It’s coming home….again….maybe?

It’s the time every four years that all guys look forward to and most girls dread. A time of male bonding in the bar, proudly pulling on your footie top (that somehow seems a little tighter around the beer belly than the last time you wore it to watch Deutschland 2006) and popping out to see the match for a few hours, only to return several hours later, decidedly worse for wear and with your face painted red and white. Ah, the undefinable joys of following international football.

South Africa 2010 kicks off in Joburg on June 11 with the hosts against Mexico and for the following weeks it will be impossible to avoid the competition. It doesn't’t matter if you have Satellite or Spanish TV, the channels will devote hours of coverage to each teams’ chances, the expectations, the games themselves, a host of expert opinion and the after match autopsies of what went right or wrong.

And you can forget nipping out for the evening to get away from the World Cup. One of the major factors behind the number of people spending more and more time in Marbella is the cosmopolitan nature of the town. This is, however, a double edged sword. The quality of your dining experience will suffer for example. During the World Cup expect to find service in your favourite pasta place a little slow when Italy are playing, forget tapas when Spain take to the pitch and don’t even try to order escargots if France get beaten.

On the plus side if you are a football fan a place like Marbella can be magical during the World Cup, because someone always has a game. And South Africa has set up some mouth watering matches – England v USA and the “Group of Death” with Brazil, Portugal and Ivory Coast fighting to qualify for the knock out stages, while Spain, one of the pre – tournament favourites should cruise past Chile, Honduras and Switzerland in their group. And when Spain win a match you can forget all thoughts of sleep. I was driving through the Port in 1986 when they scored an injury time goal and I swear that the place shot 5 feet in the air…

But the match that the neutral supporter should be looking forward to is Holland v Denmark. Not so much for the action on the pitch but for the atmosphere – large amounts of Carlsberg and Heineken, and loads of liberated Scandinavian or Dutch beauties to hug when either side scores. A word of caution though – don’t try that tactic during any game when any of the Eastern European nations are playing. Hug the stunner from Serbia and you are likely to get a bullet in the back of the head from her large boyfriend at the bar.

You won’t run out of places to watch the matches either, so why not take in the games in a variety of locations? A tapas bar for the Spanish matches, an Italian restaurant when the Azzuri are playing and why not sample a little sushi when Japan are in action. Sitting with a cool beer in a beach bar watching one of the afternoon matches is also a unique pleasure, especially if you normally watch football on a wet Wednesday in Wigan. And as a neutral supporter you may even be adopted by a set of fans as unofficial mascot – which is why there is a photo of me somewhere in San Pedro wearing a massive orange hat and clutching a Heineken. I think that Holland may have been playing. And though I’m disappointed that Ireland were denied by the “Hand of Gaul” my liver will be breathing a sigh of relief. After St Patrick’s Day, the thought of more Guinness would have been too much for it!

Health concerns aside, with the skills of Messi and Ronaldo on show, plus the manic national support behind Spain and the usual white knuckle ride that following England entails, mean that South Africa 2010 will give you the perfect excuse to go football crazy for a couple of weeks!

Happy Birthday Banus!

Puerto Banus celebrates its 40th anniversary this month and the guest list for the official inauguration in May 1970 was a star studded event. Princess Grace and Prince Rainier of Monaco celebrated the opening of the Mediterranean’s first pleasure craft marina along with the likes of the Aga Khan, film director Roman Polanski and Playboy boss Hugh Heffner, who were entertained by a young Julio Iglesias! I was therefore more than a little dumbfounded to discover that Marbella Town Hall had no plans to mark the event at all. After the recent outcry about the Mayor’s trip to New York “to encourage tourism”, Mosca would have thought that having some sort of celebration of a jet set marina on your doorstep that millions of tourists have visited over the past 40 years, would have been a no brainer...

Moto Madness

Motorcycle Madness!

It’s the biggest sports event in Spain attracting over 120,000 devotees of all things 2 wheeled to the normally tranquil town of Jerez for a weekend of motorcycle madness,


You really have to question the sanity of whoever came up with the original idea of building a motor racing circuit in Jerez. The place could be described as sleepy at the best of times and until the circuit hosted its first Spanish motorcycle Grand Prix, Jerez was best known for its riding schools and sherry.

