First Class!

I am writing this in the first class lounge at Manchester railway station. Better even than the free snacks is the free wi-fi and being able to watch the concourse from a sort of glassed-in eyrie. Top!

Anyone for tennis?

The sound of grunting, punnets of strawberries at eight quid a pop and middle class people sleeping rough and queuing like refugees at a border post can only mean one thing – the start of Wimbledon.

Tennis is the most middle class game in the world. Before you have a racquet, ball or any kind of skill, you have to have a decent washing machine or at least a tub of water and a shedload of bleach because this is a game played in whites. At least it is at the all-England tennis club and I suspect the reason behind this is because, well, if you allow aged male duffers to set the dress code, then white sensible knickers combined with micro-skirts is going to be the result.

Wimbledon is soaked in tradition, and usually rain. By tradition, this sport sees the great British hope pluckily get through a couple of matches before they meet somebody good, or Australian, and then they are pounded into the court in a chalk-dust raising display of home-turf humiliation.

Tennis, though, isn’t really an English game. Okay, it was invented here and so on, but like a middle class family, it’s emigrated. Football is the same, except that like a criminal, it was deported. In the case of Football it went to South America and became a religion. As for tennis, it’s now played more on the Continental courts of those with a second home is France, or in Australia, where the clay surface was invented, or as I believe it’s termed, the outback.

One thing is for sure, the ground may not be saturated (yet) but the telly coverage is. And I don’t really mind this to be honest – there’s something therapeutic about the light green, the gentle thwock thwock noise and the occasional grunt or trouser cough of a straining athelete.

There’s only one thing that’s slightly disquieting – the muscles on the women players, and the way they tuck their spare balls into their knickers.

Farewell Eddie, Becca and Jack

http://lifeandhealth.guardian.co.uk/family/story/0,,2285538,00.html

What do you think?

Since it began, Living with Teenagers has provoked a storm of interest from readers who have loved - and loathed - it. Tell us what it has meant to you and we will publish a selection of your responses next week. Email family@guardian.co.uk, putting Living with Teenagers in the subject field

First and foremost – hats off to the editor who pulled ‘living with teenagers’. I am tempted to start a social networking site just so I can organise a parade in his/her honour.

Secondly, a big thank you for the formal invitation to submit thoughts and comments about this column. I’m not sure how to translate what are basically chilling animal howls of inarticulate frustrated rage, but I’ll do my best.

In terms of finding objectionable things in your newspaper, this column was on a par with Burchill at her worst, Littlejohn at his ‘best’, Bushell at all, or fox shit.

So why read it at all? Why not just skip it? Three reasons. One, I’ve paid for it. Second, like a gruesome karaoke performance, sometimes you just can’t NOT look. Finally, there was always the slim chance that the column might improve.

I think my problem with the column was twofold. The first was that I just didn’t believe it. I was not convinced that a family that dysfunctional could actually exist, or rather, the writer didn’t make me believe that THAT dysfunctional family existed. I thought that it crossed the line from exaggeration into fantasy far too many times. Secondly, if a family like that does exist, then I wasn’t remotely interested in reading about them. The children were vile and the parents useless. If this is an accurate representation of that family, then a big thanks to the parents for raising three such anti-social, selfish people – I have to share a planet with these people!

Inspired by the right to reply in ‘comment is free’ I often thought of going further and setting up a blog, the premise of which would be to take each Saturday’s article and duplicate it to a certain point, where a more sensible reaction to some teen outrage would replace the usual parental reaction of sobbing and hugs. The problem was that I never got beyond line three before I had to describe in detail beating a teen to a puree with a cricket bat.

How to follow this column? How about living with monkeys, where primates screech at one another and fling their own excrement at one another and anyone who observes them. Too samey?

Postcard from Spain - come fly with me

Airplane jam - how twee!

After years of resolutely holidaying mostly in England (I still maintain that there is noting as hot as a hot English summer – we’re just not ready for it, rails buckle, roads shimmer, hosepipes are banned and the media is full of drought alerts before the average person has had time to turn from ‘pasty’ to pillar box read) I’ve decided to upgrade my carbon footprint from that of a kid who has to wear one of those special built-up shoes to that of a yeti.

