The Freedom Of Choice

Why is there so much hate for expatriates? Let's start with the word. I hate it as well, even if I am one. It betokens hostility because of the creep over years of an implicit sense of difference that can seem to border on the superior. Expatriates thus form a class apart, one that is subject to being despised: not by the local indigenous community but by those from afar in the motherland. Their status, courtesy of the title expatriates, carries with it a haughtiness. To hell with expatriates. They've chosen to abandon the motherland. Whatever comes their way is their doing.

Alternative titles - foreign resident, foreign citizen - arouse no such opprobrium. A further one - immigrant - does, but this can stem from a transposition of the situation within the motherland. Once upon a time, the motherland was a place of tolerance, a refuge for the persecuted, a welcoming pair of arms for those from different countries and from different creeds. There is some delusion in this, but notwithstanding historical differences between Protestants and Catholics and the beginnings of a culture clash when Jamaicans started arriving in the motherland, tolerance has held true. Or did.

Brexit has exposed, were there really any need, given its prior existence, the intolerance of immigration and also of emigration, the beleaguered expatriate. In the case of the latter, a form of outward or externalised xenophobia has taken a grip. Aside from the pejorative implication of "expatriate" (one I fully understand), what truly drives this antagonism? Is it simply the vision of the idle lounging-away of long days under a Mediterranean sun and the endless supply of gin and tonics?

Envy may play a part. But so also may the introspection of those who are fully embedded in the motherland, from whose shores they will never depart, save for two weeks of idle lounging-away of long days under a Mediterranean sun. The foreign resident comes in a multitude of forms, hence the catch-all castigation of an expatriate community can be and is an affront. Does it not occur to those back in the motherland, dispensing bilious intolerance, that some people opted to move because their horizons are broader than those limited by and shrouded in the mists of English Channel insularity? Curiosity and discovery were once admirable traits of the British. They created immense wealth. Nowadays they are consigned to the wastelands of old and less old England - the gentility and nobility of the village green willow on leather juxtaposed with the gorilla (and the word is being used correctly) warfare of a category of football supporter (so-called).

The motherland has long been an advocate of freedoms. Trade has been one; choice another. Mobility was made easier by the European Union, but mobility had existed before agreements by the member states. This mobility was a function of curiosity, adventure, the seeking of a better or alternative life, marriage, employment and, yes, the determination of some to spend existences developing skin cancer. (One might also add, it shouldn't be overlooked, the need to escape justice.)

The advocacy of freedom of choice, which doubtless even the most severe critics of expatriates would themselves advocate and defend, was enshrined in law: free movement of people, goods and services. There are those in the motherland who are selective in their advocacy, the products (some at any rate) of the collective narcissism that has taken hold: and not just in Great Britain. This is the exaggerated belief in their superiority but which at the same time has a deep-down doubt surrounding the collective prestige. It is the doubt within this collective disorder which makes some hit out.

The image of the expatriate is not and cannot be standardised. From a personal point of view, how often did I get to the beach last year? On fewer occasions than a fortnight's holidaymaker, that's for certain, and this despite the beach being within easy walking distance. Not once did I sit by a pool. Not once did I have a gin and tonic nor any other alcoholic drink save for a glass of Rioja on which Kelvin MacKenzie has proposed an import tax. Rare are the viewings of British television, but the BBC is an institution I hold dear, if primarily its radio: an institution lambasted by the same critics of the expatriate, at least in part because the ineffable "Daily Mail" tells them to.

What others do, however others choose to live their lives under the sun is entirely their affair. It is not my business and nor should it be anyone else's, wherever they themselves live. They choose because choice exists. The freedom to do so should be fundamental. It is fundamental. But it is a freedom detested and further excoriated on the principle of not being patriotic, however one might choose to define that.

Freedom of choice. A value to be defended, not despised.

Expatophobia And Schadenfreude

It was a nice day on Tuesday. A very nice day. A public holiday. The sky was clear and the sun was shining. Some were working. I was. More on that below. But in an idle moment ... . There are few better ways to be idle and indulge the idleness of moments than being idle on Facebook. 'Tis the habitat of the idle. Where do people find time? I know. They don't work. I was glad they weren't on Tuesday. They had posted lots of nice photos. Pictures of blue skies. Blue seas. Sandy sand. Mountains with blue skies. Pools with blue in the background. Not a cloud to be seen. Right moment for a beer. Right moment for a cheeky sunbathe. Right moment for a touch of tapas. And there were the tapas. On a table set against a blue background.

As I stared into this wallpaper of blueness, I thought of some imaginary character in, oh I don't know, let's say it was Macclesfield. Nothing against Macclesfield. It was a place. Could have been anywhere. This character was labouring over some tedious spreadsheet calculations in a tedious office in a tedious street with the rain lashing down. Let's call him, I don't know, Bob. In an idle moment, Bob logged onto Facebook. Bob has a friend who goes to Mallorca. The friend had been sharing. Bob was looking at a wallpaper of blueness. Later, right on five o'clock, Bob grabbed his coat and braced himself for the rain that was still lashing down. An evening of pie and chips and "Eastenders" for Bob. An evening like most others. He watched the news. There was this report. From sunny Spain. In my imaginary Bob world, Bob was hearing about the plight of British foreign residents who might, some time later this year, be about to be turfed out of Spain. Bob watched with keen interest. Then he started to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Before going to bed, Bob went on Facebook. He found one of those photos of blueness. He didn't like. Instead, he fired off a comment. "Not for much longer. Ha ha ha. (Smiley emoticon)."

You could understand Bob being like this. All those photos taken by people doing nothing. Blue, blue and more blue. Serves 'em right. They turned their backs on lashing rain and tedium. Now it's going to be payback time. Here's my vote. Leave, leave, leave. Ha ha ha. That's stuffed you.

Britain. Land of birth and all that. Holder of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland Passport. "Her Britannic Majesty's Secretary of State Requests and requires in the Name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance, and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary." Pass freely. Atop the bit on the front in gold lettering are the words "European Union". Here's something else they might not have thought about.

It seems like a war. A nation divided. A nation that is hostage to its past. Caught up, unwittingly, unwillingly and uncertainly, are the nation's foreign legion. So, it doesn't have the vote (some of it). Tough luck, sucker. You made the choice. The foreign legion is on the end of indifference allied with Expatophobia, an intense dislike of those who had escaped Macclesfield on a filthy day in March. The attitudes, the vitriol, the contempt expressed by some who appear content for the foreign legion to be the victims of war. Refugees. Where is the spirit of British tolerance, once famed and admired by those from Europe who sought their own refuge over many, many years, escaping the persecutions of religious and political wars and hatreds on the continent? Disappearing with the new-age era of hysterical intolerance fired from across the twenty miles that kept the nation safe but also enabled those fleeing intolerance to find safe haven. But amidst this intolerance is envy. That is what the Bobs feel, if they were to admit it. As they cannot, they delight in schadenfreude. An ironic sentiment, given that it is borrowed from another nation who some can never forgive for having supplanted the once great nation as a world industrial power and for having been the creators of the monster that grew to be Brussels. What's more they did it in collaboration with the French. How could they, the French? After all that was done for them.

But for Bob and the other Bobs, just to let you know. The foreign legion comes in different guises. There's blue and there's blue. Yes, I can look out at the blue and be thankful I can, but I work. Every single day. Just as others work every single day. And those who don't. Why should their retirements or lifestyles be denied them? Schadenfreude is a German word. 

Getting A Headache: Covering the election

It was almost wistful. But not that much. Passing the school where in May I had cast my vote in the municipal election, I pined, only momentarily, to be allowed to re-enter. As one of the great disenfranchised diaspora I could not. National elections are for nationals. I'm still minded to believe that this is actually how it should be, but one misses the thrills, such as they are, of the Spanish voting system and the confusion for those attending the "tables" when presented with a foreigner who has two Christian names and one surname. Several moments of amusement ensue.

The attendees of these tables are not volunteers. Long before the current days of citizens participating left, right and centre (though mainly left), they decided to make it like jury service. If you're unlucky enough to have your name picked out, then you have to go and do your citizen's duty. I'm unsure if this means if I, or many of those of you reading this, might one day suffer the same fate. Given that the vote is denied, it seems a tad preposterous to demand table attendance. A mate of mine in Barcelona has had to. I must ask him if this was for the general or other elections. Either way, he can only vote for Ada Colau (or not) and not for Artur Mas, so he was doing his duty for something which he can only partially participate in. There must surely be a message here somewhere for the participative new age, or are foreigners classed as citizens or not?

