Comedian Marcus Brigstocke used to do a routine about a particular segment of the daytime television-viewing public and the adverts designed to appeal to them. These were ads for loans for those who would otherwise not get them and claims for compensation, such as for holidays that go wrong. Or rather don't go wrong but are made to appear as if they do.
Brigstocke was biting. The people they get on these ads to sell you this stuff, he observed, "you've never seen more ropey-looking pikey fuckers in your life". It's a good case of empathetic diversity marketing. Brigstocke's, let's abbreviate them to PFs, were appealing to PFs watching the telly. And we all know the type of PF he had in mind: Benefits Street lowlife dragging their knuckles along the floor.
Let's make one thing very clear. These PFs represent only a small minority of those who go to giant, economy-class all-inclusives, but they exist in sufficient number to make the efforts of ambulance chasers, aka claims' farmers, worthwhile. And why is this type of all-inclusive targeted? Because a) there are huge numbers of tourists, b) a lot of them are British, and c) this type of PF doesn't stay anywhere else. In the process, further fuel is added to the prejudice directed at guests who simply don't merit it (because they're honest and decent). Moreover, folk who genuinely do have grounds for complaint and claims are tarred by the same brush.
The sufficient number is costing hotels in Mallorca, Benidorm, the Costa del Sol and Tenerife a small fortune. Exact figures seem elusive, as reports give different ones. According to Cehat, the national hoteliers confederation, the figure nationwide last year was fifty million euros. But now we are told that last year in Mallorca alone the figure was 50 million.
Someone is either exaggerating or underestimating. Let's just accept that the scam is costing hotels a hell of a lot of money, and it is a scam - a total scam. The PF holidaymaker can get his or her holiday paid for (plus more if lucky) simply by filling in a form, provided by the scamming claims' farmers, and offering the weakest of evidence (imodium bought from a chemist's shop). There isn't even a need to file the complaint while on holiday, such is the absurdity of UK law that permits claims to be made long afterwards and which places the burden of proof on the hotel/tour operator.
Where the claim is made via the tour operator, which it typically is, contractual arrangements allow the tour operator - rather than fight a case that might end up costing 50,000 pounds - to cough up and then subtract the compensation payment from a hotel's invoice. Hence, it is the hotels which always lose out.
As far as I am aware, there has as yet not been the type of ambulance - the Claims Clinic - parked up by Mallorcan all-inclusives as there has been in Tenerife. It may only be a matter of time, though, as in this year. Being in the midst of Alcudia all-inclusivana, I have observed what goes on, and have been given chapter and verse by tour operator reps as well. It's despicable, utterly despicable, as bad if not worse than the old scratch-card, time-share try-on and miles, miles worse than anything the lookies get up to.
There is a further major reason why all-inclusives (of a certain type) are targeted. That's because there is a vastly reduced likelihood that PFs who make claims will have eaten anything outside the hotel. Therefore, m'lud, I respectfully submit that the all-inclusive has to be responsible. Quite right, Mr. Claims Farmer, here's a three grand award for your client. From which a commission is taken.
Hoteliers, tour operators are seeking to fight back, informing prospective fraudsters that a false claim is a criminal offence in Spain. And so it is in the UK. Yet, UK courts seem duty bound to accept these frauds without smelling a rat. They will have been presented, as are tour operator reps here, with the same evidence time and time again. The same form, the same imodium.
In what other ways are they fighting back? Jet2 has its gastroenteritis questionnaire, which may well deter PFs who are too stupid to be able to fill it out. Another way is to stop doing business with the British. This may be an extreme solution, it may well not be possible, but it most certainly is being considered.
Mallorca's hoteliers know full well the businesses behind the scams. They also know about the enticements on social media. The only ones who don't seem to know are the UK's legal authorities. It's high time that they accepted their responsibilities for having permitted fraud on a grand scale and for eliminating the pikey fuckers.
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 01, 2017
Monday, October 17, 2016
When In Rome ...
The week before last a delegation set sail for the Eternal City. Its mission was to seek out new saints (one in particular) and to seemingly go where no eco-nationalist, anti-capitalist politician would normally boldly go. Mick of the Council and XeLo of Parliament were members of this delegation, their three-day mission to have an audience with the Pope and press the claims of Ramon Llull for sainthood.
The claims-pressing, one fancies, was handled more by Sebastia Taltavull, who is sort of the Bishop of Mallorca, as in he appears to be in temporary charge of the bishopric since the naughty bishop was given the heave-ho. But for appearances' sake, the presence of senior political figures was required, even if they are not of the variety normally associated with matters of strict Catholicism.
