Fashionistas At The Fairs

Someone really should have a word. Time was in Mallorca when the citizens of a village would keep local tailors and dressmakers in gainful employment by taking themselves off once a year to acquire a new suit or gown for the annual fair or fiesta. Sadly for those traditional shops, the demand fell away, although some staggered on until remarkably recently. In Sa Pobla, where things don't get much more Mallorcan, the last tailor's shop in town closed down only two years ago.

The ritual of the yearly new suit - one which, in truth, was only affordable by comparatively few - has long since fallen victim to the onset of the casual and to the arrival of such traditionally Mallorcan retailers as Primark. Nevertheless, one can still witness some adherents to the old ways: those who do actually dress up for fairs and what have you.

Certain politicians in Mallorca, ones wedded to traditional ways, of which there appear to be an ever-increasing number, could easily revive the village tailoring cottage industry by supplying demand for such a revival. Alas, this seems most unlikely, even if it is somewhat contradictory. Més, representatives of all things Mallorcan in a nationalist sort of fashion, are revealing themselves to have (with one exception, see below) absolutely no fashion sense whatsoever and to be unwilling to beat a path to a tailor's or any other shop that isn't a charity one.

Dijous Bo, when Mallorca puts on its finery and celebrates its fair antiquity, is an occasion to be seen. And that goes for politicians. They are seen, and what a sight some of them are, which is why someone should have a word. Take our Vince, for example. He may be agriculture minister, but this is no reason for him pitching up, looking as if he's just dug up some potatoes and stuffed them down the legs of his jeans. And what in Heaven's name did he have on his feet? Whatever they were, they had long since had any acquaintance with polish. (To be fair, they were probably trainers; an old pair at that.)

Then we had David Abril. He has in the past been spotted wearing what looks like a woollen, brown tie affair, which has thus far been his greatest concession to normal political fashion but which is also in keeping with his usual appearance - as it was at Dijous Bo - one reminiscent of a member of an English folk group circa 1965. At least he doesn't stick a finger in one ear. Or maybe he does.

But did we perhaps witness a demonstration of fashion (or non-fashion) infighting within Més? Vince and Dave are remaining firmly in sympathy with crisis-struck citizens, while elsewhere Biel is gadding around in quasi-Armani style. It's bound to have to come to all the best eco-nationalist politicians eventually, especially those who are sent abroad on official duties, but Biel is clearly displaying revisionist fashionista tendencies. Smart suit, tie, shoes well-scrubbed; they had all been on show at a very different fair - London's World Travel Market - where the suits and the gowns of the dreaded hoteliers do all come with an Armani label.

The political casual look doesn't have to be one that has been dragged in by the cat. J.R. (Bauzá) used to make a decent fist of the casual style on his periodic dress down Fridays (or normally Sundays, when he'd attend a PP function at a time when the rest of the PP were still speaking to him). Well-tailored jeans were very much de rigueur. So much so that it seemed as if an order had been issued to make sure all other PP types (male) invested in customised Levi's. Now, however, we get Vince, whose jeans are in a constant state of about to fall down. Tailored is the last word you would use. What a pity for all the old traditional tailor's shops.

This Is Not Galicia: Politicians' holidays

Mariano Rajoy has suddenly come out as a man of the people: cycling people and people of Galicia at any rate. Despite being on holiday, the prime minister found time to send a telegram to Alejandro Valverde to congratulate the Spanish cyclist on having come third in the Tour de France. Which was very nice of him, but ... . But isn't there something wrong with this? He sent a what? A telegram? Such a thing surely no longer exists. Does it? Perhaps parts of Galicia have been preserved in a manner that a fellow Galician - Franco - would have approved. None of this internet carry-on. Keep the communications infrastructure as it was. In the dark ages.

It is doubly strange because Mariano has recently taken to having selfies done. One fancies that it is not he holding the selfie-stick, but there he has been, grinning inanely for the mobile, surrounded by the likes of the Nuevas Generaciones: Young Conservatives in other words. The Mariano grin, rarely produced in public, does have an unfortunately and inherently inane quality to it. He can't help it, as it is a grin of which he is not entirely certain. Mariano is not comfortable within his own facial muscles.

So, though he has embraced the technology of the modern age, he sticks stubbornly to an ancient one - the telegram. Maybe it's prime ministerial protocol. Or maybe Alejandro had blocked him on Facebook.