It would make life an awful lot simpler if everywhere in Spain was like Villarroya in La Rioja. There, they don't have to drag everything out for eleven hours before getting down to the results. As there are only six voters out of nine inhabitants of this municipality (one of whom must be the Partido Popular mayor), the polling station was opened and closed within a minute. How many citizens had been called on to attend the tables, one wonders. Presumably, the voters and the table attendants were one and the same.

This was one of the little anecdotes that made a long day vaguely bearable, another one having been the three voters who turned up early doors in Ibiza only to find that there were no table attendants, so they made themselves into attendants, which was very decent of them. True citizen spirit. And participative, to boot.

Spanish election day starts with a bang as the media troops around getting snaps of principal candidates and other political prominenti smiling and casting their votes. Or in the case of Barcelona's mayor Ada Colau not casting her vote, as she had forgotten her ID. Might the police have a word with her? Is it not obligatory to carry this at all times? There were also the traditional photos of nuns voting. Does the church issue its recommendations? Mariano it might be expected to be, but when there's a chap whose name translates as Churches, he must have been good for a few votes among the religious community.

The greatest media scrum was for Mr. Churches, Pablo Iglesias. He was positively beaming, having tweeted earlier that he hoped citizens had risen with a smile and were off to perform their duty for change. There was to be proof that they had, the Podemos Twitter account replete with the happy, smiling faces of those both old and young. The new age was here, and it was all over Twitter. Pablo had gone to the polling station with his chum Íñigo Errejón, a Podemos co-founder, who doesn't look old enough to vote. By about six years. He is actually 32, so fifteen years older than the boy in Badajoz who had turned up wanting to vote and was politely told that he would have to wait nine days until he was 18.

Once this early election euphoria died down, the day dragged on, lightened only by announcements as to turnout. Eventually, this was to be up. Which was reassuring for the advocates of citizen participation. When the end finally came, exit polls were saying what was to be confirmed. It was Podemos who had been the real winners in the head-to-head between the new boys and girls. The opinion polls had got that part wrong.

All that remained was for the leaders' rallying speeches, arranged in pecking order so that they didn't clash. Mariano had to wait till last, as befits the possibly outgoing premier. Not that Mariano's going anywhere. He plans on forming the next government, despite being deprived of a third of his Congress colleagues.

Having been chained to a computer for the whole day and some of the night, it all ended with a massive headache and neck ache. For Spain, the headache now begins. Not one of a hangover. One of who on earth can now govern.

Making A Big Difference: Javier Pierotti

It was meant to have been lighthearted, just some fun for the end of the year. On 11 December there was a post on the "Majorca Daily Bulletin's" Facebook page. It invited nominations for people who had made a big difference to Mallorca during 2014.

Eight names were put forward. Mine was one of them; well, I said that the intention had been for lightheartedness. There were other names from the media and there was, as befits a British expatriate newspaper, a bias towards Britons. But there were two names who were not British, and they stood out. One, and for the wrong reason, was the Duke of Palma. The other was Javier Pierotti.

Just for fun it was meant to be, but invariably this is not how it is perceived. I have a great suspicion of such polls, especially when they are social media driven and when this suspicion can increase to a contempt for the manipulative nature of the exercise. Regardless of the medium, the inherent element of a competition sits uneasily with me. As does the potential for division within what is supposedly but isn't a "community". Put it this way, someone (from Pollensa) said to me - in no uncertain terms - that it was to be hoped that the "winner" would disrupt a south-of-the-island hegemony.

If it is specific, as with for example a best footballer poll, then a competition has some validity as like is being compared with like - up to a point - but even relative specifics can be open to abuse or simply to apparent misjudgments by those taking part in the poll; the golfing fraternity was, after all, decidedly miffed that Rory McIlroy did not win Sports Personality.

As things were to turn out, the poll became very much more serious than had been intended. Serious but also joyful and meaningful. It also gave me the opportunity to deal with a personal unease by stating that there was someone who genuinely was deserving of the "difference" accolade.

Javier Pierotti was nominated. I immediately seconded the nomination. Within minutes there was a flood of support. Within hours it was clear that Javier would win the poll. There was no manipulation in the sense of there having been a campaign behind his nomination. Yes, one or two people asked "friends" to add their support to Javier, but otherwise there was a wholly genuine, hugely moving and in some ways surprising rush to side with the Pierotti nomination. The surprise lay with the fact that Javier was not of the British expat community. He was an expat (Argentinian), but an expectation that Britons (who don't exclusively follow the Facebook page, it must be said) might opt for one of their own was not realised. It was as surprising as it was satisfying: a broader, more nuanced, more sophisticated and less parochial perspective had ruled.

Javier's suicide touched many people. And just as many had been supportive of his attempts to effect change in Magalluf. He did so with a selflessness that at times appeared to border on the reckless. With hindsight, and I am only surmising, perhaps he saw the end coming and felt he had nothing to lose, even if it was his life. He took it that night by the castle in Alaró but he had received death threats.

It is that selflessness that marks him out. Too often, one suspects, there is a self-interest that invades the motives of those who might typically be regaled by the expatriate community. Not all. Of course not. But some. Javier wanted to make a difference, and in the process he didn't just receive threats to his life, he was also potentially going to be sued by the mayor of Calvia. Yet, he had a comparatively good relationship with Manu Onieva. He was able to write to him and to do so with some intimacy. There is no more poignant memory of the days just before his death than the letter that he sent to Manu in which he spoke of his impecuniousness and of his loneliness. It was desperately sad. He had nothing to lose, but he knew that he was on the point of losing the sight of his second eye because of the cancer. Doubts might still be expressed about the suicide, but it would be fitting were conspiracies to now be laid to rest along with his body.

In all of this, however, there is the original proposition. Made a "big difference". As it has happened, the poll morphed into person of the year. This is more appropriate. Did Javier make a big difference? He tried, my God he tried, but the difference, if it is realised this summer in Magalluf, will have come for other reasons, most notably the ridiculous fuss over the blowjob video. There again, he did make a difference. He became a totem for a drive for change, one that continues and that will be carried forward by those who adhere to Javier's selflessness and not their own benefits. He awakened greater awareness of issues in Magalluf and did so by breaking through national barriers. This is why his being honoured in the way that he has been in "The Bulletin" is so welcome. Person of the year. Amen. DEP. RIP.

Cards Versus Corruption: What matters to expats

Tuesday was an eventful day in the Balearics parliament. It was a day which brought joy to expatriates. Their lives will soon be made that much more worth living. Oh, the convenience of it all. A lovely, lovely residence card replete with identifying photo and chipped fingerprints. Just like the ones the natives have. Rejoice, rejoice.

The Balearic parliament approved a motion calling for an end to the residence certificate, which not so long ago was reduced to a credit-card-sized piece of flimsy green paper but which lacks a photo unlike a health card or driving licence, both of which can do a reasonable job as means of identification but aren't complete (no fingerprints, for example). Parliamentary approval means comparatively little, other than adding more pressure on Madrid to get a move on and scrap the flimsy piece of paper and replace it with some plastic. Madrid has already agreed to this.

But never let the moment be missed for politicians to get in on a photo opportunity and appear as though they might have had something to do with this momentous decision. There was a beaming President Bauzá, radiant at the prospect that the bit of plastic in an expat's wallet might rub off on his party when it comes to municipal elections next year. Unfortunately, one can well believe that some expats might actually think that he was in some way instrumental, when he wasn't.

While the champagne corks were popping and expatriates could face a bright future with their shiny new piece of plastic and convict-style photo, parliament was engaged in other matters. One of these had to do with the minor issue of political corruption.

Jaume Matas, the one-time president of the Balearics and member of the Partido Popular, has sought a pardon from the national Rajoy government (and by extension, the King) which would mean that he would avoid doing nine months in choky. This was the greatly reduced sentence he received in respect of the first of various charges which he faces. Already having seen several years lopped off of the sentence, such judicial generosity hasn't been enough for Jaume.

The matter came before parliament. It is, like residence cards, not something over which the regional parliament has any real say. It can make its views known but no more. As such, it might have been considered irrelevant that the matter had even been raised, but it was relevant, highly relevant. Bauzá has made much of this PP administration being clean and of attempting to distance himself from the murky recent past in which Matas and others snorted around the sty as happy as political pigs in shit, gobbling up whatever was going.

The PP were content to vote in favour of a general motion against there being any pardons for political corruption. This wasn't good enough for the opposition on the left. They wanted a specific motion which would have called on Madrid to turn down Matas's request for a pardon. The PP refused to back this motion.

A justification for this was given by the PP's Miguel Jerez. He said that the motion led by the Més leftist grouping would personalise a specific case (i.e. Matas). The general motion that the PP favoured would avoid the need for any possible future debates if politicians on corruption raps also sought a pardon. In a rare moment of humour, he suggested that debates related to other individuals might require the use of an "indultómetro", a pardon-o-meter.