The mission over and the delegation was waved off back to Mallorca minus one member. XeLo had gone AWOL. Rather than returning to the Podemos Republic of Mallorca, XeLo stayed on in Rome, bustling through the streets of the Eternal City, credit card at the ready to splash out on Armani or the latest JLo collection. XeLo was on holiday, and she wouldn't be returning for the National Day celebrations, which, rather like church matters, do not loom high on the list of priorities of good Podemos citizens. Moreover, she skipped Tuesday's parliamentary session. The president (speaker) of the house was nowhere to be seen. She was still in Rome.
Questions were duly asked. Not directly to XeLo in parliament because she wasn't there. But no sooner had she landed in Palma, and had to fight her way through the millions of Germans who had invaded the island and saturated it once more, than the questions were being put. Why were you on holiday? Who paid for it?
In fact, XeLo had saved the citizens some money, as she had paid for the return flight. The citizens were doubtless immensely grateful, those who could be bothered to pay any attention to the row. As for having a holiday, well, she hadn't had the time in summer, it seemed. Which is all somewhat strange. Parliament, like schools, breaks up in mid-June and doesn't gather again until mid-September. Yes, there is the odd extraordinary session (extraordinary that the 59 deputies are doing anything), but the official XeLo agenda during summer suggested that there were more than 60 days when she could put her feet up.
Then there was the question about the Ethical Code, the part of it which deals with turning official trips into private holidays. Because XeLo isn't a member of the government, this doesn't actually apply to her, but the spirit of the code appeared to have been broken. To XeLo's defence came virtually no one, except for Laura, the Boot Girl. Camargo insisted that the workers' statutes provide for 30 days holidays. XeLo had otherwise only had the odd day off here or there since being elevated to her lofty status.
Was it all a fuss about nothing? Quite probably so. After all, and as a PSOE sort observed, it didn't make any difference to the parliamentary session. There are substitute speakers, unless they are also off on holiday in Rome.
The claims-pressing, one fancies, was handled more by Sebastia Taltavull, who is sort of the Bishop of Mallorca, as in he appears to be in temporary charge of the bishopric since the naughty bishop was given the heave-ho. But for appearances' sake, the presence of senior political figures was required, even if they are not of the variety normally associated with matters of strict Catholicism.
The mission over and the delegation was waved off back to Mallorca minus one member. XeLo had gone AWOL. Rather than returning to the Podemos Republic of Mallorca, XeLo stayed on in Rome, bustling through the streets of the Eternal City, credit card at the ready to splash out on Armani or the latest JLo collection. XeLo was on holiday, and she wouldn't be returning for the National Day celebrations, which, rather like church matters, do not loom high on the list of priorities of good Podemos citizens. Moreover, she skipped Tuesday's parliamentary session. The president (speaker) of the house was nowhere to be seen. She was still in Rome.
Questions were duly asked. Not directly to XeLo in parliament because she wasn't there. But no sooner had she landed in Palma, and had to fight her way through the millions of Germans who had invaded the island and saturated it once more, than the questions were being put. Why were you on holiday? Who paid for it?
In fact, XeLo had saved the citizens some money, as she had paid for the return flight. The citizens were doubtless immensely grateful, those who could be bothered to pay any attention to the row. As for having a holiday, well, she hadn't had the time in summer, it seemed. Which is all somewhat strange. Parliament, like schools, breaks up in mid-June and doesn't gather again until mid-September. Yes, there is the odd extraordinary session (extraordinary that the 59 deputies are doing anything), but the official XeLo agenda during summer suggested that there were more than 60 days when she could put her feet up.
Then there was the question about the Ethical Code, the part of it which deals with turning official trips into private holidays. Because XeLo isn't a member of the government, this doesn't actually apply to her, but the spirit of the code appeared to have been broken. To XeLo's defence came virtually no one, except for Laura, the Boot Girl. Camargo insisted that the workers' statutes provide for 30 days holidays. XeLo had otherwise only had the odd day off here or there since being elevated to her lofty status.
Was it all a fuss about nothing? Quite probably so. After all, and as a PSOE sort observed, it didn't make any difference to the parliamentary session. There are substitute speakers, unless they are also off on holiday in Rome.
Friday, October 09, 2015
Things That Make You Go Aaargh! Skype
It's a piece of socio-cultural trivia that occasionally I am reminded of. Southern Europeans, supposedly, have less appreciation of personal space than their northern European counterparts. I don't recall the origin of this insight into behaviour, but it has stuck with me nonetheless.