But to come back to the holiday, yes, even the prime minister of Spain can find time for a holiday, and in this new age of making Mariano appear vaguely human, there he was, doing what many a human does. He was taking a dip. Not that this was a dip in the sea at a resort (do they have such things in Galicia?), it was in a river: the Umia in a place called Meis. Yes, that's Meis and not Més. Mariano had gone for a refreshing cool down with friends. Locals, it is said, were surprised to find they were sharing their river with the premier. The rest of the country was just surprised. Mariano doesn't do things like that. Or hadn't until the PR people suggested it might work in his electoral favour.

The Spanish political class is, for the most part, a bunch of stiffs, an affliction recognised by the Spanish themselves. When Dave came to Mallorca with the kids and was building sandcastles on the beach in Puerto Pollensa, the Spanish media looked on with amazement. A Spanish political leader wouldn't do such a thing. There is of course a danger with allowing a politician to vacate his comfort zone - or discomfort zone in Mariano's case - and to be seen enjoying a vacation in such a frivolous manner, i.e. a gentle breaststroke in a river. Caption writers can have field days if you are not careful. Hence, Mariano "swimming against the tide" of unpopularity (and I've checked, the Umia is tidal).

Nevertheless, this is the new age: of communications technology and for appearing to be in touch. Therefore, we have also recently had the president of the Balearics, Francina Armengol, laughing and prancing with the demon of the Algaida cossier folk dancers. Careful. careful. "Francina runs with the devil", and the face of Podemos's Alberto Jarabo will be Photoshopped onto the demon's mask by a miscreant media type.

Francina hadn't, according to a recent interview, decided where she would be going on holiday. If she does have a holiday, then it will be somewhere in Mallorca, she said. What are the chances, do you suppose, of this somewhere being the likes of Magalluf? Nil, one would think. There are respectable resorts for the political class, such as Puerto Pollensa with its Cameron seal of approval, but even its comparative tranquility would pose a problem. Let's be honest, there are simply too many damn tourists knocking around, littering the beaches and occupying the terraces. No, if it's Mallorca, then it will be a discreet pueblo in the interior where riotousness will be confined to the noise of a piper and the jumping of the little hops of the ball de bot.

And there Francina might bump into her political chums. The resorts are not for Biel, the tourism minister, or for Alberto either. The touristic new age requires promotion of all things heritage and environmental, but is there not something contradictory with the attitudes of the new left in Mallorca? It would seemingly happily see working men and women banished from the island in favour of the quality class (whatever that is). But wherever in the alternative touristic Mallorca of gastronomy routes and ethnology the island's now-of-the-people political leaders choose for their vacationing, one thing will be missing. Mallorca has no rivers. Of course not. This is not Galicia. This is sun and beach. Sea. The people's politicians would do well to remember this.

The Power Of Nicknames

A recent Facebook observation implied that the new coach of the England cricket team, Peter Moores, would impose a less frivolous atmosphere in the England dressing-room. Out would go nicknames and in would come respectful monikering. Mr. Moores, for example.

Latching onto this cricketing nicknaming theme, it occurs to me that nicknames can say a great deal about a team's style and intent. In the recent Ashes series, England were soundly thrashed by a side who can count among their playing and coaching ranks a Buck, a Rhino and a Boof. Darren Lehmann's boof alter ego apparently comes from having a big head (it's Aussie slang), but it also has an onomatopoeic quality. Boof, biff. And never was a nickname more apt than Ryan Harris's Rhino, a thick-hided Mammalian bowling machine whose lumbering demeanour belies an ability to hurl himself and the ball at enormous velocity. Even mild-mannered Chris Rogers, bespectacled off the field, passes through an imaginary phone booth on the walk to the wicket and becomes a Buck superhero. 

England never stood a chance. Their nicknames said it all. Swanny, who swanned off home. Belly, who perhaps prefers the cuteness of the y suffix to an alternative that has found its way onto cricket forums: the combining of his names Ian and Ronald to form Iron. This might sound sturdy, but it does also have a very different and wholly unwarranted rhyming-slang meaning. And then there is Captain Cook, limply labelled Chef. In another life, his home one, he also has the y treatment. Cooky. I know this because a some-time resident of Mallorca is a vendor at the market at his wife's family farm. She is on good Cooky-naming terms with the England captain; not, alas, that she has the faintest idea about cricket. 