Somewhere along the way, air travel was deregulated enough to fly cheaply. The trade off has been that you are basically travelling in a National Express coach with wings. The only way to come to terms with being cooped up for a couple of hours on a short haul flight is to drink, and because it’s short haul there’s no time to mess about with beer.

That’s why I favour champagne when flying. On the flight back from Spain I paid 22 quid for a bottle – far cheaper then it would normally cost in a bar, not much more than it costs in a supermarket. Gratification about this was offset by the cost of the packet of mini chedders that I selected as a savoury accompaniment – at three quid for a packet of bloody crisps you may be at 30,000 feet, but you must be flying over la-la land.

The flight back was, somewhat to my surprise, at 02:40. This is not, as one might imagine, 2:40 in the afternoon, but 2:40 in the morning. After the initial wailing and sulking, I actually realised that it’s probably the best time to fly – you drive to the airport at midnight so there’s no traffic to get snarled up in, you fly overnight and you arrive at dawn – a bit pissed but essentially ready for a couple of hours kip and then to face the day!

Also – I like staying up so late it’s early, I can pretend to be Jack Bauer, or young.

Postcard from Spain - Children's holiday settings

It was a new experience, being on a prolonged holiday with children. They seem to have an endless 30 minute cycle of; play, get in fight, cry, tantrum, blaming one another, make up, play. I learned two things – there’s no reasoning with kids and their parents’ get very funny if you scream ‘shut the f**k up or I’ll beat you to death with your own spleen’ at a four year old.

Given that children show an amazing disregard for danger when climbing on rocks (I came a cropper when doing the same and would have had a nasty cut to the head if I had not been wearing my safety panama), they are astonishingly conservative when it comes to food. Faced with an astonishing selection of the foods of the world children, it appears, like nuggets. I’m not sure they care about the contents, possibly because they drench the nugget in enough ketchup to disguise the taste even if it was polonium.

Which made eating out in a Spanish resort quite an experience. One thing was for sure, I was in no danger of having my food poached. Judging from what turned up on my plate one evening, my phrase book Spanish let me down and instead of having a seafood selection I was confronted with what might be more accurately described as Horror from the Deep. The last time I saw that many tentacles on something was during a cheese and pickle binge induced nightmare. Predictably, it was delicious. The kids nearly went into convulsions So win win really.

Postcard from Spain - Bar none

When on holiday, your behaviour is somewhat determined by your nationality. If you’re a German, you lie on a sunbed from dawn to dusk turning a disturbing mahogany colour. You do this topless. Note – German men invariably have bigger boobs than German women.

If you’re a Brit, you head to the bar for respite from the sun, Germans and whoever you are on holiday with and drink for a bit, noticing that all the Spanish in the bar are nursing small but incredibly powerful coffees – this is because they are trying to stay awake during siesta time. The bars are deliciously dark and cool, surrounded as you are by wooden panelling on the walls and cooled by regular wafts of cold air from the fridge being opened and closed to get you a fresh, cold glass for your beer.

The thing about this area of Spain is that they acknowledge that it gets hot as the hobs of hell. This is why they have siesta (best time to invade Spain, 2-4 Monday to Friday). It’s also why their bars are wee hole in the wall affairs, long and narrow, the better for creating shady areas at the back, like a cave, with a beer pump and tapas.

In a major concession to location, I patronised a bar/restaurant on the beach. There’s a lot to be said for a shady nook (my favourite example of the art is in Seville), but also a lot to be said for sipping a beer a few feet from the Mediterranean gently washing back and forth. I mean, if you’re in danger of overheating, you can always paddle.

Postcard from Spain - Climb every mountain

A fence construicted to trap snow and so make a piest. Also useful as a handrail to haul yourself up the mountain. Cursing optional but recommended.

What happens on the mountain stays on the mountain.

Well, maybe not.