He may well have been right to suggest this, but of course the opposition were right to personalise the issue. Matas may not be the only Balearics politician to face further charges or to already have been sentenced, but he was at the top of the whole festering pile of corruption that has been exposed as having existed during his second period of office. He deserves the personalisation.

By having refused to accept the opposition's motion, the PP has risked looking as though it is soft on corruption and is unwilling to finger one of its own. As such, therefore, the corruption debate was both relevant and revealing. Yet, what was more important in parliament on Tuesday?

Expat convenience viz the residence card versus political corruption. There, in a nutshell, was an expression of priorities and concerns.

Insecurities Of Mallorca

What do expatriates worry about? Do they share similar concerns to the natives? Were you to present an expat with a diagram that shows him or her at its centre surrounded by crises of basic rights, politics, socioeconomics and lack of social cohesion, would any of it be of any obvious concern? Or would any of the further issues within these "crises" be of concern - the provision of services (education and health, for instance), poverty, the devaluation of democracy and corruption?

I am referring to a diagram produced by the Mallorcan research organisation, Gadeso, which forms the basis for a survey it has conducted into uncertainties and insecurities felt by people in the Balearics (when it says insecurities, it is referring to a feeling of insecurity, e.g. through employment worries, but more to feeling unsafe). Of its 900 respondents, one would have to presume that few if any are expatriates. Why would Gadeso ask expats? Would they show any interest or concern?

It is easy to brand the expat class as being indifferent, but this is a generalisation, albeit one with some justification. Expats (and I'm primarily referring to British ones) fall into different categories, of which one is undoubtedly the indifferent one, but to apply this branding across the board would be wrong. By the simple expedients of talking to people and the gathering of intelligence from social media, one is aware of uncertainties and insecurities that are not far removed from those identified in the survey once one gets to its nitty-gritty.

What are the situations which generate insecurity? They include offences against people and property, petty crime and street prostitution. What are the principal causes of insecurity? Lack of police presence and vigilance, unemployment and unstable work, laws and the judicial system. What are the main solutions to this insecurity? Modification of laws, increase in policing numbers and effectiveness, reduction in social inequality, measures to provide youth employment, changes to the educational system.

All of these are listed in the survey and all of them have increased in terms of the percentage of respondents identifying them. Over the past five years, the sense of insecurity has, according to the survey, risen alarmingly. Some of it might be attributable to economic crisis, but it would be wrong to conclude that it can all be.

Expatriate responses, were he or she to be asked the same questions, would, I would suggest, reflect their own package of circumstances - financial, social, work, location and so on. For the expat down Magalluf way, as an example, there is plenty in this survey which matches what has been said over the past months about the resort - lack of policing, petty crime, prostitution, need to modify laws - and judging by the amount of coverage these get, one would conclude that they have increased as expat concerns as markedly as they have for the survey respondents.

But one makes this conclusion through a process of extrapolation and some assumption and not on a more scientific basis. The fact is that we know very little about what expats think, about their insecurities, uncertainties and concerns. We know of some which are a long way distant from those of the survey but which are, in truth, inconsequential. Getting into a lather over a residence card is hardly in the same category as corruption, lack of effective policing or prostitution. But even were there to be a more scientific approach to unearthing these worries, the results would probably be very uneven. For some, there are few worries, save for the reporting of assets. There is the expat real world and there is the expat unreal world. Two or more worlds divided as greatly as Mallorcan society is divided and has grown in its lack of social cohesion.

Expatriate generalisation, driven to no small extent by an often wilfully prejudiced British media, is full of fallacies, but certain generalisations, even if they have been twisted somewhat, can cut to the bone because they expose some truths. Yes, I remember that "Daily Mail" article well. The Portalsisation of Mallorcan expat life, one might have called it. But it is world away from the other expat worlds, ones in which issues contained in the survey might be just as applicable - unstable work, poverty, drug addiction. Other worlds that do not revolve around the beautiful people and the need-to-be-seen and which are essentially humdrum in the sun and are concerned principally with pensions or the effects of all-inclusives on their bars: the everyday expats.

Whatever concerns the expat may or may not have, will he or she take notice of the concerns expressed in the Gadeso survey? Some will, some won't, but the increase in insecurity that the people of Mallorca has identified, combined with low levels of satisfaction as to its handling (be it through laws, by the police or other agencies) is something with which everyone should be concerned.

The Hybrid Expatriate

Seven years ago I came across an article in the newspaper "ADN" that was written by Montserrat Dominguez, a quite well-known journalist both in print and on the television. This was what she had to say: "ITV is showing a series called "Benidorm", which tells the adventures of a group of tourists. The action centres on an all-inclusive complex. The tourists neither have to leave (this complex) nor do they have to eat paella. Did I say paella? Excuse me, the Brits enjoy fish and chips, porridge, baked beans and other specialities of their cuisine; they don't try local dishes. Why would they risk this, given that their surroundings reproduce a scene in which they have pubs, music, tobacco and drinks. Why then do they come to Benidorm, to Mallorca, to the Costa Brava or to the Canaries? (They can go) without hearing a word of Castellano, Mallorquín or Catalan or, even worse, without discovering a slice of tortilla or a good pa amb oli."

In fact, Montserrat wasn't entirely accurate. To correct her, there was the episode in which Janice, bothering Mick while he was trying to read a copy of "The Sun", was criticising what had been available for lunch at the Solana. "I didn't think much to that. What was all that shite on the top? What was it called?" "Paella," replied Mick curtly. I know that the Garveys had paella, because I had seen the episode in question. But I hadn't seen it on the telly. I don't watch British telly. I don't have Sky. And because I don't watch British telly, I am therefore fully integrated and assimilated into local Mallorcan society.

Which is of course utter garbage. To go back to Montserrat's points of cultural reference, I have rarely had fish and chips in Mallorca, but I am partial to baked beans now and then, while porridge is good for you. Many is the Castellano, Mallorquín or Catalan word that I hear and even myself utter. And a good pa amb oli is a treat. There again, I'm not a tourist. Yet, Montserrat's description could, if you took out the all-inclusive setting, apply just as easily to the British expatriate. Or to one particular type. Possibly.

The fact that Montserrat was talking about a telly programme is pertinent to the debate caused by Sky satellites crashing to earth and leaving huge craters into which the expatriate community plunges as though into voids of cultural deprivation. I know there are no satellites falling to earth, but you could be forgiven for thinking that there were. Potential loss of the signal has heralded an expatriate tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Without the telly, "oh, woe is me, t'have seen what I have seen, see what I see" but can no longer.

I suspect that many expatriates and not, it is probably fair to say, only British adopt a pick 'n' mix policy to their lives in Mallorca. They will pick some of the indigenous and some of the old country. And in so doing, they will be content. Until, that is, someone pipes up and commands them to abandon Sky forthwith and to go native, just like that someone has. This someone is the most insufferable of all expatriates -the holier-than-thou, converse normally only in Mallorquín, and let everyone know the fact expat.

While Montserrat's description of the British tourist - itself of course a gross generalisation - could equally apply to the expatriate, it would be to a species of "expatriatus in extremis". Granted, it does seem odd to stumble across such a rare species who has long planted Mallorcan roots but who is still incapable of doing the lingo to any greater extent than "dos cervezas, por favor", but why should it matter?

The pressure to make someone have to try and justify the degree of his or her integration (whatever this word means, because I really don't know that a satisfactory definition exists) is preposterous. Watching British telly is evidence of nothing other than watching British telly, but for some it is evidence of the existence of bad expat or good expat. Rubbish. It would be an extreme measure for someone to decide to pack up and "go back home" because Sky falls, but the fact that Sky, telly and various other forms of communication became so easily available is, I think it fair to argue, a reason (only one reason) why some people chose to come to Mallorca to live.

The communications industry in its different varieties can indeed make it appear as though the expatriate has moulded a style of life which is little Britain in the sun, but that isn't the fault of the expatriate. He or she is symptomatic of a cultural hybridism that has been facilitated through freedom of movement and fibre optics. And if he or she wants to watch British telly, then so be it.

Tales From The Tea-Room: Tourism history

A tutor of mine at university was called John Walton. As he, I and others were of an era when imported soaps from America were twee before they became littered with the skeletons that rattled in the cupboards of "Dallas", he had the misfortune to be nicknamed John Boy. (After "The Waltons", just in case anyone doesn't get the reference.) One says misfortune, but the good doctor, now professor, was also of an era when history started to arrive in the modern world. Facets of contemporary society and culture were niched into the framework of history study, and Dr. Walton was an historian who embraced this new relevance. For this reason alone, I suspect he was actually quite pleased at being known after a television character, albeit one culled from a series as lightweight, sentimental and horrid as "The Waltons".