So, rather than dispensing with informality, Mooresy should insist that the players acquire more macho nicknames. Perhaps they could consult the list of Gladiators' names - Cobra, Trojan, Warrior - or perhaps they could just start playing half-decent cricket. Nicknames do have a certain power after all. Some have been more like honorary titles that have bestowed greatness onto their holders. There was no greater than The Great Communicator, there was no more steadfast than The Iron Lady (her ironing not having been of a disparaging Belly style of course).

In addition to greatness, the nickname can help to soften the image, to make the almost non-human appear to be human. Which brings me to Spanish and Mallorcan politicians. José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero never lacked in appearing to be human. While his Bambi nickname may have made him even more human (in an anthropomorphic way), it didn't do a great deal for a tough-guy image, one that he most certainly lacked.

In Mallorca there aren't really nicknames for the local politicos. Maria Antonia Munar, currently residing at his majesty's pleasure, did have one - the "princess" - but she was unusual in that she elevated herself to a position of self-appointed Mallorcan royalty. It wasn't necessarily complimentary, but nicknames for politicians rarely are.

Where the president of the Balearics is concerned, he remains stubbornly non-nicknamed, despite my best efforts to re-name him. For the record, these have included: Bowser, after the greedy, fire-breathing Super Mario character; J.R., which shouldn't require a great deal of explanation for those of you familiar with a scheming and manipulative oil baron (a nickname which can now be discounted because of presidential opposition to oil prospecting off the Balearics); Count Dracula, on account of a certain physical resemblance, as opposed to any possible blood-sucking instincts. The nearest that President Bauzá has come to a nickname has been the one assigned to him by union leader Lorenzo Bravo. But "fascist" can't really be termed a nickname. It is pretty squarely an insult (and a stupid one at that). More possible is "the pharmacist", a frequent enough reference to his one-time day job and, more controversially, to the allegations of his having retained links to his pharmacy business that were incompatible with his presidential position.

Back in national politics, we have Zapatero's successor, Mariano Rajoy. When he was debating with Solzhenitsyn, Uncle Alfie Rubalcaba of PSOE, prior to the last election, I described this as the battle of the beards. In one sense, this was rather unfortunate. Beard is another slang word. It is one reserved for a woman who makes a gay man appear to be straight. The English Wikipedia page for Rajoy once had to remove his a.k.a., i.e. La Trotona de Pontevedra. Basically, this was a furtherance of the rumour that he was gay and had married on the advice of one-time Francoist minister, Manuel Fraga.

There are nicknames and there are nicknames. They should, one hopes, have a certain affection or satire, but they shouldn't overstep the mark. As with the stupidity of Bravo's name-calling of Bauzá, so it was with Rajoy. There's insensitivity, too, based on unkindness and usually untruths. Iron.

Tourists Are Just Raw Material

Joserra and the faithful architect Martínez went walkabout in Calas Millor and Ratjada last week. President Bauzá, having recently attempted (and largely failed) to charm a discontented Partido Popular part forana in Campos, has now attempted to show that he is a man of the people - the tourism people. Whoever they might be.

This is not an idle question. President and tourism minister deigned to leave their southern cloisters and venture into the neverlands of the east coast of the island (neverlands because they never normally go there) and to see tourism in the raw - as raw as it can be in the pre-season and, in the case of Cala Ratjada, without the lebensrauming youth movement of summer in full lager mode. Of course, they saw no such rawness. They met hoteliers, they met mayors, they admired the new sports centre in Cala Millor, they contemplated the mural in Cala Ratjada's port, they uttered the typical bland statements about tackling seasonality and increasing the quality of tourism, and they strolled along the prom-prom-proms, tiddly-on-pom-pom.

They would have seen something of this thing called tourism, but they would have heard only from hoteliers and local politicians. They wouldn't have heard from those tourism people - tourists themselves. One doesn't necessarily expect Bauzá to be slumming it some bar with a bunch of drunks, listening to moans about the rising price of cigarettes, but is it too much to expect that he, and indeed other politicians, might actually attempt to engage with tourists once in a while?

Tourism is a curious industry. Its raw material is not hotel buildings, not airports, not bars or restaurants. It is people. Without people, there is no tourism. But consider how this human resource, with its attendant feelings, needs and wishes, is treated. It is as if it were mere raw material. Its movement from airport to hotel to room, its supply of food and drink, its processing at airport or reception can be depersonalised as a production line and characterised as a diagram of ASME symbols to denote specific steps along the line.