The Sierra Nevadas are serious, proper mountains, with snow on them and everything. Luckily, they also have service roads reaching hight into them to allow access to the ski-lifts and so on that litter the slopes. In may, most of the pieste snow is gone and the remaining stuff serves two purposes – to make cluimbing bloody difficult and to melt suddenly, decanting several tonnes of rubble and scree on top of the hapless climber.

We took the ascent of Mount Valeta very seriously…after we realised what we were letting ourselves in for. This moment occurred when we stepped out of the car after a drive from the coast, now one hour away and 2,000 metres below us, into thin, cold air. Off with the shorts, on with trousers, fleeces and North face gor-tex and so on.

We also stopped for breakfast of strong coffee and a ham sandwich (the ham sliced thin to the point of cruelty as is the local custom). I'm not sure, but I think the cafe owner was suggesting we purchase a couple of bottles of 'Cruzcampo light' for the drive or ascent. Knowing the effect of alcohol at altitude, this is no doubt the mountaineering/driving beer of choice to go with your breakfast.

What really made a difference was the hiking poles we took. Not only could we have pretend light-sabre fights, but after about an hour when we were making our breathless, wheezing way up the mountain, they stopped us falling over and tobogganing on our arses back to base camp.

At one point we were passed by a handful of pensioners in cagoules. I’m not sure if it’s technically possible to have a low point on a mountain, but that was one.

Apparently you can see the coast of Africa from Valeta, no doubt if the cloud ever lifted we would have been treated to spectacular views. As it was, we hiked above the cloud layer. After hours of climbing, being rewarded with more altitude sickness with every metre we gained, we reached the ‘second summit’. Here we planted the Union Flag, exchanged a hearty handshake and decided to make for sea level as quickly as possible.

The hardest bit of the hike? The last ten minutes, cloud, hail, snow and sleet in one go. No wonder serious climbers a) acclimatise b) use Sherpas and c) use the ski-lift when available.

Postcard from Spain - Tales from the Alhambra

The Alhambra, a huge complex of palaces, fortifications and gardens overlooking Granada, is truly magnificent. It’s a testament to Moorish design, Islamic art and huge UNESCO restoration grants. It’s also a fantastic example of a high-tech booking system. Just by booking on line we were able to jump a lengthy and, as we strolled past them, surprisingly spiteful queue to grab a couple of audio tours and head for the palace.

The downside of on line booking is that the most evil computer since HAL randomly allocated us a ticket entry time of 8:30am. Granada was just hotting up, but inside the palace it was cool on the verge of cold. This is the idea, that while the city bakes, the princes loll on pillows and eat figs in the cool while a little stream trickles through the courtyard.

After visiting this place, I upgraded my fantasy dwelling from country estate to palace and decided that I could easily live with being quite offensively wealthy.

The audio tour draws a lot on Washington Irving’s book, ‘tales from the Alhambra’. When he lived here the place was a ruin inhabited by gypsies. Now the only wanderers are international tours. The reading of the passages were good, romantic stuff, but I rather hoped for a guest appearance by a headless horseman.

The Alhambra is incredibly decorated, Islamic art favouring calligraphy and repeated patterns. Quite a contrast with British castles, which if you visit them today seem bare of any decoration. That’s because Brits favoured tapestries as decoration. These were useful because they could be pulled over doorways and windows to keep out the perpetually howling wind, or huddled under like a posh blankie…or just burned if push came to shove.

The decoration of the Alhambra also served to sooth the inhabitants and make them forget their troubles. The Brits had alcohol for this. How ironic that these two great cultures could not set up better reciprocal trade. How often a Moorish prince mush have wondered ‘what the f**k am I going to do with all these lemons?’ while miles distant, a British Duke sat in his drafty castle, nursing a gin and tonic and musing that a slice of something, but he didn’t know what, would improve it immeasurably.

Postcard from Spain - Help me rondas!

Staying in Alumencar, in Southern Spain near Malaga. This is near the Costa del Sol, close enough to smell the sky telly, fish and chips and sizzling Brits but, hidden away, a world away. The reason is that it’s not straw donkey territory, it’s a Spanish resort for the Spanish. The plus side is…no Brits. The down side is that when it comes to food, expect the unexpected, i.e. foreign.