Among his areas of study, and one can easily consult his extensive research if one desires, was that of fish and chips. This British culinary treat was not, by the mid-1970s when I sat opposite his bearded and longhaired self in a tutorial, confined merely to British shores. It had moved abroad. Fish and chips became the Brit tourist's friend, his foody comfort blanket, his dining defence against "foreign muck" on foreign holidays.

Prof. Walton has, among his vast oeuvre, contributed many an insight into holidays, including those to Mallorca, which, back in the 1970s, was very definitely still Madge-orca. I have come across a chapter he wrote for a book entitled "Histories Of Tourism". It (the chapter) is called "Paradise Lost and Found: Tourists and Expatriates in El Terreno, Palma de Mallorca, from the 1920s to the 1950s".

The reason why I came across this was that I had been sent an email which, without giving any detail, suggested that I might be interested in Googling "F. G. Short, Mallorca". There may be more information to come from the source of this rather mysterious email, but in the meantime, Google is exactly what I did, which was how I found Professor Walton's chapter.

F. G. Short is mentioned. It says that an English guide for tourists by James Lindo-Webb was "dominated" by tea-rooms, libraries and shops, "headed by the empire of F. G. Short, who had been in on the ground floor (of tourism) in 1917-18". Short had a tea-room, unoriginally called Short's English Tea-Room, a lending library (5,500 books) and a bar. He was also an estate agent, travel agent and exporter.

Short, it would appear, was a pretty big deal in the Mallorca of the 1930s, but what else is there to be known of him? Much, I would fancy. But where to find the information? And where to find copies of what he advertised in? They must exist, but I have yet to see the "Majorca Sun", an English newspaper of the times and one to which I have referred on at least one previous occasion.

Apart from introducing us to the businessman Short (and incidentally, what was his background, why was he in on the ground floor?), Professor Walton's chapter is a remarkable description of a world that one fancies many of us didn't think existed, one in which the British expatriate was well-established, if only in and around El Terreno, and in which there were also tourists. We know that there were of course tourists, but Walton suggests this tourism was far more evident than has sometimes been depicted. He is particularly interesting in charting changes into the 1950s, ones which pre-dated the shifts in sexual attitudes that were pretty much forced on Mallorca and the Franco regime in the 1960s.

Walton's chapter, the enigmatic F. G. Short, the "Majorca Sun", Lindo-Webb's tourist guide, they all point to one thing - the fascinating history of Mallorca's tourism past and also its expatriate past; the relationship, therefore, between Mallorca and Britain and indeed other countries that goes back much further than the "boom" of the 1960s.

There is, and one can see this on the internet and especially on Facebook, a mass of material from this past. It inspires great interest, but why is not more made of this interest? This is a history which is relatively recent, it exists within the memory of some Mallorcans and some foreigners, it is a history to which current-day visitors attach a great deal of importance because they want to know about how things were. There needs to be a proper museum of tourism history. There needs to be, I would suggest, a conference and exhibition. One dedicated to a subject that has almost endless possibilities and which holds endless fascination. I think I have found a mission.

* "Paradise Lost and Found", John Walton

When It All Falls Apart

How can it have come to this? There are people I know who have lived in Mallorca for a very much longer time than I have and others who have been acquainted with the island for considerably longer than myself. There are people who rant about anything and who can be ignored and then there are those whose views and opinions one respects because of their "veteran" status and their rationality.

Sometimes, the most unexpected happening sparks off a reaction one might not have expected. Poison being put down on Llenaire beach in Puerto Pollensa was most unexpected. It is far from normal for people to go around trying to poison animals, which is presumably what the poison was intended to do. It was most unexpected, but perhaps because it was so unexpected, it has shocked more than other happenings. The final straw maybe.

People who have chosen to live in Puerto Pollensa or to buy property there or who have simply made a habit of coming on holiday are rightly proud of their decisions. It is notable just how passionate people are about Puerto Pollensa, as others are passionate about other parts of Mallorca. Occasionally, this passion leads to defensiveness or a dismissal of problems. Normally, however, these problems are of the oh God, it's Spain variety. People get used to cock-ups, things not getting done or masses of bureaucracy. People deal with all this; it is part of a perverse charm.

But there is something else which is notable. People are getting pissed off. They are also aware that their little bit of heaven is not quite as it was. It is no longer what was said on the tin. The poison on Llenaire beach is like Milton's poison in the Garden of Eden. Innocence lost. It might seem an over-reaction, but maybe it isn't. Maybe it is symptomatic of the whole paradise dream beginning to fall apart.

Of course, one can always look elsewhere and compare problems. They are worse elsewhere. True, but contenting oneself with the knowledge that elsewhere is worse is a clutching at straws. The final straw may have broken the back. Things were never meant to have got to the stage of a "worse" comparison being made because things were never meant to have been bad. Without a bad, there can be no worse.

It is a drip-drip which suddenly becomes a gush-gush. Puerto Pollensa is not unique in having properties targeted by tax and tourism inspectors, but the actions of the government are more acute in the resort than almost anywhere else on the island. What disappoints and then hacks off is the knowledge that money has been pumped into the area through property purchase and through all the additional benefits this brings to the local economy; the knowledge that so much love has been devoted to an area, to an island that many have fallen head over heels with. People feel more than disappointment. They feel dumped on, taken advantage of, disrespected despite all that they have done.

The actions of the tax and tourism inspectorate are only one manifestation, and rules may apply equally to Mallorcans and Spaniards as they do to foreigners, but do they, because how does one explain the views of someone who was brought up here, who has owned a business here, employed people here, who has lived here for the best of half a century (and on the southern side of the island)? Someone who sees everyone here being in "the hands of idiots and imbeciles who are ruining our future", who says that the "sooner we foreigners realise that we are and always will be second-class citizens, then so much the better".

So much for the better or maybe so much for the worse. There are very many worse places that lack the same stunning views, that lack the innate charms of, for instance, a Puerto Pollensa. But equally, there are very many other places that can lay claim to similar attributes. Little pieces of heaven can be found elsewhere. Elsewhere that isn't necessarily worse.

Lunacy such as the attack on property is a clear and tangible example of an undermining of the paradise better-place that was promoted on the tin. But there is also that which is not tangible, an abstract sense of a falling apart, and it comes not because of financial investment so much as because of emotional investment. People want to love somewhere, to know that they have found their little piece of heaven. And so they have, until one day they wake up and realise it has all been a dream.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

A Mallorcan Royal Baby

Have there been any announcements yet as to special royal baby events at the island's Bar Brits? Come on, it's time to get the bunting out of the loft again and put up those framed photos of William and Kate and the Queen. Have the bookies who frequent Bar Brits been giving odds on the name? Are the expatriate knitting circles now frantically knitting one and purling two, having waited for the starting-gun to go off and the appropriate colour to be chosen? 

As a typical impression of most British expatriates is that they are all fervent royalists, one might think that Bar Brits would indeed be flying the flags and waiting on the naming in order to christen special dishes of the day. But this is a misguided impression. An example of reaction to the intrusion of the royal birth's announcement was that which complained about "Coronation Street" being interrupted. Expatriates really do have their priorities sorted out. Soaps come before sprogs, even royal sprogs.

Maybe it is the circles I move in, and I confess that they are lowly ones, but being hacked off by suddenly not knowing whether Tracy and Rob would be blackmailing Carla and Peter would seem to be fairly representative of the general level of indifference. By the way, I had no idea about Tracy and Rob or Carla and Peter; I had to Google "current Coronation Street storyline" in order to find out and so appear as though I know what I'm talking about. I can, however, understand people getting the hump if news of what had been a bump emerging kicking and screaming into the world gets in the way of more important matters. My own annoyance would have been substantial, had Tuffers and Vaughan been cut off in their knocking-Australia prime. As it happened, Steve Claridge being turned off when in full Wayne Rooney discussion mode was something I could live with.

One thing that can be said for the royal birth is that it is the first one to be conducted via social media. As such, one can get a flavour of what the expat, the one who lives in the relatively normal world, thinks about it, and in a word, it is eight letters long, begins with a "b" and ends with an "s". It is perhaps a shame, though, that social media haven't been exploited as they could have been; William tweeting from the maternity ward, Harry doing similar - #wettingthebabyshead - or indeed the whole event being streamed live via YouTube. And if William and Kate were truly a modern face of the British royal family, then they should surely have used text voting to decide the name.

