Part I: Capital FUNishment in Madrid

---

Becka and I arrived at Heathrow airport with high spirits for the Spanish weather, an umbrella and a fleece. I know what you’re thinking - you understand why airports sell booze but what’s with the Toblerone? Is there a massive tax on triangular chocolate in the UK I’m not aware of? And who buys it for gifts anyway? Is there a businessman somewhere with obese children, sweating from having to chow down all the Toblerone their father brings back from his trips? “What’s for dinner mum?... Oh no, not Toblerone again???!” “That’s right kids! Toblerone soup (eat it before it sets!), Toblerone lasagne with nuts (the nuts are already in the Toblerone and separate due to melting the Toblerone), and for desert, Toblerone crumble, coffee and – you’ve guessed it – Toblerone!”

All these questions and more in this:

PHIL AND BECKA’S SPANISH ADVENTURE BLOG (sponsored by Toblerone)

I did very well out of aeroplane booze this holiday as Becka didn’t want her G&T (those who know Becka will be yelling “What?” at the computer screen and shaking their fist or slapping their palms on their foreheads). It may have been wrong of me to monopolise on Becka’s phobia in order to get double drinks, but what did I care – I was drunk.


Anyway, here’s day 1:

______________________________________________________________________

Thursday 11th August 2011

Becka and I landed in our hostel like seasoned pros, and immediately made friends with a Kiwi (someone ‘as to! Oy oy etc.). The hostel FYI was called Cats Hostel, Madrid. I thought it was good, Becka thought it was too dark. That’s that settled! It did have a ridiculous key for our dorm where you press it in and then it lights green and then you turn it but you don’t know which way and you have to pull the door towards you when you turn it but it must be at the precise moment and with the precise number of Newtons. My only experience of Hostels has been in Indo-china, where they give you a palace for about 3p a night, so I’ll take Becka’s superior knowledge on this one. Anyway, we clattered out to find a bar and contact Lee Golding, aka Spic, former resident at my home home in Cheltenham when I were a lad (as I still am, but in a different way). So I sauntered into the establishment, marched up to the bar – bold as brass (me, not the bar… actually, both of us), had the words cocked and loaded in the old larynx, then realised I couldn’t speak a word of Spanish and the barman couldn’t speak a word of English. I was incensed. “What? You don’t speak English? Isn’t this an old colony or something? And you don’t speak the Queen’s?” So I had to resort to the international sign language: 1.) Point at beer pump 2.) Make “drinky-drinky” motion 3.) Hold up 3 fingers 4.) Do a big thumbs up and cheesy grin. Worked a charm. As someone once said – “if they don’t speak English, shout louder and point. If they still don’t understand, smash the place up.”

Anyways, eventually Spic found us and took us for a guided tour of Madrid. After passing the oldest restaurant in the world (not as old as you would think), we went to a big food market where we tried a variety of bits – croquettas, bread with stuff on (sea food, cheese, spices, etc) and some lovely Rioja, but for some reason we always stood up to eat. Spic handed me a big load of dead pig on a plate and it was then I realised he was not aware of my pescetarianism, and was shocked (I could understand as I’ve not seen him in years, but my close friends are still shocked and act as if it’s a new thing, even though it’s well over three years now!) So after that hiccup Spic took Becka, Leah (kiwi) and I to various haunts which I will now list, with comments where applicable:

1. Gin bar. Dedicated to gins. Massive and massively expensive gins, which Spic seemed to pay for. But I think he had a deal going with the management – he seemed to be a regular. On the other hand he’s a charming guy and I don’t speak and Spanish, so who knows. Not me.
2. Tour of the city. The highlights of the massivo buildings, grandiose architecture and pigs legs hanging up EVERYWHERE!
3. Imported Guinness in an Irish pub to seal the deal. Spic and I went outside to bum a cigarette off some punters and for some reason I pretended to be Irish (actually, it’s not “some reason”, the reason is that I was drunk – “beer then wine and you’ll be fine – beer then wine then gin then Guinness and you’ll be pretending to be Irish”, I think the rhyme goes.

We got the Madrid underground back – much larger carriages and efficient than the London underground, and this is where us Brits made the mistake of inventing clever transport first. Once you’ve built the tunnels, that’s how wide your trains can be. Have you tried the central line in rush hour – yeah? Then you know, you know.

Becka and I returned to the hostel, resolved to wake up at 8.00am on the dot. Nothing would deter us.

______________________________________________________________________

Friday 12th August 2011

We were awoken at by the cries of “valet!” by the cleaners. I rolled over to check my watch. 11:45am. Damn. Definitely let’s get up at 8 tomorrow.

We had arranged to meet Spicster for lunch, so we pottered around the town for a bit – we walked down a street where clearly the prostitutes hung out – I Poirot’d my way to this conclusion by the fact they were dressed like sex-workers (which is the PC term these days, although I’ve already used prostitute, which I can’t take back. Actually, I can edit, but I won’t) and were leaning against thin trees. I tried to work out why leaning against thin trees was the code for “I sell sex for money” but my reverie was broken by Becka pointing out some, and I quote, “fit boys to snog”. Good to see both our minds were concentrating on absorbing the cultural heritage of the nation.

We met with Spic and he took us to another place where we stood up to eat again (if it wasn’t for the fact that loads of people were sitting down I would have thought this was the norm), and where it is the done thing to chuck your napkins/food/whatever on the floor – it was covered in crap – I was in paradise! Finished with this bit of bread? On the floor you go! Wiped fishy debris off my lips*? Yep, you’ve guessed it, Newton’s gas pedal will take you to your terrestrial destination!