All that changed when the motorcycle boys roared into town, closely followed by their cousins in Formula 1. True, the megastars of F1 with their private jets and blackened out motorhomes didn’t return to race after 1997 (The mayor of Jerez, caught up in the excitement of the occasion, and perhaps with just a little too local product inside him, decided to hand out all the prizes at the trophy ceremony, instead of just 3rd like he was supposed to do so. This upset the officials who where waiting behind him and vowed never to come back!), but the heroes of MotoGP loved the place and the fans adored Jerez.

If you’ve never been to a MotoGP in Jerez, a word to the wise. Get up early! There are a few reasons behind this – assuming that you don’t normally spring out of bed with a song in your heart and a gleam in your eye at 6 every Sunday morning. Firstly you want to avoid the Sunday drivers who are either tooteling slowly along the Ruta de Torros, the scenic road up from Algeciras or getting stuck behind a coach of tourists on the way up to Ronda. Nothing is more frustrating than going to watch motorsport where the riders will be racing at over 200kph, while you’re stuck doing 20 behind the Ronda bus.

When you do get up to Jerez, don’t worry about following the signs to the circuit, you’ll be surrounded by bikers - and we’re not talking about hairy arsed Hells Angels here or posers on their Harleys. The guys passing you on either side of the road are sports bikers, wearing brightly coloured racing leathers that wouldn’t look out of place in the paddock. Even the local motorcycle police get into the act, blowing their whistles and waving their arms like demented track marshals.

Once you’ve got into the circuit itself you have a few options available. Buy a baseball cap, T-shirt or flag to declare your allegiance to your favorite rider (Rossi or Lorenzo are safe options) or grab a beer. Rather than the hushed ambience of other sporting events, Jerez is more like a very macho carnival at times. Ladies, if seen at all, tend to be of the pit lane girl that holds the umbrella over the rider while he’s waiting to start the race or the bike bikini bimbo brigade, posing for some PR stunt or other.

Another specialty of the Jerez race is the fireworks. Without doubt, these are the loudest and longest you have ever heard, and it’s a wonder that the US hasn’t targeted Jerez as next in line for weapons of mass destruction. The firecrackers are especially likely to go off at any time from 7am onwards, covering everybody in smoke and accompanied by fino-fuelled cheers.

When the actually business of racing gets underway the first lap is mayhem. It’s a blur of speed and colour as well as smoke and noise (see fireworks above) You, of course will be sitting next to the Rossi fan with the air horn so pack some earplugs, as well as lunch as catering at Jerez is basic. The sheer speed of the motorcycles is awesome. If you’ve seen races on TV, it looks about half the speed when you see and hear them in the flesh, and every corner looks like a controlled crash. Make no mistake; these guys earn their money.

If a Spanish rider wins one of the 3 races (125,250 and 500cc) you’ll be involved in more partying, liquid and, yes, you guessed it, fireworks, than Carnival at Rio. And if the world’s favorite rider, the super talented Italian Valentino Rossi wins, expect unconventional celebrations. One year at Jerez, he stooped on his slowing down lap, got off the bike and made use of the portaloo at the side of the track!

It's always wonderful to get feedback...

There's nothing I like more than the positive feedback from my readers, so I was touched when H at www.typicallyspanish.com asked if he could use my Semana Santa piece on his excellent website.

Alas a day later, he took it down due to comments such as the examples below

"It is no wonder the youth of today are facing so many problems when adults make comments like this. The person who wrote this rubbish article should be removed from the position of writing for Typically Spanish, indeed the article should be removed"

"Señor Editor, please at least set some standards for publishing opinion pieces. Oh, and before you give me the one-two about "it´s just an opinion piece", please remember that even opinion pieces should avoid ostracising and offending people based on where they were born. This is hopefully the last pile of rubbish I will have to read today. Just my OPINION. bah"

"Don't keep demonising the youth in the UK, Mr Editor. Most children get their drinking habits from their parents. You have such a warped view of life."