A place where personal space is most obviously an issue is the beach. By some peculiar rule of attraction, it is possible to be on a largely empty beach and for someone to arrive and place him or herself within body odour proximity to you. Why this magnetism? Heaven only knows. But on the south v. north principle, the assumption would be that the one invading your personal space is Spanish. Or Italian. Or some other southern European sort. Were it someone from Sweden, the positioning would be as far away as possible.
Personally, I am unconvinced by this theory. It seems applicable or unapplicable to anyone, from whichever country. Much would depend on the individual's sense of territory, and as such this is the common to everyone, regardless of nationality.
The beach, being a public space, has no legislation for the maximum number of people who should be on it at any given time or for minimum space requirements. There are rules, such as no playing football, no taking a boat out in non-nautical sport areas, no dogs, no taking a leak (you and the dog), but the beach isn't private accommodation with mandated regulation as to living space, except, in a sense, with the positioning of sunbeds, the number of which can invade space to such a degree that non-sunbed users complain about the "privatising" of areas that are, by law, in the public domain.
In addition to this physical territorialism, for which there can be no practically applied rule, there is what one might call the invasion of mental space. Close proximity of others is one thing, what they do is another. No sooner have they arrived on the beach and they, for example, unpack the paddle tennis rackets and knock-knock their way into your mental space, into your hearing.
Ultimately, the only solution to this invasion of mental space is to simply not bother going to the beach. The alternative, if you are a holidaymaker that is, is the hotel, the poolside, the grounds. The sardining of humanity into some hotel areas beggars all belief of personal space principles. Tourism massification, be it on a beach or by a hotel pool, is such that you wonder why anyone would choose to spend good money on being subjected to this constant proximity and constant noise. It goes against all unwritten rules of personal territory.
But tourism has its own peculiarities that stem from a temporary suspension of normal behaviours. The herding instinct is, if you think about, unfathomable. Why would you put yourself through it in the pursuit of a suntan to show off to the neighbours when you get back?
There is now far greater incursion into mental space than previously. It comes thanks to technology. Any study of tourist demand that is conducted will reveal that high on the list of requirements is wifi. It is no longer an option, it is a necessity. Society is linked by the smartphone or tablet, and within the range of uses on which the holidaymaker places particular priority is the ability to communicate. This means Skype.
Some hotels have wifi zones. Enter them, and they are like any other social space. Considerable chatter. But they are different in that half of this chatter is of a rasping, tinny character. It is the cacophony of digital voice communication. Confined to an area, it is a communal experience, but it is a further example of the illogic of massification. Why do you want to listen to others' conversations? You can't avoid them, as both parties are typically conducting their conservations at high volume.
At least no one can object to the noise if they are all part of it, corralled into the wifi zone. But then there is the universally available wifi, and so the conversations conducted on balconies, by pools. My guess is that many who do so and inflict their communications on others would be the same who would object to someone shouting down a mobile (without a Skype response) or to the music coming from earphones in a train carriage.
The point is that a balcony, be it hotel or residence, is private space and not public, and so therefore one's neighbours have their private space. There is a vast difference between face-to-face conservations and those conducted digitally. The latter has an irritation factor that the former does not. It is also often more intimate in content than other conversations are, which might, when they dwell on the intimate, go to a whisper. It is an invasion of mental space brought about through an absence of consideration, through the neglect of the Spanish legal concept of "convivencia". Skype by all means, but not in earshot.
A place where personal space is most obviously an issue is the beach. By some peculiar rule of attraction, it is possible to be on a largely empty beach and for someone to arrive and place him or herself within body odour proximity to you. Why this magnetism? Heaven only knows. But on the south v. north principle, the assumption would be that the one invading your personal space is Spanish. Or Italian. Or some other southern European sort. Were it someone from Sweden, the positioning would be as far away as possible.
Personally, I am unconvinced by this theory. It seems applicable or unapplicable to anyone, from whichever country. Much would depend on the individual's sense of territory, and as such this is the common to everyone, regardless of nationality.
The beach, being a public space, has no legislation for the maximum number of people who should be on it at any given time or for minimum space requirements. There are rules, such as no playing football, no taking a boat out in non-nautical sport areas, no dogs, no taking a leak (you and the dog), but the beach isn't private accommodation with mandated regulation as to living space, except, in a sense, with the positioning of sunbeds, the number of which can invade space to such a degree that non-sunbed users complain about the "privatising" of areas that are, by law, in the public domain.
