for snubbing them over Brexit about how a few expat organisation, such as Ecreu (Expat Citizens Rights in EU), have had a go at berks involved in Berkexit for ignoring them.

And I can’t blame them. This is serious stuff people. Rules, legislations, and dodgy deals are about to start happening and innocent individuals, who have a passion for living in another country, could find themselves without jobs, homes, and the possibility of ending their days in a warm climate with cheap bottles of red wine.

Have they no shame?

Apparently there are 12 other groups like Ecreu, and all of them are being treated like pests with no voice. They are trying to get some answers, but so far they have had about as much luck as the Catalans have of getting independence.

I’m not surprised they are ignoring us. After all, it’s such a shambles anyway. I mean who in their right mind actually voted to come out of Europe? Have there been any benefits yet? Apart from the fact that Cameron resigned as PM, but even that brought in Mrs Maggie May.

As far as living in Spain is concerned, I don’t think we are feeling the pinch yet. As I said in my previous post; Is Brexit going to force Brits out of Spain? I was a bit worried about getting kicked out, or even worse, made to become a Spanish citizen. I just can’t face the idea though. Giving up my British passport is about as desirable as a plate of chorizo, which I stopped eating after watching a documentary on how it was made.

Maybe I should think about it though; at least if I was a Spanish national then I’d have the right to vote here. It’s madness really. I’ve been here 12 years, have always paid my taxes, have married a Spanish woman, have two Spanish kids, and have bought a house here, but still I can’t vote. It seems insane that I don’t have a say in my own, or my children’s future. Just think when my kids are 18 they will be able to vote, and I won’t (I wonder if Brexit will be sorted by then, 15 years away?)

Have you become a Spanish Citizen? Are you worried about the effect of Berkexit? Please leave a comment below.

Are you a government employee ignoring all us Brits? Then pull you finger out and give these organisation some answers.