Much as it might try and convince otherwise, the tourism industry abhors infinite variety and customisation and applies the marketing spin of satisfying customer demand while simultaneously packaging it in ways which are determined by its supply-side process management. Packaging. Never has a term been more apt. The holiday package. The tourism of pre-determination that eliminates as much non-standardisation as possible with the objective of minimising cost and maximising profit. Tourism may not adhere to Henry Ford's customer focus of any car you want so long as it is black, but the principle of the standardised production line isn't so far removed from the general ethos of the tourism industry.

Mass tourism was a Fordist system of human processing. It still is, though to be fair, the industry has gone some way in correcting the standardised model. But it can't rid itself of the model entirely. Of course it can't. There are very good managerial reasons why not. But tourism in its human form and in a Mallorcan style is remote. It is divorced from those who legislate and from those who create the palaces by the sea.

The essential nature of Mallorca's tourism should mean a far closer relationship. But there are so many layers between the raw material - the people who matter - and the decision-makers. Where politicians are concerned, those at government level hear from island councils, who hear from mayors, who hear from their own councillors, who hear from ...? Well, I don't know who exactly. And into all of this are added the voices of the tourism powerful - not tourists themselves - but the manufacturers, namely the airlines, the tour operators and, most significantly in a Mallorcan context, the hoteliers.

A consequence of this process management of tourism is that it gives birth to political processors as opposed to those who, it might be said, operate more by instinct or by understanding or by being told what to think by the tourism powerful. Martínez, the faithful architect, is a tourism technocrat. Go and look at his CV on the regional government's website. His is a background in urban planning. As I mention above, buildings are not tourism raw material; people are.

But buildings are more important and they are easier to deal with, too. They don't talk, they don't have needs or wishes. It is utterly depressing that Martínez can, as he has, trot out the technocratic apologetics for dismissing out of hand proposals regarding holiday lets. You would expect him to, though, as he is representative not just of a government which refuses to consider less standardisation of the tourism model but also of an industry which disregards what the raw material of the tourism people have to say, or might say if they were ever spoken to.

King For A New Day?: Spain going forward

The Spanish Government has unveiled its latest plan to reduce the country's budget deficit and to bring it within the European Union's 3% requirement by 2016. The plan will mean yet more cost-saving and revenue-raising measures and hefty ones, too. Four billion euros will need to be found in 2015 on top of the four billion for next year. Taken together, these measures don't sound like confidence will be returning to the economy any time soon.

Yet, there are signs of possible improvement even if they are only brought about by temporary economic activity and by some talking-up. Tourism is bound to create some better performance, but if it didn't, then something would be seriously wrong; Spain's summer tourism, if not its winter tourism, is benefiting from uncertainties and unrest in key competitor destinations. This better performance has been highlighted in the Balearics, though the talking-up has been based on statistical evidence which doesn't, in itself, equate to actual economic growth. A nine per cent increase in tourism spend in the Balearics over the first nine months of this year is not an especially reliable indicator, though it is up by five percentage points over the same period in 2012.

Let's say, therefore, that there are some encouraging signs, but tourism would need to keep its performance going and indeed improving. Tourism's contribution is essential while other sectors remain moribund, one of them being retail, and it is small wonder that this sector, and so increased consumer spend, continues to languish. Increased rates of value added tax (IVA) and of income tax have done nothing to encourage consumer confidence or to lend a hand to growth.

The chances of tax rates going down - the government had said that increases would only be temporary - are remote for the foreseeable future. They are likely to remain at least into 2015. Righting the deficit is, therefore, a greater priority than effecting genuine growth, despite what the government might say about growth prospects.

Most Spaniards give politicians' pronouncements or prognostications on growth in the short-term little credence. In the Balearics, there is little credence given to President Bauzá's ham-fisted use of tourism spend information as evidence of improvement. The most recent Gadeso survey of consumer sentiment showed that there is negligible confidence in the real economy.

It is, however, the utterances of non-politicians which might help with the talking-up. If politicians are not believed, then maybe bankers will be. What am I saying? They were the ones who helped to bring about Spain's economic problems. Can, therefore, the words of the chief executive of Santander, Emilio Botín, be trusted? He has said that money is "coming in from all directions" - to the stock exchange and in the form of direct inward investment into Spain. Perhaps he can be trusted, but he will surely know that there are certain aspects of economic life in Spain which are not especially welcoming to inward investors, those who want to operate in Spain anyway. These include, as an example, the harmfully high levels of social-security payments. This, social security, is something that requires serious attention. It cripples many of the self-employed as well.