In addition to this physical territorialism, for which there can be no practically applied rule, there is what one might call the invasion of mental space. Close proximity of others is one thing, what they do is another. No sooner have they arrived on the beach and they, for example, unpack the paddle tennis rackets and knock-knock their way into your mental space, into your hearing.
Ultimately, the only solution to this invasion of mental space is to simply not bother going to the beach. The alternative, if you are a holidaymaker that is, is the hotel, the poolside, the grounds. The sardining of humanity into some hotel areas beggars all belief of personal space principles. Tourism massification, be it on a beach or by a hotel pool, is such that you wonder why anyone would choose to spend good money on being subjected to this constant proximity and constant noise. It goes against all unwritten rules of personal territory.
But tourism has its own peculiarities that stem from a temporary suspension of normal behaviours. The herding instinct is, if you think about, unfathomable. Why would you put yourself through it in the pursuit of a suntan to show off to the neighbours when you get back?
There is now far greater incursion into mental space than previously. It comes thanks to technology. Any study of tourist demand that is conducted will reveal that high on the list of requirements is wifi. It is no longer an option, it is a necessity. Society is linked by the smartphone or tablet, and within the range of uses on which the holidaymaker places particular priority is the ability to communicate. This means Skype.
Some hotels have wifi zones. Enter them, and they are like any other social space. Considerable chatter. But they are different in that half of this chatter is of a rasping, tinny character. It is the cacophony of digital voice communication. Confined to an area, it is a communal experience, but it is a further example of the illogic of massification. Why do you want to listen to others' conversations? You can't avoid them, as both parties are typically conducting their conservations at high volume.
At least no one can object to the noise if they are all part of it, corralled into the wifi zone. But then there is the universally available wifi, and so the conversations conducted on balconies, by pools. My guess is that many who do so and inflict their communications on others would be the same who would object to someone shouting down a mobile (without a Skype response) or to the music coming from earphones in a train carriage.
The point is that a balcony, be it hotel or residence, is private space and not public, and so therefore one's neighbours have their private space. There is a vast difference between face-to-face conservations and those conducted digitally. The latter has an irritation factor that the former does not. It is also often more intimate in content than other conversations are, which might, when they dwell on the intimate, go to a whisper. It is an invasion of mental space brought about through an absence of consideration, through the neglect of the Spanish legal concept of "convivencia". Skype by all means, but not in earshot.
Tuesday, August 04, 2015
Fun, Fun, Fun: Of holidays lost
"Well, she got her daddy's car, And she's cruisin' through the hamburger stand now. Seems she forgot all about the library, Like she told her old man now. And with the radio blastin', Goes cruisin' just as fast as she can now. And she'll have fun, fun, fun, Till her daddy takes the T-Bird away."
You would stop short of describing these lyrics as "immortal", but in their simplicity, Mike Love summed up youth and summer over fifty years ago. It was what Love specialised in: simple lyrics. His ego assaulted as much as his concept of the pop song was under attack, it was he who took greatest umbrage at the intrusion of Van Dyke Parks into the lyrical world of The Beach Boys. Parks made things complicated and sophisticated, and in the process reached far more deeply into Brian Wilson's multi-stranded mind. Three years after "Fun, Fun, Fun", the first collaboration with Parks and so the sidelining of Love ushered forth "Heroes And Villains" with its allusions to the genocide of native Indians and to the good and bad guys of the music industry.
There is a great deal that is analogous between pop music and tourism of the 1960s. 1964 was still a time for the pioneer, for the frontiersmen of the untamed holiday lands and for those who followed in their droves in airborne wagons. It was a time that was essentially innocent in all respects. Though Brian Wilson could sing of making love in "Don't Worry Baby", it was a time before sex was invented. The girls would borrow the T-Birds and cruise to the beach to be with the surfer boys but when they got there, the result was just innocent fun. For the tourist to Mallorca - young female ones - there was always the dubious charm of the "picadores", the Latin lovers of legend with their phrase-book chat-up lines who targeted easier pickings than those on offer locally who were shielded by chaperones and a strict Catholic upbringing. But for the most part, the third S had yet to be added to those of sun and sea. There was, though, an F-word, and it was "fun".
