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Friday 12th November 2004

I go to the bank, winding my way through the streets of Benimaclet. I get what I need and decide to wander through the weekly market. There’s the usual row after row of t-shirts, towels, flags proclaiming their impassioned hatred of Real Madrid (as you may be gathering, they really don’t like them round here), household items, plants, carpets, clothes, sunglasses, knock-off designer jeans, shoes, mobile phone accessories and general thrash that you don’t need. I wander around, not really watching where I am going and find myself down a back street I don’t recognise. There’s a small shop across the street from me, selling God only knows what and outside stands a small, stooped, crabby, leathery old man. He has a hat on his head and wears a brown, three-piece suit. He seems to be entirely brown: brown face, hair, clothes, hat and skin. He looks like a cigarette. He leans on his walking stick with one hand and with the other, slowly extends his middle finger and gesticulates wildly at someone inside the door. There’s an explosion of some kind and a volley of insults comes flying out.

Activate subtitles.

“Son of a bitch! What the cunt are you doing? BASTARD! Arsehole! Son of the biggest whore in Christendom!” And so on and on. The elderly man continues furiously giving the finger in the door and starts laughing demonically, his whole frame shuddering with great hacking sounds.

Suddenly, thinking that I have stumbled into the middle of some great Spanish melodrama, I stop and watch what happens. Maybe, I think, these guys were on different sides during the Civil war or something. The guy with the cane looks old enough anyway: he must be eighty-five. Maybe one of them shagged the other one’s sister. Back in 1954 or something. The man inside emerges, his face, craggy old and split in laughter. He’s giving the finger as well. And then of course I cop on. These guys have been friends for decades. Probably known each other since they were kids, their relationship evolving into the Spanish equivalent of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. I laugh and go home.

Wednesday 17th November 2004

After finishing work at nine, I take the Metro to Angel Guimera and go to a friend's apartment for dinner. There’s myself, and six mates. This and that, work and booze, who’s seeing who, what’s going on, did you see the news (we talk about the footage of American troops executing Iraqi ‘insurgents’ which had appeared on TV the previous day), did Ireland win last night? Yes, they did. One nil. No, not Duff. Robbie Keane got it. Yeah, that makes 24 now. Two less than Michael Owen has at the moment. Jesus, he’s playing well, isn’t he? 6 goals in eight games for Real. No shit? Still hate Real, though. A pack of whores. Yeah, I agree. Duff is a fucking genius. Yeah, he is. I’ve never seen anything like that in an Ireland shirt, have you? Well, maybe Liam Brady…

At twelve I make excuses, saying that I have an early class.

On the way home, I make a circuitous route, and I see four women standing on the street corner, about 30 or 40 feet away. I turn up my walkman. As I get closer, I get curious and start looking at them. Jesus H, that woman is wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen. Christ almighty, her tits are hanging out. So are hers. And so are hers. Christ the make up on that one… ahh (sound of coin hitting ground). Yes.

I keep walking and get closer. They’ve seen me and are getting interested. One of them says something and I look up. Jaysus wept that’s some fucking rig she has on. She looks like she’s about to go pole dancing. She looks really tall. She looks like a bloke. She is a fucking bloke. It’s a bloke with stubble and tits. In a skirt the size of my belt. Holy shite on earth. I keep walking. One of them steps in front of me and opens her (I’m going with female pronouns for now) rather large, and suspiciously hairy arms.
“Oye, Carino…” she says with a wiggle of the hips and a laugh.
I smile and walk through. When I turn the corner, I start laughing. And I don’t stop for about twenty minutes.

The next morning, I wind my way through the Carmen. People are rushing to work, although the use of the verb rush is unwarranted really. Valencians don’t rush anywhere. For anything. Rush hour in Valencia is unlike anything else I’ve ever seen. Yes, people are moving quicker than normal, needing to get places and the trains are a bit fuller than normal, but all in all, the pace could never be described as frantic. They amble, they stroll and they glide. They don’t scurry and crash in to each other like we do in Dublin. They know that eventually they will get to their offices, so, really, what’s the rush?

Select DVD menu. Select Special Features. Select English Conversation class for Intermediate level. Select Wednesday 24th November 2004. Select Play.