If not the politicians or the bankers, then what about the royal family? King Juan Carlos, recently in hospital again, is a declining figure. But while he declines, his son, Felipe, grows. At a business conference in Panama the other day, he echoed what the boss of Santander said about increasing investor confidence. He probably would say this, but nevertheless Felipe is cutting an altogether more impressive figure these days.

For so long in his father's shadow, Felipe's stock has risen. He has been unaffected by the corruption scandal involving his brother-in-law, Iñaki Urdangarin, which has harmed his father and both his sisters (Elena far less than Cristina but still so because of links to the same financial advisor). Despite persistent rumours as to possible problems with his marriage, Felipe does seem to be benefiting from better PR. He was the one representative at Madrid's somewhat shambolic Olympic bid presentation to come out with any credit. He spoke well. He showed the right blend of gravitas and communicativeness. He was impressive.

If Spain does come out of the doldrums, it needs to look forward and to show a new face. Too much of what is being shown by politicians is looking backward, an example being with the renewed emphasis on religion in education. If there is to be a new dawn in the hopefully not too distant future, then a young(ish) figurehead should be there to herald it, one who is increasingly confident both nationally and internationally and who would be representative of what might become a new but more sensible Spain.

Lost In Google Translation

Google Translate is a wonderful tool. Wonderful, that is, for the howlers it produces. My advice: steer clear of Google Translate, unless you want to be held up to ridicule, or if you don't steer clear, do not, under any circumstances, take it as the final (strangely translated) word.

Google Translate is a machine. It is the Captain Larry Dart of cyberspace. An unseen on-chest translator of the type that "Space Patrol" deployed in order to turn Martian into perfectly comprehensible English with a mechanical-sounding, mid-Atlantic drawl. Larry Dart's translator had one advantage over Google Translate. It was generally correct, unless a technical hitch required the intervention of Galasphere 347's on-board boffin, Professor Heggarty.

One of Google Translate's biggest problems is that it cannot always make sense of verb conjugation. From Spanish to English, therefore, this means that the third person singular, as an example, comes out as he, she or even you, when none of these may actually apply (because it should be "it") or when he should be she, or vice versa.

This amusing little grammatical foible is nothing, however, when compared with what Google Translate does with some names. There is no doubting that as a tool, Google Translate has made more accessible information that is available only in Spanish, or indeed Catalan, to an English-speaking audience with only a rudimentary understanding of either language, if that. So it serves a useful purpose up to a point, but when whole tracts of articles or news items are then posted to the internet, some of the glaring errors scream out at you. As with some recent ones with a Pollensa angle.

Pollensa's mayor is Tomeu Cifre, but he isn't according to Google Translate. He is Tomeu Encrypt. In a way, it is appropriate. Mayors of most towns deal with speaking in code, a lack of transparency and obfuscation. In Santa Margalida, its mayor is Miguel Encrypt. The joke of the name of the local DJs, Two Many Cifres (nicked from 2 Many DJs and an observation on the fact that there are an awful lot of Cifres), would be an even better joke were they to name themselves Two Many Encrypts.

Other politicians suffer similar fates. Take tourism minister Carlos Delgado. Put Delgado into Google Translate - and on no account try this with Catalan to English, as he wouldn't like that at all (and besides which it wouldn't work) - and out pops Carlos Slim. In continuing the "Space Patrol" association, Slim was an elf-like creature from Venus on Galasphere 347. So maybe Delgado is in fact a Venusian. It would explain a lot. Delgado could also, so Google Translate informs us, be thin, flimsy or spidery. I leave it to you to apply your own preference.

The man in charge of the mega-ministry of agriculture, environment, land and transport, Gabriel Company, does not emerge in fully businesslike fashion from a Catalan to English Google translation. He is merely a companion or a colleague, but having recently renounced his independent status within the regional government's cabinet and become a card-carrying member of the Partido Popular, he is now a genuine PP companion and colleague, a transport minister who has become a fellow traveller.

Going back to Mayor Encrypt, the Pollensa one, his predecessor was Joan Cerdà. Joan offers an awful lot of scope when it comes to his English meaning, not all of it terribly complimentary. From Spanish, minus the accent, he is either hairy or porcine (and feminine porcine, to boot). Bristle or sow. Much as many like to poke fun, he is no pig in a poke. Cerdà, in Catalan terms, comes from someone who was a native of La Cerdanya in the Pyrenees.