Chaos, confusion, an angry mob at my door with burning torches?

All in a day's work!

Semanasantics

No other country in Europe, nay, the world does Easter like Spain. Forget trying to celebrated Easter in northern Europe and in the UK you are probably now banned from doing so under Sharia law. For your average northern European child, Easter has no become another, once profoundly religious celebration swamped under a crass commercial tidal wave of naffness. Like Christmas, now called Winterval in some workplaces in the UK so as not to upset Ahmed in accounts, the true meaning of Easter, the most dramatically and powerful period of Christ’s life, representing, incredible pain, suffering, betrayal and the resurrection, not to mention the not inconsiderable matter of the victory of eternal life over death, has been lost due to commercialism. If you asked your average British youth what he though Easter was about, he would probably reply, after finishing his alcopop, that it was something to do with Jesus being put to death by chocolate bunnies, hot cross buns or painted boiled eggs, or combination of the three. Let’s face it, the only musings on life that your everyday council estate scrote is likely to have during Easter is when he finds out that his 13 year old girlfriend is two months pregnant after the St Valentines party…

But I digress, Semana Santa is one of the highlights of the year in Spain, and Andalucia is the place to experience it. Holy Week in Seville is the big one and attracts the most coverage from the television stations, although with Antonio Banderas making his annual pilgrimage to take part in the processions this week, watched on from an upstairs balcony by la Melanie, Malaga runs it a close second. Just in case you’ve landed in Andalucia from Planet Guiri, Semana Santa is basically a week of elaborate processions of intricate floats. The term floats is a little misleading as each way a tonne and are carried throughout town by about 40 men, the costaleros, who are hidden underneath the thing. It’s not a job for the faint hearted and the costaleros wear a headpiece like a large inside out sock, thickly padded around the head and the neck, white T-shirt and dark cotton trousers, a little like a gang of devout and muscular smurfs. Families crowd around the floats when they stop to offer their sons/brothers/cousins encouragement and water
Each float depicts a biblical scene, usually in Christ being whipped, the cat o nine tails beads slapping against each other as they move along. The figures on the floats themselves are normally rendered in what an art critic could describe as “Late Catholic Renaissance Suffering Style”, plenty of detail in the crown of thorns, beads of blood, open wounds and the agonised expression of Christ himself. Happy Clappy Christianity this is not.

And then, of course, there are the Virgins. You can’t have a good procession in Andalucia without a Virgin floating by every so often. While the more cynical amongst you may debate the improbability in locating a Virgin anywhere near the Costa del Sol, in Seville, for example, they take their Virgins very seriously. There is the Virgin del Cachorro (no, I don’t understand why she’s called of the puppy either) as well as the Virgin de la O (so called because the first thing the Virgin said when She gave birth was “O”. Alas, no one could tell me what the second thing was, which makes for a fun Easter time game of Semana Santa Blankety Blank, I can imagine). And then there are the two heavyweight Virgins in Seville, the Ali and Frasier of the float world if you like. The Virgin of Hope of Triana and her great rival the Virgin of Hope of the Macarena, (no, you can’t do the dance when she passes) who, because of the rain a few years ago, where diverted and by chance came face to face with each other in an alley for the first ever time. You can only imagine the conversation that they must have had. “This town is only big enough for one Virgin etc”

The rain plays a big factor during Semana Santa. If it throws it down then, rain will stop play and the news will be full of images of the devoted in tears because they can’t take their Virgin out.

It’s a moving experience and with some of the processions in silence while at others people cry out "guapa! guapa!" or sing to the Virgin Mary. This is not, I repeat NOT the time to try out your bar room Spanish or an impromptu version of Una Paloma Blanca. The locals would set upon you, the streets are crowded and the police and ambulance services would never make it to you on time.