In 1964 both industries - music and tourism - were only just coming to terms with whatever monsters they were creating. The changes over a three-year period were enormous. The number of tourists rocketed, with all this implied for infrastructure, logistics, marketing, foreign exchange. Operations had to become more sophisticated because they were more complicated. The music industry, meanwhile, was undergoing constant transformation and experimentation along with the advancing production techniques that facilitated output like The Beach Boys' "Heroes And Villains".
1967, in Britain at any rate, was a landmark year for all sorts of reasons. Socially, the summer of love, the pill, the Abortion Act represented fundamental change. Musically, it was "Sgt. Pepper's", "Their Satanic Majesties Request", Pink Floyd and all the rest. For tourism it was a year when, with numbers already rising rapidly, the most ambitious scheme for tourism development ever was architecturally conceived - Alcudia's massive Ciudad Blanca.
For a three-year window, there was a time when tourism was innocent fun, but the dynamics had altered. There were now arguably more villains than heroes in the tourism industry. Gone were the visions of the first pioneers, such as Gerard Blitz of Club Med and Vladimir Raitz of Horizon. Fun became distorted amidst what was a process through which the visitor became a commodity. The very word "tourist" has a mechanistic quality to it: someone who makes a tour, someone who moves and is to be moved. Tourism became a commodity industry. It was de-personalised in the pursuit of more sophisticated systems of process management and mass production.
It was perhaps all a consequence of semantics. The promotion of the "tourist" meant that the alternative of "holidaymaker" was lost sight of. The latter carries an implication of fun that the former doesn't, but while there was of course still enormous amounts of fun, the perception had shifted away from that core element of what holidays should, above all else, be about.
Come forward to the present day, and while fun remains, it has itself been made mechanistic. There is prescription: what you will do. There is proscription: what you can't do. When there are millions of people, there have to be rules. Of course there have to be, but in a sense it isn't the proscription that is at fault so much as the prescription: everything that is laid on; the removal of improvisation and adventure; the branding; the packaging; the facilities of contemporary life - from information to be demanded, not stumbled across, to wifi and the obliteration of free time.
Fun. It should be the first word in the tourism industry's lexicon. Unfortunately, the daddies of the industry have long since taken the carefree T-birds away.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
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
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
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Summertime: Classic summer songs
Music is the sound of holiday and especially the sound of holiday remembered. It's why the classic song has that much greater power than one of the current day. Fun in the sun of summers past and happy days, it is a song that can spark off the memories as much as a photo album can or spark off nostalgia as much as the smell from a grill can.
Holiday music of today can have the same trivial frivolity of, say, a "Beach Baby Beach", but it is dominated by two genres which share a common lineage - club and chill. And of these, chill, despite its inoffensiveness, has acquired a ubiquity, predictability and familiarity that has left it hanging limply from the white, sanitised walls of the "chill" bar. Unattended to because no one actually listens to it, chill has become muzak wallpaper, deprived of the hippyish, beachside, sunsetting or sunrising ecstasy of Ibiza whence it originated in the '80s.
The classic, on the other hand, creates an emotion that catches the breath and transports you back to when a song, like the holiday itself, seemed to be suspended in time, suspended under the sun of a long, hot summer; moments of laughter, splashing, diving, dancing, all frozen like an ice-cool drink in a lyric, a melody or harmony.
Arguably, George Gershwin invented the summer classic, but "Summertime" was not exactly written with days by the beach in mind. It is the title that offers the allusion to holidays. As such, therefore, in order to be a summer classic, the word summer has to be somewhere in the title. Or does it?
The answer is yes and no. The greatest summer-classic song of all time shares its title with Gershwin's. DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air (aka Will Smith) came up with the perfect, languid dance rhythm, sprinkled it with unforgettable imagery and sense provocation ("the smell from a grill", "the temperature's about 88") and borrowed the looking-at-girls summertime cruising of The Beach Boys, which had done more than anything to establish the summer-classic genre three decades before.
Almost any song you care to think of by The Beach Boys was a summer classic. Whether it was the euphoric burst of Brian Wilson's vocal on "Wouldn't It Be Nice" or the falsetto harmonies of "All Summer Long" (which was to become the song at the end of one of the ultimate summer films, "American Graffiti"), a Beach Boys song conjured up the atmosphere of sun, sand and sea. Indeed, with roots in surfing and California's beaches, an argument can be made for The Beach Boys having been the music of early mass tourism and even perhaps of having helped to inspire it.
While Brian Wilson was slowly going crazy, in 1967 there was the first summer of love, which, for all that you would have expected it to have produced otherwise, was notable for a song which was the total antithesis of the normal summer tune. "A Whiter Shade Of Pale" couldn't, in its title alone, have been further away from what people now required from a holiday.