Off to dinner in a group containing several adults and three children. Middle class British children can, depending on your point of view, be described as fussy eaters or spoiled brats. Either way, the kids’ parents were profoundly glad to find a Lidl (home of reasonably priced but funny-looking food, including chicken nuggets and ketchup) on day one of the holiday.

Eating out is quite a different proposition.

Descending on a local restaurant, the kids’ mum tries to convey that she is seeking pizza. She says pizza, the waitress does not appear to know what she means, she makes a round motion on the table – the international mime for a circular Italian food object. The waitress smiles ‘rondas?’ Yes, smiles all round. She brings the rondas menu, smiles all round, the fillings look familiar and pizza-ish.

No. What the kids get is a rondas. Essentially this is a circular bread, like a big bagel, stuffed with garlic, meats and other foreign filth. I thought they looked great, but the kids were not impressed. However, by this time the adults had discovered the house white (I had left my phrase book at home but even I can say ‘rioja’ with convincing gusto to get a bottled delivered).

Two things occur. The first is that the kids’ mum needs either a phrase book or mime lessons – what the waitress was actually saying was probably ‘is it a film? How many letters?’ The second is that every country has its own form of circular food. Italy = pizza, Spain = rondas, England = Cumberland sausage. On the whole, I think we were pretty lucky to get what we did.

Postcard from Spain - Build me up!

The Spanish love concrete almost as much as they like to stuff anchovies into olives to make tapas, or like to serve up cattle in wafer thin slices after killing them in traditional fashion…in a sawdust covered ring wearing very tight trousers (the matador, not the cattle).

In the southern Spanish province of Andalucia, building materials are at a premium – wood is required to, well, grow from the ground, come accessorised with fruit and is used to feed your family. The Spanish had already mastered building in adobe with red clay tiles (actually both local phrases for ‘posh mud’) but when concerete arrived on the scene, they must have thought ‘jackpot!’.

The olnly thing they like more than concrete is tarmac, this explains their love of roads…that and the fact that the little EU sticker in the corner of the banners announcing a new glorious six lane motorway through this region means that Northern Europe is paying for it.

The motorways are glorious though…and they are not even open yet. The Spanish have just finished building loads of two lane motorways…to use while they build the three lane ones! In a spectacular show of job creation (the party ruling in Spain at the moment has its roots in the region, hence all the investment) they appear to be building roads just for the hell of it – roads that divert miles out of their way to span spectacular gorges or bore through tunnels. The practice of naming every bridge and tunnel after somebody means that there will soon be more names highway structures than there are people to name them after.

Driving on them is fantastic. The roads are brand new – the black-top is smooth and unmarked as cake icing. And it’s not environmentally damaging…because there are very few cars. This is a poorish part of Spain and while everyone that drives a car does tool round in a new little three door hatchback or something, there just aren’t that many cars. This means that driving up and down the M-way is like driving in England in 1958, except all the lorries are transporting tapas rather than flanges, grommits or other wonders of British manufacturing.

Spin Rage?

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/news/2008/06/spin_rage_stockbroker_becomes.html

There is only one way to exercise – in privacy. For those who go to gyms, they should at least have the good manners to exercise in silence, a silence that is the centre of a howling tunnel of pain and exhaustion. If you’re grunting, groaning or singing along with ‘the bridie’ song or whatever piece of motivational music you have on your ipod, then you are not exercising hard enough.

God knows it’s hard enough to exercise, without the added irritant of people sweating on you or polluting the air with their grunts, groans and cries for help and pity as they clutch their chests and fall off the treadmill. The last thing we need is somebody being enthusiastic. I bet he wore offensively short shorts too.

Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone exercising in anything less than a foul mood – if somebody is whittering and to be working out with free weights, then surely it’s a natural response to beat the offender to a pulp with a lump of iron.

The only acceptable noise to make at the gym is an involuntary trouser trombone.