The contrast with the regular media is striking. Whereas social media reveal the expat as reassuringly cynical, the established press indulges in typically obeisant sycophancy and devotes page upon page to what "Private Eye" has summed up rather more neatly - "Woman Has Baby". Despite, in truth, there being very little of any note that can be said, any spurious angle is deemed worthy of column inches. Hence, and as an example, the royal birth follows previous years' occasions - Wills and Kate getting hitched, the Queens' jubilee, the Olympics - in being something to lift and unite a nation suffering the pains of economic hard times. It's all rot of course, but something has to be said, even when it's not worth saying.

But it is an occasion that can justify the bunting being put out and perhaps even street parties being staged in Mallorca in honour of the newborn. There is a danger, though, that there won't be further occasions to keep patriotic fervour on a roll. Attention needs to be paid to ensure that this periodic outpouring of national pride transported to a foreign land continues. Harry, get yourself engaged, mate.

There is, though, the prospect, a few years from now, of the island's expat community going into total bunting overdrive. Just as Charles and Diana came on holiday with the kids, surely K and W will be spending some time, when not changing nappies, looking through some brochures and eyeing up a Mallorcan holiday in the not too distant future. William could ask the old man if he knows of any royal palaces in Mallorca that might be suitable for the ordinary, everyday duke and duchess and family.

And I'll tell you something, it would be bloody great if he were to. Ha, ha, lol, had you all fooled. I've got my bunting out, and it's not coming down until after the Cambridges have been here on their hols.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

The Expatriate Island Sketch

First Expatriate: Today, we look at a vanishing race. A problem people who are fast disappearing off the face of Mallorca.

Second Expatriate: A race one might say who are losing a battle against more rigorous tax regulations.

Third Expatriate: They live in a sunshine paradise, a Mediterranean dream, where only reality is missing.

Fourth Expatriate: For this is Expatriate Island.

Fifth Expatriate: An island inhabited entirely by expatriate former property dealers and people called Ron who committed post office blags in Walthamstow*.

First Expatriate: The whole problem of Expatriate Island is here in a nutshell.

Second Expatriate: There are just too many expatriates.

Third Expatriate: The charity functions.

Fourth Expatriate: The golf club tie.

Fifth Expatriate: The practised voice of a karaoke singer.

First Expatriate: Cannot hide the basic tragedy here.

Second Expatriate: There just aren't enough rich expatriates left to fleece.

Third Expatriate: You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and so you find them ...

Fourth Expatriate: ... being photographed at elegant events with consulate officials ...

Fifth Expatriate: ... sipping Mojitos ...

First Expatriate: ... and waiting for the inevitable demand for a charitable contribution.

Second Expatriate: I talked to the island's only Mallorcan, Senyor Pere.

Third Expatriate: Senyor Pere, why did you stay on in this expatriate fantasy-land where the clink of glasses at the yacht club bar mingles with the murmur of a million mosquitoes, where watersports and waves wash away the worries in this expatriate wonderland, where gin and tonics and glamour gyrate alongside gastronomic garnishes and of anything else that starts with a G or a J. Senyor Pere, why did you stay on here?

Senyor Pere: ¿Qué?

Fifth Expatriate: Well there you have it, a crumbling ...

First Expatriate: ... empire in the sun-drenched ...

Second Expatriate: ... Mediterranean, where the clichés about expatriate lifestyles ...

Third Expatriate: ... are sadly all too often accurate.

First Expatriate: And so ...

Fifth Expatriate: ... from Expatriate Island ...

First Expatriate: ... it's ...

Second Expatriate: ... fair ...

Third Expatriate: ... game and ...

Fourth Expatriate: ... bon ...

Fifth Expatriate: ... Nad ...

First Expatriate: ... al.


* Acknowledgement to J. Clarkson.





Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Bringing Eldorado Back ... To Mallorca

Meet Karl Large. He's a bit of a lad is Karl. We know little of his past, which is the point of course. His story unfolds. Eventually. Maybe it will unfold in a few weeks, a few months or a few years. Much will depend on how long we can keep it all going.

I can tell you, though, that Karl's done time in a Spanish jail, but I won't spoil things by telling you what for, but you get an idea about Karl right from the start. He's dodgy, iffy, fly. He has a perma-tanned girlfriend - Melanie Lemon - who's twenty years younger than him. What's with his ex-wife? Do we get to know her? How did Karl come to know Mel? Was it through his boat business, the one he runs from the local marina? And what actually is the deal with this boat business? It doesn't seem to do any obvious business. Karl, unlike others, doesn't typically frequent Charlie's Place, you know the one, it's not far from the marina, used to be more your normal Sky, lager and breakfast Brit bar, but it underwent a transformation when Charlie hooked up with Siobhan, and she, because of that time in - what was it exactly back home? - had these contacts. Charlie's Place has become more of an "in" place. There's likely to be the odd celebrity dropping in now and then.

Karl doesn't go there, however. Some of the others are wondering if it's time for them to find an alternative watering-hole. Not for the same reasons as Karl, because Karl has his reasons (are they to do with Charlie, or maybe Siobhan, or maybe neither of them?) No, their reasons are to do with what has happened to Charlie's Place. Too many poser types now. Not like it was. It's all Siobhan's doing, turning the bar into one where the brown-wrinklies do lunch and wait for the photographer from the local rag to come and snap them, so that they can be seen to be seen.

Eleanora Maddy likes to be seen, too, but not at the likes of Charlie's Place as it has become. She doesn't approve of the common types who go there. They may be well-heeled, but their heels, their falsies (nails and otherwise) and their yacht do's are not for Eleanora. She likes to be seen because she's important, she thinks. She's been organising the "association" for years. Different class of person entirely. Charities, golfing functions, tombolas, that sort of thing.

But then Eleanora has to try and keep things quiet. It's all to do with Karl. You'd be surprised to know that she knows Karl. How has this happened? Well, that's where Hugo comes in. Eleanora's son. He appears, disappears and then re-appears, and when he does, there is always trouble. Is it Karl trouble? What does Karl know about Hugo? Or is it the other way round?

Eleanora is concerned about Cath O'Dray. Eleanora has her rock, Giles, but Cath has lost her husband. Malcolm died before we got to know about any of the characters. His photo is in a frame on the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace. But that fireplace, in winter, is unused. There is a terrible mess with Malcolm's will and all that tax. Cath is all but broke. So in winter, despite the sun shining, she is freezing. This is getting too detailed, though. Too much detail for an imaginary soap.

Twenty years ago on 9 July, "Eldorado" came to an end. Its life was short. It suffered from awful acting and some poor storylines. It got better, but it was Yentobbed into oblivion. Many are the reasons, other than the initially bad acting, why the soap was axed, but its basic premise was sound. At the time, it was a way of tapping into the soap-in-the-sun style that Jason and Kylie (or rather Scott and Charlene) had given us. Sun was not really possible in Manchester, the East End or The Dales, so Spain offered an alternative.

But one way in which "Eldorado" failed - a way which has been largely overlooked - was that it didn't get into the heads of expats, into their attitudes, their lifestyles. It was too one-dimensional. It transported the soap concept to the south of Spain, but it could just as easily have stayed back in Britain.

The "Eldorado" complex and set is still there. Poor old George Entwistle never got the chance to respond to calls to revive the soap, but calls there were last year. A revival would be merited, but maybe not in the south of Spain. It could come to Mallorca. But if it did, and this I suspect was one of the original's failings, it would need writers who understand the expat world. "Eldorado" didn't. It should be re-done.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Living In A Box: TV and culture

Top of the Pops, Thunderbirds, The Prisoner, Monty Python's Flying Circus, Grange Hill, The Young Ones, Neighbours, The Simpsons, Men Behaving Badly, Teletubbies, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, Big Brother, The Office. I think that's all. Over time they have all been referred to, either directly or indirectly, in articles I have written. They are also all on a list of the most influential TV programmes of the past 50 years. According to "The Telegraph", that is.

I make no apologies for invoking the British popular culture of television. I may write mostly about Mallorca and Spain, but what would be the point of drawing on Spanish TV in order to try and create a point of reference or a touchstone? No one, or very few people, would get it. By contrast, and even if it is done obliquely, a collective Britannic cultural experience recognises Kylie as a default title for a young(ish) British female tourist. Time was when baby girls in Britain were mostly all christened Kylie. And if not, then they were Charlene, and Charlene was, after all, Kylie by another name. My Kylies are to be found wheeling their Rihanna progeny in buggies along Alcúdia's Mile.

Even if I wander into less obviously Spanish-Mallorcan territory or totally non-Spanish-Mallorcan territory, as I once long ago did when considering modes of speech, there is still this reservoir of culture to feed off and allude to. I was deeply impressed by Rory McGrath having coined the term the "moronic interrogative". What did it refer to? Neighbours. It was Neighbours that changed the way the British speak. 