Though Procol Harum had a monster hit, usual summer-classic criteria would exclude it from the ranks of the classic. It was just simply too miserable. Which was not the case when the second summer of love came along (two summers, if one is being strictly accurate). There was little chance of there being any misery. Why? In a word, ecstasy.
If you weren't loved-up in 1989, then you certainly weren't in Ibiza. But for all that this was the second summer of love - and perhaps it was just the sheer onslaught of music that emerged that year - it's hard to pinpoint any obvious summer classics: "Ride On Time", "Back To Life" perhaps.
The onslaught since technology enabled pretty much anyone to make music has created bodies of work that are all but impossible to keep track of. Back in the day, when there was far less music, classics stood out. They were more easily identifiable with a moment in time, and so when Will Smith had his hit in 1991 (and the song contained the line "think of the summers of the past"), the second "Summertime" perhaps marked the last moment of the summer classic. Nowadays, it is lost in the weight of musical output, becoming a blur like all that chill. And somewhere in Majorca, there will be a chill bar that is playing what it calls a chill tune. It will be "Summer Madness". Kool & The Gang, 1974. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince reprised it.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Holiday music of today can have the same trivial frivolity of, say, a "Beach Baby Beach", but it is dominated by two genres which share a common lineage - club and chill. And of these, chill, despite its inoffensiveness, has acquired a ubiquity, predictability and familiarity that has left it hanging limply from the white, sanitised walls of the "chill" bar. Unattended to because no one actually listens to it, chill has become muzak wallpaper, deprived of the hippyish, beachside, sunsetting or sunrising ecstasy of Ibiza whence it originated in the '80s.
The classic, on the other hand, creates an emotion that catches the breath and transports you back to when a song, like the holiday itself, seemed to be suspended in time, suspended under the sun of a long, hot summer; moments of laughter, splashing, diving, dancing, all frozen like an ice-cool drink in a lyric, a melody or harmony.
Arguably, George Gershwin invented the summer classic, but "Summertime" was not exactly written with days by the beach in mind. It is the title that offers the allusion to holidays. As such, therefore, in order to be a summer classic, the word summer has to be somewhere in the title. Or does it?
The answer is yes and no. The greatest summer-classic song of all time shares its title with Gershwin's. DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air (aka Will Smith) came up with the perfect, languid dance rhythm, sprinkled it with unforgettable imagery and sense provocation ("the smell from a grill", "the temperature's about 88") and borrowed the looking-at-girls summertime cruising of The Beach Boys, which had done more than anything to establish the summer-classic genre three decades before.
Almost any song you care to think of by The Beach Boys was a summer classic. Whether it was the euphoric burst of Brian Wilson's vocal on "Wouldn't It Be Nice" or the falsetto harmonies of "All Summer Long" (which was to become the song at the end of one of the ultimate summer films, "American Graffiti"), a Beach Boys song conjured up the atmosphere of sun, sand and sea. Indeed, with roots in surfing and California's beaches, an argument can be made for The Beach Boys having been the music of early mass tourism and even perhaps of having helped to inspire it.
While Brian Wilson was slowly going crazy, in 1967 there was the first summer of love, which, for all that you would have expected it to have produced otherwise, was notable for a song which was the total antithesis of the normal summer tune. "A Whiter Shade Of Pale" couldn't, in its title alone, have been further away from what people now required from a holiday.
Though Procol Harum had a monster hit, usual summer-classic criteria would exclude it from the ranks of the classic. It was just simply too miserable. Which was not the case when the second summer of love came along (two summers, if one is being strictly accurate). There was little chance of there being any misery. Why? In a word, ecstasy.
If you weren't loved-up in 1989, then you certainly weren't in Ibiza. But for all that this was the second summer of love - and perhaps it was just the sheer onslaught of music that emerged that year - it's hard to pinpoint any obvious summer classics: "Ride On Time", "Back To Life" perhaps.
The onslaught since technology enabled pretty much anyone to make music has created bodies of work that are all but impossible to keep track of. Back in the day, when there was far less music, classics stood out. They were more easily identifiable with a moment in time, and so when Will Smith had his hit in 1991 (and the song contained the line "think of the summers of the past"), the second "Summertime" perhaps marked the last moment of the summer classic. Nowadays, it is lost in the weight of musical output, becoming a blur like all that chill. And somewhere in Majorca, there will be a chill bar that is playing what it calls a chill tune. It will be "Summer Madness". Kool & The Gang, 1974. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince reprised it.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
From Morecambe To Mallorca
Morecambe, Eastbourne, Minehead, Southend. I have been to each of them, though of the four I am most familiar with Morecambe. I lived there while I was at university, and during this time, I almost froze to death, was blown off my feet by a gale and used to head for the hills when Scottish Fortnight descended on the resort.