It isn't only politicians of course who suffer fates of humiliation or nominal corruption by Google Translate. Who is the most famous Mallorcan of all? One of the world's greatest sportspeople. Rafael Nadal. Not quite. He is Rafael Christmas (though you do have to enter Nadal by itself to turn him into a yule-tide festival; Google Translate can sometimes cope with proper names and therefore not translate them).

Yes, Google Translate is a wonderful tool. One that offers hours of endless amusement. But Larry Dart's translator was still superior. What, though, would have happened had Galasphere 347 landed at a wintertime fiesta in Pollensa, overseen by Mayor Encrypt, and had Husky, its sausage-loving Martian crew member, consulted the Martian via Catalan to English translator? Botifarró? The mind boggles. Remarkably enough, though, Google Translate does it. Sausage. Just don't mention this to Pollensa's former mayor. 


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Keep Feeling Fascination: Mallorca people

Barbara Walters, the antique American TV presenter and journalist, produces an annual list of her ten most fascinating people, these being ten fascinating people, as chosen by Barbara Walters, who aren't Barbara Walters.

Choosing fascinating people? How fascinating. It's fascinating to know how fascinating is defined. Very interesting? Intriguing? Walters has chosen as those who are über-fascinating, and among others, General David Petraeus (last year), J.K.Rowling, Lance Armstrong and Bill Clinton.

Fascinating does, pretty much by definition I guess, mean famous. In WaltersWorld, it would do, but in other worlds, it might not have to. Who, for instance, have been the ten most facinating people in Mallorca during 2011? Now, there's a question. There would doubtless be many who would consider themselves to be endlessly fascinating, many of them Brits who are anything but.

Having posed myself the task of attempting to do a Walters and come up with a shortlist of Mallorcan fascination, I very quickly ran up against an obstacle; I couldn't think of anyone. Perhaps Mallorca doesn't do fascinating, or I just lead a very sheltered existence, unexposed to all the fascination that adorns the island's nightclubs, yachts and golf courses.

One fancies that it is the glitterati in which many would invest fascination. It all depends, however, on your definition or indeed knowledge of the glitterati, and for sure Mallorca has it in abundance, most of it shallow, self-serving and self-publicising; a celebrity under-class of the non-celebrity.

The Walters top tens have been littered with those from the world of politics. Taking this as a hint, does Mallorca have any politicians who might merit the fascinating tag? Bauzá? Hardly. There is little to fascinate other than his having been perfectly formed out of a PP mould of cloned austerity; he is the Borg of the Balearics, and this isn't a reference to Björn.

What about Carlos Delgado? Perhaps, but only because it's fascinating to understand why so many people dislike him. More left field and more left wing would be Miquel Ensenyat, mayor of Esporles and failed candidate for the national parliament of the PSM Mallorcan socialists. Why him? Because he is an openly gay politician, which in Mallorca, but I might be wrong, doesn't seem like a great career move. Having said that, nor is membership of the PSM.

Away from politics, the year has thrown up the Duke of Palma. Is he fascinating? He most certainly wasn't, as no one had ever heard of him other than those who hold an unhealthy fascination for all things royal. The limelight, though, has not made him fascinating. What is fascinating is the case mounting against him and all the money that seems to have been finding its way to him over the past few years. Fascinating, as once again it asks a question as to what type of society allows people, be they politicians or married into royalty, to feel that they can - allegedly - trample over societal mores in the pursuit of lucre with which to line their pockets. But then the added fascination is - what social mores?

The world of business has some candidates, not least those at the top of the hotel food chains. Miquel Fluxá and the Escarrers, father and son, of Meliá, for instance. The Escarrers, through their plans for Magalluf, have highlighted, if highlighting was indeed necessary, the dominance of the hotel industry in Mallorca. Fluxá is, though, more fascinating, if only because he looks like a Red Indian chief.

Air Berlin's Alvaro Middelmann, a rare voice of unremitting common sense in the tourism industry, might do. But he, as with the politicians and the other businesspeople, is not someone who can be said to touch the life of the common man in the café. The common man in the café reading his newspaper is more inclined to a fascination with Rafa Nadal or to be fascinated by the fascinating and at times bizarre goings-on at Real Mallorca. Or more inclined to be fascinated by someone who is, to no small extent, a newspaper phenomenon. Or was. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the nominee for fascination. Riki Lash.