It is perhaps for this reason that "The Telegraph" has included Neighbours on its list. Or perhaps it is because the series became such an indispensable and ingrained part of British culture. This is the point of cultural references. The use of Kylie shouldn't require an explanation as to its pre-Stock, Aitken and Waterman origin. Nor should the source of Eric Idle's Torremolinos sketch or the Inquisitional "Biggles, put her in the comfy chair" need to be spelt out. Nor should a demand such as "we want information" and a reply of "you won't get it" have to be located. These are references that reside in the enormous repository of a nation's cultural memory, one that has been programmed by the telly programme.

Doubtless one could find an alternative programme for each of the 50 years, but as a history of cultural development, it has much to commend it. There will be those who look at some of the programmes and think that it is an exercise in trivialisation or dumbing down. Maybe so, but then popular culture often is trivial; just think of X Factor (which doesn't make the list) or Pop Idol (which does).

If I had to choose two programmes that aren't among the fifty, then they might be the BBC's Holiday and ITV's Tiswas. Holiday opened up foreign travel in a way that no other part of the media had previously. Was it culturally important? I would say that it most definitely was. Grange Hill, the selection for 1978, in a sense ties in with Tiswas, which took off nationally around the same time. Grange Hill was a first in that it took children seriously and tackled serious subjects that affected children. Tiswas was most definitely not serious, but it represented a marked change in adult-child interaction. It was really a cult show for lads and ladettes (the first of its kind therefore), masquerading as a kids' programme, but kids loved its barriers-down irreverence as much as adults did. No show for children would previously have dared to have Chris Tarrant more than slightly hinting at the size of his hangover and lifting kids up by their ears, to have John Gorman (or was it Lenny Henry?) chastising a boy scout for being a "swot" or to have Sally James firmly putting her foot in it by asking Kevin Rowland the meaning of the name Dexys Midnight Runners.

More than anything, these programmes travel with you. However long you might have been away from the homeland of the culture, they are revered symbols of an abstract cultural iconography that is always there, one to be delved into in order to make sense of a pair of lads in Mallorca out on the razz and the pull (Gary and Tony), a total div who you are unfortunate enough to run into (David Brent), or that ageing hippy who raves about lentils in local Mallorcan cuisine (Neil).

And if you don't immediately know to which programmes these characters refer, well, what do you call culture then?

* http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/10002180/The-Telegraphs-most-influential-TV-shows-of-the-last-50-years.html

A classic Tiswas moment (the boy who needed to go to the toilet): 




Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

When Sky Falls: Telly for Mallorcan expats

Let me say straightaway that I do not and never have had Sky or British television in Mallorca and that, not running and never have run a bar which almost invariably demands that footy, soaps and what have you are shown, I do not spend mostly my entire existence concerned with the intricacies of Sky boxes, cards, satellites, coding or alternatives that are beamed in via the Middle East or from the Alpha Centauri star system. In other words, I haven't a clue about how it all works, as I have never needed to know. So if, by any chance, you have come to this article anticipating to find some great insight into the satellite apocalypse which may be about to befall Mallorca, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place.

Because I haven't a clue, I wouldn't normally bother to write about a subject. But occasionally, for reasons not connected with the technology per se, I do attempt to find out, so it was with more than passing interest that I read an article in today's "Bulletin" which attempted to explain what is currently happening with regard to what might herald the end of the world as the expatriate in Mallorca knows it. The Mayans may have got things slightly wrong, but it appears that Sky may be ushering in the collapse of civilisation instead.

The article, notwithstanding some rather odd use of the verb "predicate" (I think it should have been "predict", though I might be wrong), says that "we are very close to a catastrophic loss of Channel 4 and a large number of Sky channels including most of Sky sports as early as January or February". Among the areas in Mallorca that will be most affected are Alcúdia and Pollensa for those with satellite dishes smaller than 1.6 metres. After this, it all gets somewhat baffling; Arab signals interfering with Sky signals, BBC and ITV under threat, a dish of 1.6 metres or maybe 1.8 metres or even 2 metres being needed, the cost of which can be as much as 1,000 euros. I get the impression that the situation is far from clear and that no one probably knows.

Unless these transmission issues turn out not to be as "catastrophic" as is being implied and life can carry on as normal, i.e. the expatriate community being constantly glued to the television, it might not be stretching things to "predicate" (sic) that the recent flight of expats who have found that Mallorca isn't quite the paradise the brochure had made it out to be will become a wholesale exodus. The great trek may be about to begin, and it will all be Sky's fault for changing its satellite and configurations.

Rather like the growth of tourism can, I'm convinced, be shown to correspond with the invention of the easy-to-fold-down baby buggy, so living in Mallorca or Spain or many other places can, I'm also convinced, be related to the ease of communications, mainly therefore satellite transmission. The whole meaning of life in Mallorca will collapse along with the loss of a satellite signal, resulting in expatriates taking to the streets, wailing and hollering and rending away their clothes before booking the first removals van and Ryanair flights in order to get back to where television can be watched without any fear of interruption. Had it not been for satellite, there would not be the same expatriate population. Sky should, therefore, be the "x" factor in an equation of expatriate migration (where this migration "m" equals, primarily, "x" to denote Sky).

The fact is that, because loss of signal is being predicated, then I'm afraid it does appear as if it is going to happen, as predicate means, or can mean, to assert as being true, so there is no doubt. Were the loss being predicted, then there might be some question mark, as a prediction does contain an element of doubt, which is where the Mayans had, I fancy, been hedging their bets. They'd predicted the end of the world rather than having predicated it, or maybe they had predicated it, in which case they are now looking rather more stupid than they already were.

Well, whatever the verb should be, Skyfall is about to adopt a new meaning in Mallorca (possibly), and it will be one that will put an end to any Bond or other film being beamed in. Maybe. Who really knows. If the expatriate world does end, though, you know who to blame.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Language And Nationalism

Ed Miliband would, under a future Labour government, make it a stipulation that every Briton would have to speak English. He also would appear to want to stipulate that anyone who goes to live in Britain would have to speak English and that, to have a job which requires interaction with the public, staff would need to demonstrate proficiency in the English language. 

This may all seem like a sop to the right-wing, but it doesn't sound particularly unreasonable, especially where public-sector jobs are concerned. If you wish to create something of unified national identity, then language is as good a symbol as any for ensuring it.

Such language stipulation is not solely an issue for British politicians to have to consider. It is one, you may have noticed, that also taxes the minds of Spanish politicians. The Catalan-Castellano great bore aside, there have been thoughts about insisting that immigrants to Spain speak Spanish (as opposed to Catalan, though maybe they think differently on the matter in Catalan-speaking areas). The current prime minister, Mariano Rajoy, once said that he would make it a stipulation, much as Miliband appears to want to where English is concerned.

Rajoy was coming from the issue from a non-EU angle (and, one suspects, a non-EU angle that nevertheless placed certain EU nationals, the likes of the British, the Germans and the French, in a different category to, for example, Bulgarians). There has never been any enactment as such, but, and regardless of where an immigrant comes from, an inability to speak the language will be an obstacle. This much is inevitable. In Spain, in Britain, wherever you care to mention.

Requiring immigrants to speak the native-tongue takes on the not always healthy glow of nationalism and the somewhat specious concept of citizenship, whether a formal application for citizenship is made or not. Speaking the language (Spanish) demonstrates a willingness to be a good citizen. Or in theory, it does. But what is meant by this? For politicians, it means the same as embracing culture, given that language and culture are indivisible, but this is highly questionable; immigrants retain their old cultures, to greater or lesser degrees, even when able to speak a new language perfectly well, and indeed Miliband is not suggesting that immigrants should abandon the cultures of their birth, which is very noble of him.

By the same token, not being able to speak the new language does not automatically mean that someone is a bad citizen. There are plenty of British people in Mallorca who speak Spanish hardly at all or not very well but who are perfectly decent citizens (or rather members of local society).

A demand that language should be acquired also takes no notice of practicality. Again, in theory, it is possible for anyone of more or less any age to learn a new language, but any language teacher or linguistics expert will tell you that language acquisition becomes harder the older the person is. It isn't just age and linguistic conditioning that are drawbacks to learning, there are also linguistic rules. For the Briton in Mallorca (or Spain), one who has never really understood English grammar, coming to terms with what appears a far more rule-based language is a mammoth task. There is only so much language that can be acquired through conversation. It needs real teaching in order to explain why, for example, Spanish has two overtly past tenses, why the present perfect doesn't necessarily observe the same rules as in English or why the subjunctives are as they are. Put any of this grammatical stuff in front of your average English-speaker, and he or she wouldn't have a clue what you were talking about.