Paul Theroux, writing in "The Kingdom By The Sea" in 1983, said of Morecambe that he was astonished "that anyone would come here for a vacation and to have fun, since it seemed the sort of place that would fill even the cheeriest visitor with thoughts of woe". Theroux, an American, admitted, however, that he was "incapable of surmounting" the cultural barrier that enabled holidaymakers to enjoy themselves even in the drizzle, of which there was a great deal if my memory serves.
Morecambe and the other aforementioned British seaside resorts were listed recently among ten old-fashioned seaside towns by "The Guardian". It is difficult to know when Morecambe wasn't old-fashioned, as it was antediluvian even back in the seventies. There again, all British seaside resorts were, with the exception of Brighton.
Southend I can remember only vaguely, but it holds a place in my family history as it was the seaside town that East Enders would go to. I have a photo from the 1920s in which my grandmother and another young woman were done up in Roaring Twenties-style finery, parading on Southend pier, arms linked with a short, fat bloke with a boater who looked as though he was a music-hall turn but who was in fact a butcher from East Ham.
The pier is significant, as the pier was also significant in other seaside resorts. It was the centre of entertainment; indeed, it was the centrepoint of these towns. The pier and the British seaside resort have of course never been the same, ever since the sixties and seventies saw the traditional holidaymaker being taken away from the traditional seaside holiday in order to found a new tradition - the Mallorcan seaside holiday.
There is a misconception, and always has been a misconception, that some of Mallorca's resorts were merely traditional British seaside resorts exported to the Mediterranean and given the one thing that the British seaside couldn't usually offer - the sun. There is an element of truth to this, but only an element. Yes, there were and are fish and chips, but what of the traditions and characteristics of the British seaside? Where is there a pier, for example? One with bingo and slot machines and dire comedians. Where are the fish stalls of a Southend or a Hastings with their whelks and their jellied eels? Where are the bandstands in the parks and their rows of deckchairs for OAPs to fall asleep in? Where are the Punch and Judy shows on the beaches? Where is the all-pervasive aroma of beef lard and rotting seaweed? And where, oh where, is the rain?
Even if it does rain in Mallorca, and God knows I wish it would, the British holidaymaker will always battle through, determined to make the most of the holiday whatever the weather might bring. This stoicism is in-bred. It is hard-wired holiday culturalism, an instinct developed over a hundred years and more of holidaymaking. It is precisely the point that Theroux was making when he had been expecting day-trippers to Morecambe to get off the train, take one look and burst into tears, but when he had failed to appreciate this instinctive holiday culturalism.
More than the physical trappings of the seaside holiday, what British holidaymakers exported to Mallorca was the concept of holiday as fun, come what may. It is a concept that the British invented, as the British also pretty much invented the idea of the holiday - full stop - and both were immune to whatever foulness the weather could throw at them. It is a concept the Mallorcans have never really understood and still don't, just as the Mallorcans don't understand the British capacity to take a joke. It should be easy to understand when people come from a country with a rubbish climate and head to a seaside town where the sea is absent for much of the day (Morecambe), so making them appreciate that the joke is on them and they had better make the most of it.
Theroux referred to a cultural barrier. This barrier has always existed in Mallorca, because the Mallorcans don't get the British culture. After all these years, you would have thought that they would have done, but they still don't understand the formula H = F. Holidays equal fun.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Paul Theroux, writing in "The Kingdom By The Sea" in 1983, said of Morecambe that he was astonished "that anyone would come here for a vacation and to have fun, since it seemed the sort of place that would fill even the cheeriest visitor with thoughts of woe". Theroux, an American, admitted, however, that he was "incapable of surmounting" the cultural barrier that enabled holidaymakers to enjoy themselves even in the drizzle, of which there was a great deal if my memory serves.
Morecambe and the other aforementioned British seaside resorts were listed recently among ten old-fashioned seaside towns by "The Guardian". It is difficult to know when Morecambe wasn't old-fashioned, as it was antediluvian even back in the seventies. There again, all British seaside resorts were, with the exception of Brighton.