We only had a couple of hours so Spicson took us to his dad’s office – a couple of leaning towers in what can only be described as A-Team colour schemes. After a viewing tour of the city (it was after 3pm so everyone had gone home – lazy, lazy Spaniards!) Spic had to get back to work (proper Englishman) and Becka and I went to the big park (which makes Hyde Park look like a back garden in Milton Keynes) to go for a row on the lake. After the argument we started propelling the boat with oars (arf arf).

Before meeting the Spicmeister General that evening we went back to the hostel to change out of our sweaty clothes (it being about 38 degrees) and by the time we got there we had to go straight back to meet Mr. Spicaton, who came complete with an invite to a BBQ of a friend in his village.

Replicating his commute (I tested to make sure it was by asking where we should get on the train for quickest changing and alighting… he passed the test) we arrived in his town, which was like Godalming meets… um, Milton Keynes (again). Except nicer and very sunny. But also very very new. After picking up some supplies from the supermarket, dropping our stuff at Spicitatas, we arrived at the BBQ of this guy, whose name I have forgotten. Predictably, however, there was someone from Durham there (there always is, no matter where I go) and who was also at Van Mildert college, where my uncle was master. This surprised her, but I would be surprised if there was not a Durham alumna at a random barbi just outside Mardid.

Anyway, at about 10:30pm the barbi had still not been lit, so I offered my services. For some reason the torrential rain that ensued put the Spaniards off having a barbeque. But us plucky Brits carried on. First the Armada, now this. We ended up having a brilliant time – we ate downstairs where there was this cellar bit with beer on tap and the largest wine collection ever, which we were free to pilfer from (we estimated about 600 odd bottles), and we all played Ring of Fire, instigated, as you’d imagine, by Becka. These guys were all late 20s/early 30s, but were up for ring of fire. Many of my friends seem to think they are too mature for this... immature game. I say, get Spanish, people! One of the players kept choosing dare in T or D so ended up fully clothed in the pool on a number of occasions.

Spicareedooda, remembering that I played the piano, goaded Becka and I to perform in the main house (this place was big, with swimming pool and what-not), at around 2:30am or so. Now Becka is an excellent pianist but very shy, where as I am piss-poor, but a massive show-off – so I performed a musical mashup which would have had the composers involved turning in their graves. Stupid bastards for buying rotating graves in my opinion.

At late o’clock Becka, Hr. Spicanbergen, and I went to his flat and all three squeezed into his bed, sweating our arses off but firmly resolved to get up at 8am and get up the mountains around Mardid.

*Don’t go there

______________________________________________________________________

Saturday 13th August 2011
We were awoken at by the nudges of Spic. I rolled over to check my watch. 10:00am. Damn. Definitely let’s get up at 8 tomorrow.

We phoned the hostel, complete with Spicworth’s Spanish and charm, to get them to extend our stay by a night. They said unless we were there by 11am our stuff would be taken out of our lockers and we would lose our deposit. No fair. So Spiclington sped us into town to get our stuff and just get outta there! El bloody Papa had other ideas though, and the jams reflected the upcoming papal visit, as did the constant traffic diversions. We managed to get our bunce back and headed out back to Spic’s mum’s house for some hangover cure brekkie – scrambled egg, two tomato, mushroom and about 10 bacon for the meat-heads (I love in greasy spoons when ordering a breakfast it’s the convention not to pluralise food items). So, at about 1:00pm, a mere 5 hours behind schedule, we made our way up the mountain, following the river around some gobsmackingly gorgeous windy mountain roads. (If anyone’s been to Crickley Hill in Gloucestershire, the car park is exactly the same, but obv the roads aren’t!) I will hereafter list the highlights of this drizzly/sunny day out:
- Skimming stones
- Dipping in cold, but fresh water. Good when sunny, pointless when raining.
- Target practise – throwing one stone against a larger stone perched on a larger stone.
- Throwing a massive rock off a boulder into a plunge pool and going “lush” at the sound of the splosh.
- Spic’s mum’s delicious tuna sandwiches

Back to Spic’s parents house who very kindly had us round for dins and entertainment. I received a how to make tortilla lesson (you can use beer!) and we were entertained by Spicosh’s dad on a two manual Bossanova. Classic. He then went to play us an LP he had recorded in Liverpool in ’71. It wasn’t bad actually, but there was a contrast between Mr. Spic senior getting nostalgic about his old band and Mrs. Spic tutting and rolling her eyes. At one point Mike (Mr. Spic) tried to play us a DVD of his old band but the player said “not recognised.” Christina (Mrs. Spic) quipped: “that sounds about right.”

After a tour of the house (including the “party room” which had two balconies – must’ve been amazing when they were teenagers!), we went back to Spicham’s flat. He stayed at his rents as he was feeling unwell, so Becka and I enjoyed greater space and a better nights sleep on Spicaroonie’s bedee-bize.

We firmly resolved to wake up at 7 am, to get the train to Granada in good time....

---

Photos

Becka Gin
Looks like a big bottle of gin? WRONG MY FRIEND. It\'s perspective

Bowl o' prawns
In the food market - lots of lovely foods, all eaten stood up...

World's oldest resturant
With these prices, how did it stay open?

Spic's dad's office
Note the leaning towers and A-Team red-black colour scheme

Atlas
Holding up the world, like a couple of Conans, it's Spic and I!

Big rock splosh
Sound of a rock going splosh = lush

Ring of Fire
The classic game adapted for Spaniards