Perhaps the best known image of Semana Santa, however, are the nazarenos, people cloaked in the traditional costume of repentance, which bears more than a passing resemblance to the KKK. As well as this there are also priests swinging incense everywhere, and a band in front of each float that plays music. With more than 50 processions through Seville during Holy Week, it’s a good idea to grab a guide (found at any kiosk or supermarket) to know which procession is where and when, etc. All processions leave from their church, make their way through the city and towards the cathedral, then go back to their church, when the procession ends with the costeleros placing the float down in its place at their church where it won't be touched until the next year.

Of course, if the thought of standing in a crowd is all too much for you, then you can also follow the example of many in Seville and watch the whole thing on television with a bowl of olives and fino to hand. Giralda TV broadcasts live coverage and all the national channels have reports from Seville. Even the chat shows get in on the act, normally discussing what la Melanie, was wearing. And if you’re a real die hard Semana Santa fan, you can even take home DVDs of the proceedings. The sacred week over, Seville slowly gets back to normal and looks forward to the more profane celebrations of the April Feria…



!

Its Crunch Time

Halfway through the 6 Nations and once again it looks like England are no closer to discovering anything like match winning form. But no matter. I just go for the beer. Talking of things rugby, this fantastic photo landed in my inbox from Ruben from Marbella Rugby Club, taken during their victory over Cordoba.

My first thought was "bugger" I really must get a game before the end of the season, quickly followed by "Yeah, but you'll probably end up getting tackled like that"

So looks like my season will consist of draining the beer tent at the Vets International Festival.Again.

My Bloody Valentine's

I’ve often said that New Years Eve in Marbella is the one night of the year that I hate most. It’s “The Biggest Night of the year” and, as such is full of amateurs out to get completely smashed. I, of course, regard myself as a professional. Plus the fact that trying to get a cab out of Banus on NYE is akin to trying to get the last chopper out of Saigon. But there is one other special day of the year that fills me with dread. Valentine’s Day. Will someone please explain to me, why this one night of the year has to symbolise your relationship? And why does it always have to be pink? It’s not that I’m against meaningful relationships. I just don’t see why I should go from being a SCREAMER - a Self-Centred, Rich, Educated, Adventurous Materialist to a SITCOM - Single Income Two Children Oppressive Mortgage. And after 20 years of carousing on the coast I’ve come up with the following theory. Relationships in Marbella use the same time scale as dog years. A one-year relationship in Marbella is equal to a seven-year relationship anywhere else. (If you travel abroad, you’ll find that the same rule applies in Los Angeles, although with a higher proportion of personal trainers, therapists, feng shui consultants and divorce layers involved.)


Although its just another day out of 365, heaven forbid if you forget to book a restaurant, buy a huge bouquet of flowers or, for the more “high maintenance” girlfriend (for high maintenance substitute borderline physco the tendency to boil bunnies a la Glen Close) - buy something shiny, sparkling and seriously expensive.


As an aside, did you know that the blessed St Valentine was put to death by centurions armed with post bags full of sentimental greeting cards?


Of course, you might be expected to take in a movie. And it won’t be along the lines of the brilliant war film “Saving Private Ryan” or the equally brilliant porno “Saving Ryan’s Privates” Oh no. Films on Valentine’s day tend to be chick flicks, normally featuring that well known phrase guaranteed to to strike fear and trepidation into any red blooded male – “A romantic comedy, starring Meg Ryan” - and it will probably feature Rupert Evert as the romantic heroine’s best gay friend, and invariably a “Lesson of Life” will come from the ethnic taxi driver/cleaner/corner store owner.

Music wise you-‘ll be stuck with the old favourites - “Sealion” Dion, anything by Ronan Keating or that bunch of voiced over Armani models known as El Divo. Of course, all blokes know that there is only one Devo – The plastic attired electro punk group of the late 70s, and I defy anyone to listen to the seminal Whip it Up without spontaneously breaking into bad robot dancing. And the mere sight of a Richard Clayderman CD around February 14 is enough to make me start retching. I also habour a serial loathing for The Carpenters, although this is purely down to being punched by a blazered Sloane when “Close to You” came on the jukebox on the King’s Road many years ago. “I love this song” gushed the Sloane’s stick thin girlfriend. “Ah yes. Karen Carpenter” I sagely ventured. “Songs for swinging anorexics” KERPOW!
Little did I know that Sloane’s girl had an eating disorder….