What has happened to him? His column, compiled with the use of a language he invented - Lashlish - has descended into Reuterised news-feed comprehensibility. For no other reason than the unlashing of Lashlish lexicography and the complete absence of an explanation as to why, the fascination award has to go to the enigma that is Riki.

We hope he's all right, as we want our Lash back.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

All I Want Is A Photograph Of You

Robert Cornelius has a niche in history. An early pioneer of photographic technology, a self-portrait of Cornelius was one of the first, if not the first, photo taken of a person. The year was 1839; the place, Philadelphia.

Cornelius, and other early-movers in the art and science of photography, would have had no idea what they were unleashing. Almost two centuries on, and the human race and its environment has become a continuum of incessant snapping. We are photography. Homo Kodakiens.

The camera is arguably the greatest invention ever. The technology has formed the basis for record and for revision, no more so than nowadays; digital photography makes images two-a-penny and photographic software can alter images in a way that Stalin's airbrushers could never have imagined.

In Mallorca, where would we be without the camera? It has benefited from the same brilliant light in capturing land- and seascapes as that which inspired the post-impressionist school of art in Pollensa in the early twentieth century. It has been the medium for thousands, millions of the photographic cliché: the view to and from the Calvari oratory in Pollensa town; the pine tree hanging off-centre of frame as the lens scans the sweep of Puerto Pollensa's pine walk; the shadow thrown onto the horse promontory of Cala San Vicente's "Cavall Bernat". The cliché of image is as repetitious as the superlatives of adjectives that describe the scenes with the unthinking rote-speak of brochures and websites.

As focused on and clicked as the scenery are the reproduced descendants of Robert Cornelius. People. Mallorcan society, in its widest sense, appears at times to exist for one purpose - to have its picture taken. Little of this is what you might call photo-journalism; it is imagery for the sake of imagery. Its repetitiousness, its pose-style is as loaded with déjà vu as the tourist snap of the pine walk or other so-called "iconic" landscapes.

One such is the photo of long tables, disappearing into the distance, at which are seated any number of uninteresting people with dreary expressions who have gathered together to eat something. There is a recent good example of the art; a Partido Popular lunch in Campos, with, in the foreground, María Salom and José Bauzá. It is the same shot as is regurgitated from the memory cards of suppers at annual fiestas. Who on earth cares?

Politicians are, naturally, the worst when it comes to muscling into frame. The default politician photo comprises several of them, standing shoulder to shoulder, inaugurating something, standing on a platform, making some declaration or other. Just one problem with these photos is that many of the subjects, the blokes especially, are so badly dressed. Jeans really aren't politician attire, but they are in Mallorca. And the wearers look as though they've just walked in from the fields or the building site, which is probably because they have.

No more idiotic in the formulaic, side-by-side, on-stage photo is one from Artà the other day. It looks as though the whole town is in it, celebrating the almost completely unnewsworthy fact that the town has finally got round to having a tourism website. I exaggerate the numbers. They are not the whole of Artà, but they are that great that they equate to a World Cup football squad. It is so supremely old-fashioned and silly, you half expect them to launch into a chorus of "Back Home". This is photography by parish newsletter, which just about sums up the level of local politics and the sophistication that it attracts and displays.

But worse, far worse, are the photos of alleged VIPs and celebrities. They form a constant collage of the dicky-bow, the low-slung, the suntan, the champagne flute and the expensive trip to the hairdressers. These are the snaps of the faux-"Hello", misguided notion that anyone is actually interested. They are interested, if the subjects happen to be famous, but not when they are the famous unfamous or the simply unfamous. Most you have neither heard of nor care about, and if you have heard of them, you would probably prefer not to have. It is these images, though, which speak more, far more about Mallorca than the landscape clichés. Well, about a Mallorca, at any rate.

In 1839, Robert Cornelius conducted an experiment. One would doubt that he had in mind his own vanity. But what he unleashed, other than merely matters of record, was the vanity of others. One does have to distinguish between the photographing of Mallorcan society and of society Mallorca. The latter is the domain of the vain and the vaininglorious. The act of the photographer is not to inform an audience but to bow to the bows and frills of the subject. But most of this act is irrelevant, superficial and shallow; as shallow as the subjects through the lens and with even less depth of focus.

All I want is a photograph of you, something to remind me. Actually, I don't.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.