I stand at the board. And point to the words behind me.
“Pronunciation please, Olga?”
She looks at me. Pauses.
“Reeee – voloshion?”
“Revolution” I say.
She smiles and nods.
“Repeat please?”
“Rebolushion” she says.
I point to my mouth. “Watch my mouth,” I say “Revolution. Repeat please”
“Revolution”
“Excellent. Repeat”
“Revolution”
“Repeat.”
“Revolution.”
“Excellent. Maria?”
“Revolution” she says.
“Perfect,” I say. “Ampa?”
“Revolution”, she says.
“Perfect. Now,” I say pointing to a different word. “Rebellion. Rebellion. Repeat please, Lorena.”
“Rebellion.”
I drill it round the class. Repeat. Pronounce. Repeat. Pronounce. Perfect.
“Now” I ask them, getting their attention with a wave of the hand, “what is the difference between revolution and rebellion?”
There’s a hushing-up and intense furrowing of brows. They concentrate and then look at each other. Eva catches my eye.
“Yes Eva?”
“I’m not sure, but I think that…” she pauses,“that a Rebellion is.. como se dice? – mas pequeno?”
“Smaller?”
“Yes” she says, “smaller”.
“Good. So what else can you tell me?”

I get home. I roll a doobie. Turn on the TV. Fix some dinner. Eat and watch the Barcelona game. As usual, they are incredible, ripping through the opposition like they just aren’t there. Sadly, this time it’s Celtic. Still though, Ronaldinho is rapidly becoming the Jimi Hendrix of football.

I stay up and watch the TV. I watch the advertisements. There are naked girls on a beach. Nipples covered by strategic towels. Cut to a party, people are dancing. Sweaty, writhing. Show product. Cut to a couple, naked, embracing, their cinnamon skins contrasting against the swirling green and red background. Buy this product and you will get laid. You will be desired. Wanted. Beautiful. Show product. You will get whatever you want. Buy this product and you will get laid. And repeat please. Buy this product and you will get laid. And repeat.

I go to bed.

It’s hot as hell. I’m lying beneath the sheets, sweating. I can’t sleep. I can’t read. I can’t listen to any more music. I can’t smoke another joint or drink another beer. I can’t stretch myself anymore. I can’t sleep.

I get up and wander around the flat, poking at this and that in the kitchen. I get myself a glass of water from the fridge, thanking anything holy that is listening for the joy of cold water. I go to the bathroom and switch on the light. I take a piss and throw some water on my face. I look in the mirror. I last about five seconds.

I go back to the living room and turn on the TV. I watch some dross that I can’t understand. I think it’s an early Chuck Norris movie. At least judging by the prodigious body count and exploding cars.

I sit and idly watch the porn channel. There’s a dodgy webcam broadcast in session, the screen cluttered to the point of absurdity. There’s the usual array of phone numbers, mobile phone logos, whore house addresses, scrolling text and personal ads for perverts who want to fuck chickens and the like. Some slightly out of focus woman is doing something rather odd with a banana, but otherwise there’s not much of interest.

I flip channel. There’s another one. Except this time there’s a kind of top ten thing going on. Counting down through the top ten perversions or something. Some of the slang vocabulary is new to me (‘rabos enormos’ for example) so I’m not quite expecting what appears over the next five minutes. First up there’s ‘Amateur’ which involves grainy footage of a woman who looks like she keeps bar in the roughest town in Texas, making a variety of lascivious looks at the camera as her husband mercilessly goes at her from behind. Next there’s something, which, I think, concerned women who liked men. Lots of men. I can’t be sure exactly what was so special about this: it was a bit thin on the old plot side and the music was truly gruesome. That said there was a brief segment where a young blonde girl gave an enthusiastic performance of sexual gymnastics with what looked like about six guys. I can’t be sure how many were actually involved: there were too many fat, hairy German arses in the way.

I flip channel. There’s more of it. This time it’s web cams again. Holy shite on earth, what is she doing? There appears to be a young lady… well, you don’t need to know. I think you get the general picture by now.

I flip back to Chuck Norris who is now busy machine-gunning his way through a warehouse full of guys with Uzis’ and terrible aim. There’s a final chop-socky, bone snapping, martial-arts showdown with some impossibly evil military type; who Chuck disposes of with Roger Moore-like aplomb. I take a deep sigh.

I flip back to the porn. At first I see a rather attractive woman, breasts bouncing like water-balloons. The camera pans down to reveal the girl waggling a large knob at the camera. I flip back to Chuck. He’s giving a rousing, end of movie type speech to some soldiers.

I flip. There’s a woman selling reclining armchairs. Flip. A woman selling a cookery set. Flip. A bald, camp dude sitting in front of a set that cost thirty euros, reading out tarot cards. Flip. Ads. Flip. Five guys sitting around a table, yelling at each other like it was the end of the world. They’re talking about football. There’s no football on. There hasn’t been any for three days. Flip. Porn. Flip. Credits of Chuck’s movie, a snarling Top Gun rock song, screaming something about ‘Danger’, over and over again. Flip. Porn. Flip. Blank screen. Snow.

I wake up. It’s Thursday.