And then there’s the restaurant. You cannot nip out for a Chinese or curry on Valentine’s night. No. The venue must be Italian. And with due deference to the Dalli’s, Pasta Factory doesn’t count on this occasion. And let’s be honest, if you’re taking an attractive woman to a restaurant, do you really want Simon, Marco or Nick unleashing their thousand watt smiles on your date? And don’t get me started on Aretusa. Ten years ago an (ex) girlfriend literally sprinted from Sinatra’s to Antonio’s – an impressive feat in Manolo’s, I can assure you – when she spotted me chatting to Marco in a Ferrari.

So it must be Italian and it must be expensive. And you’ll have to order champagne, and it will have to be pink. Trust me on this one - a bottle of Mattius Rose is not an option. If you’re really unlucky, the barman will have devised a “Valentine’s Special” cocktail, which is bound to involve Creme de Cassis and guaranteed to bring on a screaming hangover the following day. I’d rather have a pint of Babysham. And because this is this is “The Most Romantic Night of The Year”, you are bound to say, wear or do something wrong. The atmosphere is probably akin to the final question on “Who wants to be a millionaire” if you had to phone a friend for the million. Those of you who have the questionable pleasure of knowing me will vouch for the fact that I love eating out. There’s nothing more fun on the coast that the impromptu lunch that turns into dinner, washed down with a couple of ice buckets of wine, tall tales and a group of friends. On Valentines’ night, however, you’ll more often than not get some special dish that is bound to involve oysters, lobster and other overrated aphrodisiacs, usually on a menu that has been tastefully decorated with two swans. My views on oysters and lobster – known as “cucaracha del mar” in the Brown household, are well known. Take my advice, for a guaranteed aphodisiac, just sprinkle 400 gms of viagra on a McDonalds and “Roberto es tu tio”, as they say in Aloha. You’ll also get the attentions of an enthusiastic waiter brandishing a Rubirosa – it’s the pepper grinder named after the business end of the the famed 50s gigilo. I’ll let you work out the rest – and if you’re really unlucky, either a violinist or bunch of pantalooned students trying top earn some extra cash as a tuba.

But hey, love the one you’re with – as opposed to being with the one you love – and get out their and enjoy your Valentine’s. After all, you’re only a few weeks away from the chocolate bunny and egg fest that is Easter…

Stop the Birthday! I wish to get off!

A few years back I turned 40, and when you’d lived the kind of life that has mainly featured escapades in Marbella and London that have involved epic late nights, enraged bouncers, annoyed bar tenders and long suffering girlfriends, that fact that I made it past 26 is a minor miracle. But after listening to my best friend Hobson’s speech to mark the occasion where he famously remarked that it was a cause of celebration that I was there with a pulse and he did not have to deliver the speech from a pulpit, it caused be to reflect on my innings thus far.

The main change that I’ve noticed so far that I’m a classic case of the mind being willing but the body being weak, especially after a session at Dreamer’s. It now takes me the whole day to recover. In the 80s, I was able to party until the dawn broke over Ipanema Palace - a club that, like my youth in Marbella is now long gone – grab a couple of hours sleep and still be able to hit the beach at Tramps that afternoon. Now it takes an effort to crawl to the sofa, fumble for the remote and let something easy on the brain wash over me (and if you don’t watch Spanish TV, they seem to specialise in game shows, quiz shows and mind-numbingly banal reality TV shows that are perfect for the hungover, trust me)

And if an evening of clubbing is enough to tire you out, don’t even think of any sporting activity. I’m an enthusiastic member of Marbella Rugby Club, where my enthusiasm gets as far as single handily trying to drain the bar of beer on match day. Last season, however, my old team from Richmond, “The Bulldogs” came over on tour and I was honour-bound to step fearlessly onto the pitch. Needless to say I was flattened several times, but the large amount of liquid that was consumed after the match and well into the night helped numb the pain. The next day however, I found it difficult to move, and was the object of much mirth for my father, who gave up playing rugby after school and took up the much safer career as racing driver. The other problem with sport is that everyone over 34 is described as a veteran, whose legs are “not what they were” I’m still pleased with my legs, thank you, but in a subtle change of sporting options, I’ve found myself loitering around golf shops. After all, Greg Norman, Sandy Lyle and Nick Faldo are all in their 50s, so I’m a comparative youngster.