Language is one of the great bastions of nationalism. This much is evident in the Catalan argument, among those both for and against. It isn't unreasonable to expect or at least hope that immigrants can acquire proficiency. Not unreasonable but not easy. And the logic of this is that, because it isn't easy, the proficiency won't be attained, and so the immigrant should be shown the door. Hence, language becomes an arbiter of entitlement and an enforcement. It also becomes a mark of having obtained a state of those two cultural impostors, assimilation and integration; impostors because neither can be adequately or satisfactorily defined.

Purely personally, I believe that language should be acquired to at least a reasonable level, which means to a far higher level than being able to order "dos cervezas". I suspect that there will be those resident in Mallorca, British with negligible language ability, nodding in agreement with Miliband. They would be the ones, therefore, who have not only not acquired much Spanish (or maybe they have), they would also be the ones who are still firmly rooted in Britain. Language? Culture? So long as they are someone else's problem.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Estimates: Expats and voting

So, Sir Roger Gale's question to William Hague (raised with regard to the non-replacement of the British Consul in the Balearics) asking the British Foreign Secretary to estimate the permanent number of expatriate UK citizens and other UK homeowners in the Balearics drew a blank. I am not exactly surprised. I don't know if Sir Roger is a member of the Bow Group, but he could have ascertained from its website that the question was always likely to be met with silence. From an entry of 23 July, I quote: "British citizens are not required, or even prompted, to register with their local consulate upon taking up full or part-time residence abroad. The result of this is that it is not possible to obtain an accurate figure on how many British citizens live abroad, or how many live in any particular country".

Asking for an estimate was as good it could get, but what sort of estimate might have been forthcoming? The Foreign Office itself appears to believe the generally touted figure of 50,000 UK residents in the Balearics. Or at the least the British Embassy in Madrid believes the figure. It said so in its statement announcing Andrew Gwatkin's taking consular responsibility for the Balearics. I wonder where the Embassy gets its figures from.

There is a figure that one can work from, one that isn't an estimate. It is the official number of Brits who the Balearic Government says are registered, and this number is nothing like 50,000. It is under a half. Even taking account of those Brits who don't bother to register, this represents a sizable difference. And, always depending on which source you care to find or to quote, this 50,000 does not include part-time residents. There are thousands more of them. Apparently.

What I think we can safely assume to be accurate, and therefore the reason why the lackey in the Hague office felt unable to give a response to the Gale question, is that no one has the faintest idea what the number is. Except the regional government which gives a figure of some 23,000.

Getting a rather better grip on the numbers is of interest to the likes of the Bow Group. The quote above comes from an article on its website about expat voting rights, and the Bow Group, good Conservatives that they are, would fancy that the Conservative Party would be sure of scooping up the great majority of expat votes, if only these expats voted or were able to vote. (I don't know that the Bow Group should be so sure of this. Turkeyish and Christmassy it would be in terms of voting, but UKIP might well scoop the expat jackpot, but be this as it may.)

It isn't only the 15-year rule that has got the backs of the Bow Group up, it is also the fact that so few expats who are entitled to vote actually do vote. And it fingers the Foreign Office, in the form of "consulates", for being partly to blame. Mr. Gwatkin may care to note that "the system for voting from abroad is ... obtuse, unaided by our consulates". A parliamentary exchange earlier this year highlighted the exact number of expats anywhere who are registered to vote: Sir Peter Bottomley, "Will my Honourable Friend give those figures again? Did he say 23,000 out of four million?" My Honourable Friend had indeed said that.

Tempting though it is to take the coincidence of the 23,000 and assume that all of these expat voters are in the Balearics, this clearly would be wrong. But on the basis of the Balearic 23,000 and four million or so voting-age British expats across the globe (according to My Honourable Friend), then one could conclude that there is approximately half of one expat in the Balearics who is currently registered to vote.

Much though the system for voting may be obtuse and much though the consulates may not be helpful, there are other factors. Sheer apathy and lack of interest, for example. It may be the circles in which I move, but I can honestly say that voting in a British general election is not a subject high on the list of topics to discuss, unlike the Premier League or Strictly Come Dancing, which are.

Apathy isn't an excuse for the British Government to ignore expat voting rights. Denial of the right to vote under the 15-year rule goes against the principle of universal suffrage. Britain may not be the worst offenders as far as this denial is concerned - Denmark is far worse - but the suffrage principle is fundamental. The rule should, therefore, be scrapped, unless a change to Maastricht were to be made to enable voting in Spanish or other countries' general elections by non-nationals.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Comfortably Numb: Not knowing Mallorca

What do any of us know about Mallorca? There are visitors who come to the island for just a few days who know more. They know more because they come with their curiosity aroused. They are more often than not German and not British, as the British are an appallingly incurious people.

The any of us that I refer to are those of us who live in Mallorca, those of us who take pride in the paradise nature of the island, those of us who bask in the reflection of this paradise, those of us who might even boast of it or use it as a justification for presence on the island, despite the dreadful hardships that have befallen Mallorca, despite the inconveniences, the discriminations, the feigned "friendships" with local people that too many expatriates are prone to believe exist.

Outside of the small communities - and they are small, unless they are in Palma or perhaps the conurbation that surrounds Palma - there is the great unknown. It is an unknown of negligent immobility and of the smugly familiar which insists that, within these small communities, there are paradise vistas, paradise restaurants and paradise beaches, but which is only aware of what resides elsewhere because of received wisdom. It is an unknown of the comfortably numb, comfortably coffined into the padded satin lining of death by the cuts of thousands of experiences, views, landscapes, seascapes that exist outside of this numb familiarity - all missed, mortality-encroaching realities. It is an unknown that is boxed in, that is unwilling to ever escape, to explore, to become aware through own eyes of what is otherwise made visual through the internet or the media. It is an unknown that knows but does not feel. It is an unknown of many in Mallorca who have never known Mallorca and who still don't know Mallorca.

There again, why should you ever know Mallorca? It is the fate of residence that inaction takes over, that repetition dominates, that the familiar and the easy dominate. Not just Mallorca. It is the same anywhere. Because it's there, it ceases to be important. It is just there, and there is reassurance in it being there, whatever it is, be it mountain, town or coastline.

Mallorca is not big. It is small but it is nevertheless vast in its possibilities. Its smallness is such that it should be known, but it isn't. Real knowledge is confined to the few. The rest who profess knowledge have none, because all they know is their own bailiwick, their own tiny domain of paradise. Banyalbufar, Biniali, Búger, Caimari ... how many more should I quote, and how many more are unknown?

Get up, get out, just go. Anywhere. Take a look. There are amazing places that surround you. They are known to be there, but they are unknown. Don't let them be.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

A Little Local Outrage: The British Consul

Over four weeks ago I learned that Paul Abrey, the British Consul to the Balearics, was to leave his post and that he would not be replaced. The official news of his non-replacement only emerged last week. Once it had emerged, the hyperbole went into overdrive. The reaction was different to that over four weeks ago when there was barely a murmur among those who I spoke with. Crank up the outrage, and you create an outcry, so it seems. 

There are two aspects to this story. One is Paul's departure, the other is the decision not to replace him and so deprive the Balearics of a Consul. The two may or may not be linked. I understand that there had been hope that Paul might reconsider his own decision to go back into the private sector. If so, then the fact that he is not to be replaced seems less a strategic one and more an opportunistic one.

The British Embassy and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) claim that the non-replacement is not a cost-saving exercise. Though neither may have wanted Paul to leave, once he had decided that he was leaving, the temptation to cut some cost must have come into the equation. Indeed, I would be amazed if it hadn't been in the equation for some time.

If you look at the FCO's annual report from this year and at its document on Consular Strategy 2010-2013, you will begin to appreciate why there is to no longer be a Consul in the Balearics. Both reports are littered with managerialist doublespeak, the strategy document being subtitled "putting people first" and making much of the Consular Service's four priorities: "Our Customers. Our People. Our Network. Our Finances" (and the capitalisation is the FCO's, thus elevating these priorities to the status of "values" or whatever other managerialist jargon the FCO prefers).

It is of course all rubbish, but then managerialist speak always is rubbish. It is designed to impress while at the same time also obfuscate. And obfuscation and dissembling are at play in what has been going on with Abrey and his non-replacement. The FCO in its annual report refers to the delivery of 100 million pounds of administrative savings by 2014-2015. In 2011-2102, it delivered a quarter of these savings.

Delve deeper into the report and you find that the 100 million is to include savings in corporate services, human resources and estate. ""We are restructuring the FCO global estate by ... (creating) country or regional hubs." The Consular Strategy document says: "By 2013, our Consular Service will be different - and better. Smaller and cheaper".