Another sad fact of life is the amount of money I spend as I get older. Granted when I was 17 we used to buy a crate of 24 San Miguels, drag it down to Puerto Banus and sit opposite Sinatra’s, but I remember going out with 2000 ptas in my pocket, and carousing through the Puerto Deportivo in Marbella, usually ending up in Joe’s Bar in Banus, and still having 500 ptas left to get me back to the family home in Nueva Andalucia, but now it seems that I can’t even break into a sweat for less than €200


When you hit 40 you also find that all of your friends are getting married – four weddings for me last year alone – and are having babies. This, of course, makes crashing over at friends’ houses more than a little difficult. In my twenties the cry “everyone back to mine” would result in half the bar getting takeouts and decamping back to someone’s villa to carry on the party. Sleeping arrangements were simple – you slept where you fell. At one memorable occasion we went back to a Hungarian foodie friend’s house, who insisted that we partake of her own flavoured vodkas. The next morning the garden resembled a crash site – bodies and furniture were spread over a large area and I woke up in the hedge. It wasn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last…

Of course, if you are crashing with friends who have children and arrive late and/or “over refreshed ” they are likely to extract a subtle revenge. Such as putting you on the sofa bed in the kiddies’ playroom thus ensuring that you are woken from your slumbers by a four-year-old jamming an eggie soldier in your ear while her two year-old brother expertly sets the DVD to full volume and blasts you with the first five minutes of Ice Age. At this point mammoths, sabre tooth tigers and the rest of the prehistoric herd are not the only thing that I wish were extinct and ”Wicked Uncle Giles” is quickly sent staggering towards the taxi rank.


Then of course, there is the small problem that when you hit 40, you still think that you are 17. This can lead to some embarrassing, “oldest swinger in town moments” My classic came at the 20th anniversary of Comedia. As a young lounge lizard in the 80s I had, of course, been to the opening night. Standing at the bar, I was treating a young lady to my full smooze routine, when she remarked that she didn’t remember the opening of Comedia. “Yes” I said, flashing my best George Clooney grin “It was a pretty wild evening, wasn’t it?”

“No” she replied. “I don’t remember it because at the time I was three years old”

The crashing and burning sound after that reply was my youth flying out of the window…

Even worse is if your friends have 20-year-old nannies, au pairs or nieces. Then you find yourself desperately trying to appear a sort of hip, Ray Ban wearing Svengali like figure that has been there and done that. They, of course, think that you are a manically grinning weirdo who doesn’t know who The Ting Tings or Dizzie Rascal are, and keeps going on about how he used to go to the gym.

Yet another sign of middle age is the dreaded school reunion. I wondered why none of my contemporaries wanted to go the annual ex-students dinner last Christmas. And then it became incredibly clear. I was sitting on a table with some of my old teachers when the announcement came over the PA “And now we’d like to welcome the oldest ex-student here tonight” I looked round expecting to see a grey haired figure being wheeled on from the shadows. “A big round of applause please, for. …Giles Brown!”

I have never felt older…


I’ve also found myself becoming crabbier as time wears on. I get stroppy if the cocktail barman doesn’t know how to prepare a lychee martini, for example. My neighbour has dogs. Eight of them, in fact, that he keeps in a courtyard beneath my bedroom window and have the totally acceptable canine habit of trying to recreate “The Anvil Chorus” in a doggie fashion, with a blistering crescendo of yelps, barks and the occasional well timed howl. My 20 year-old-self would have slept through the noise while my 30-year-old self might have considered this the perfect wake up call and hit the gym. My 40-year-old self, however, was found surfing the Internet for stun grenades on ebay.



But with age comes wisdom, and as I turned 40, I was struck by this sage observation I’m finally turning into the kind of person my parents warned me about…