Abrey's departure is not the only one. The consulate in the Canaries is being merged with Malaga. It is, therefore, a similar situation to the Balearics now coming under Barcelona. The Canaries are part of a "restructuring process" - doublespeak for cost-cutting - just as the Balearics are a part of the same restructuring of overall consular services in Spain.

As can be seen from the FCO's annual report and strategy document, there is a move towards the use of greater technology for service delivery and towards centralisation. While there is to be a concentration of consular direction on the mainland and while references to restructuring the "global estate" and to the 100 million saving might be something to be concerned about, the Palma consulate is not being run down. The appointment of a second Vice-Consul certainly doesn't sound like it anyway. Yet.

The departure of Paul Abrey has not been handled well, but the reaction last week has more than a hint of over-reaction. And a reason for the over-reaction lies with what a British Consul represents to certain elements within the expatriate community. There will no longer be a British Consul to hob-nob with, to have photos taken with. The usual suspects will no longer be able to acquire kudos by rubbing shoulders with our man in Palma or through inviting him to their latest event.

I wonder, therefore, how long the "outrage" might last. When Andrew Gwatkin, our man in Barcelona and now "our man" pitches up in Palma, will the expat glitterati shun him? Will they express their displeasure by snubbing him? No. Let the new schmooze begin.

Paul was popular. Had he not been, the reaction would have been different. The Embassy and the FCO could, should have been more up-front and should have communicated better. The two issues - Abrey's departure and his non-replacement - have become confused because of poor communication. Had Paul not been popular, there would not be the same "outrage".


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

PSYCHO-X: Categorising expats

Psychographics are the study of personality, values, attitudes, interests and lifestyles. Psychographics as a concept was invented in order to turn the dross of the bleeding obvious into the gold of a marketing man's dreams. It is one that has spawned new words and new terms - yuppie, baby boomer, Generation X, they are all the product of psychographics.

There are also psychographics which have no particular end-product in mind. They exist in order to categorise and are a staple for magazines and other forms of media as they allow readers or users to score where they stand according to whatever they are attempting to measure or define. To add to this wholly pointless body of work, I present my own contribution. I have yet to flesh out the detail of the survey that would be required, but the results (as and when I get round to the survey) will allow you to see where you rank according to my patented new system of psychographics called PSYCHO-X.

This revolutionary methodology classifies, for the first time, styles of expatriate in Mallorca. PSYCHO-X stands for psychographics of expatriates, and it will enable you to fully understand where you rank in your local community. Are you, for example, extraordinarily important (usually in your own opinion) or are you a complete and utter nobody?

Some key categories are:

Stairway To Heaven. You are the ultimate social climber. Life exists for one purpose and one purpose alone, to have your photo in the "Bulletin" at least once a week. And if it isn't in at least once a week, you fire off an indignant letter to the editor insisting that one is inserted immediately.

All Publicity Is Good Publicity. Really, there is no bad publicity, it is all good because you make it so. Similar to the STH, the APIGP is constantly reminding his or her network to remind everyone else how interesting he or she is. You are, because self-publicity is all you are interested in, inclined to refer to yourself by means of glowing nouns - mover and shaker, award-winner, leading member of the community - just in case anyone has failed to appreciate that you are one of these. As with the STH, the rest of the community considers you to be a complete nob (those who have actually heard of you, and there are far fewer than you might hope).

Girls Around. You aren't necessarily a girl, as you could very much be a woman. In fact you are more likely to be mature, but "boogying" - a word no one under the age of 30 would dream of using - to the latest house music sensation, something which you do at least twice a week, instantly makes you 21. You also aren't necessarily either an STH or APIGP, but you probably have ambitions to be one or the other. You spend your days and nights having lunch or dinner, being invited to all the best functions, spraying yourself with fake tan if the sun hasn't been out for a couple of days and are a regular visitor to the teeth-whitening clinic.

Comfortably Numb. You are well-off, live in a gated paradise and spend all day getting pissed.

Uncomfortably Numb. You aren't well-off, live in a small studio apartment and spend all day getting pissed.

Go Wild In The Country. You have gone totally native. You live on a run-down finca with goats roaming in and out of the house, eat only tumbet and tell anyone you encounter that they should only eat it as well (with some trampo). You speak Mallorquín badly and habitually drop Mallorquín words into conversation with your ignorant, English-newspaper-reading British friends (the few that you still have, if any).

Nowhere Man (Or Woman). No one has the faintest idea who you are. You drift on the periphery of the expat community, never being invited to anything.

The Old Colonial. You appreciate - just - that Empire has gone but you are prone to drone on and on about how great the old country is, the one you no longer live in.

The Couldn't Care Less. You just carry on your life not in completely blissful ignorance of anything to do with Mallorca but with little interest in anything to do with Mallorca, except that the sun shines, the Sky card is working ok and they haven't totally stopped all winter flights. You have certainly never heard of anyone in the STH, APIGP and GA categories and have no interest in hearing about them.

Well, there we are. In fact, these are just a few of the PSYCHO-X categories. There are many more, and you can probably think of your own. So please let me know and I'll gladly nick your ideas.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Why Andrew Mitchell Is Irrelevant

Over the past few days Spain has experienced momentous events that point to more than just some little local difficulties. Catalonia has taken the first step towards seceding and becoming an independent nation. Riots have taken place in Madrid against the government's economic policies. Violence has been perpetrated by both protesters and police; the latter had also infiltrated the protesters - with what aim in mind exactly? The banks need a colossal financial injection from Europe and the government totters on the edge of requesting its own bailout.

Spain's reputation has been dragged through an already deep mud. The prime minister, immune to PR, has been out walking while puffing on a fine cigar; his own twist on Nero by engaging in a form of burning while Spain burns. So widespread and in tatters is this reputation that even the Taiwanese have come up with a satirical video replete with images of police violence and an inept Rajoy as Pinocchio. Closer to Spain, the British media (that in Britain, that is) has drawn attention to chemists in Valencia which have all but run out of medicines and to Spain's cultural fabric being torn apart. It is hard not to feel that with the massive show of support for independence on the streets of Barcelona and the at-times shocking scenes and reports from Madrid that it is more than just the cultural fabric that is being torn apart. This is a country being torn apart.

The morale of the Spanish people is slumping to the point that it has to be asked how much more can they take. On top of the austerity, humiliation is being heaped on the country by foreign media and, in all likelihood, by the act of having to go cap in hand for the bailout; the final humiliation.

Over the past few days Mallorca has experienced less momentous events but it has nevertheless experienced bad news. Finance from national government has been almost halved. The economy has been put on "red alert" by the Centre for Economic Research. The standards of democracy have been attacked by the Economics Society of businesspeople and professionals. Levels of child poverty have been said by Unicef to affect almost a third of under 18s in the Balearics. A separate report, by the Economics and Social Council, has said something similar, while bemoaning an economic over-reliance on tourism and a lack of investment in education and innovation. Pleas for diversification of the economy, for innovation and for improved standards of education have come from other sources. And with September ending and October starting, the first wave of the seasonal unemployed are going in search of benefits that may or may not exist, and which are low in any event, or are going in search of work which is almost totally non-existent.

Mallorca escapes the worst of Spain's implosion because of its geography, and this remoteness adds to a sense of being shielded. Or at least, this is how some of its expatriates would like to think. There is plenty of wealth in Mallorca is just one of the fatuous remarks I have encountered and which is expressed to explain why events in Madrid could not be repeated on the island. Of course there is wealth in Mallorca. So there is in Madrid and even in Extremadura and Andalucía, two of the poorest regions of Spain. Wealth means nothing though to the unemployed, the impoverished, those with no sign of a future.

Expatriates do not exist in a state of blissful ignorance as to what is happening in Spain, though some give a very good impression of doing so. Maybe some are ignorant. Certainly some will consider that all is well in the world so long as there is the golf club and the yacht club, and so long as the greatest concern is for what damage the boat might suffer as a consequence of autumn storms.

No, the expatriate isn't necessarily ignorant but despite living in Mallorca, he or she sees what's happening as somehow distant. He or she is still locked in a world that is in fact distant, in Britain. He or she looks to Britain for solace, because he or she can understand Britain. And so matters in Britain, amidst the gathering turmoil in Spain, acquire or have not lost importance. They can be explained. There is reassurance in being able to explain them, even when they should be of little consequence because they are relatively inconsequential and because they are over there, in Britain, and not over here.

While momentous events occur in Spain, how does the expatriate seek this reassurance? For example, in earnest discussion of what is irrelevant to local life, argument over the meaning of a word ("pleb") and dissection of the character of a stupid Conservative politician who had a stupid brush with a probably equally stupid policeman. I, for one, couldn't give a damn. I do give a damn about what is happening in Spain. I have nothing whatsoever to say about Andrew bloody Mitchell.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.