Southend I can remember only vaguely, but it holds a place in my family history as it was the seaside town that East Enders would go to. I have a photo from the 1920s in which my grandmother and another young woman were done up in Roaring Twenties-style finery, parading on Southend pier, arms linked with a short, fat bloke with a boater who looked as though he was a music-hall turn but who was in fact a butcher from East Ham.
The pier is significant, as the pier was also significant in other seaside resorts. It was the centre of entertainment; indeed, it was the centrepoint of these towns. The pier and the British seaside resort have of course never been the same, ever since the sixties and seventies saw the traditional holidaymaker being taken away from the traditional seaside holiday in order to found a new tradition - the Mallorcan seaside holiday.
There is a misconception, and always has been a misconception, that some of Mallorca's resorts were merely traditional British seaside resorts exported to the Mediterranean and given the one thing that the British seaside couldn't usually offer - the sun. There is an element of truth to this, but only an element. Yes, there were and are fish and chips, but what of the traditions and characteristics of the British seaside? Where is there a pier, for example? One with bingo and slot machines and dire comedians. Where are the fish stalls of a Southend or a Hastings with their whelks and their jellied eels? Where are the bandstands in the parks and their rows of deckchairs for OAPs to fall asleep in? Where are the Punch and Judy shows on the beaches? Where is the all-pervasive aroma of beef lard and rotting seaweed? And where, oh where, is the rain?
Even if it does rain in Mallorca, and God knows I wish it would, the British holidaymaker will always battle through, determined to make the most of the holiday whatever the weather might bring. This stoicism is in-bred. It is hard-wired holiday culturalism, an instinct developed over a hundred years and more of holidaymaking. It is precisely the point that Theroux was making when he had been expecting day-trippers to Morecambe to get off the train, take one look and burst into tears, but when he had failed to appreciate this instinctive holiday culturalism.
More than the physical trappings of the seaside holiday, what British holidaymakers exported to Mallorca was the concept of holiday as fun, come what may. It is a concept that the British invented, as the British also pretty much invented the idea of the holiday - full stop - and both were immune to whatever foulness the weather could throw at them. It is a concept the Mallorcans have never really understood and still don't, just as the Mallorcans don't understand the British capacity to take a joke. It should be easy to understand when people come from a country with a rubbish climate and head to a seaside town where the sea is absent for much of the day (Morecambe), so making them appreciate that the joke is on them and they had better make the most of it.
Theroux referred to a cultural barrier. This barrier has always existed in Mallorca, because the Mallorcans don't get the British culture. After all these years, you would have thought that they would have done, but they still don't understand the formula H = F. Holidays equal fun.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Make Some Noise!
"If you come from Manchester, make some noise! If you come from Liverpool, make some noise! If you come from London, make some noise!" Whether it was Westwood, Trevor Nelson or P-Money, it didn't make any difference. Make some noise! The rallying cry of club time. "If you love Magalluf, make some noise! If you're having a great holiday, make some noise! If you're loving the heat, make some noise!"
Noise. Where would be without it? In some sleepy little village in the island's hinterland probably, surrounded only by the rustling of the bougainvillaea. There again, there would be a damn great Canadair suddenly looming into sound, preparing to dump its watery payload on the latest work of destruction by a pyromaniac, or a group of protesters demonstrating against the Castellano imposition, taking to the nearest dusty lane and smashing the pots and pans of a cacerolada. Or, and even in the sleepiest of villages, there would be the fiesta party, enough noise to waken the dead and unleash the demons with their whirling, fire-cracking tridents.
There is noise and there is noise. The natural Mallorcan noise is that of the Mallorcans themselves. When I first trod the boards as a teenager, my drama teacher took me to a courtyard, made me stand on one side while he was on the other. Pro-ject, he demanded. There is a difference between shouting and projecting, but the Mallorcans have been schooled in what is neither. It is a natural form of communication, known simply as loud.
Noise, you fancy therefore, begets more noise. From the natural state of noise, the addition of the unnatural registers far less than when the natural state is for quiet or for less noise. This unnaturalness is crucial to a Mallorcan summer (and sometimes a Mallorcan winter as well). Fiestas, parties, the endless stream of motos, grunting along the roads, the endless stream of traffic full stop. But rarely is it the case that whole groups of people are cajoled into making some noise, lots of it, over and over again.
The ceaseless, repetitious enjoinment of the audience at the Radio 1Xtra gig at Mallorca Rocks to make some noise on Saturday evening was like the whipping-up of troops into a frenzy prior to battle. The sheer relentlessness of the command was a mesmeric imperative amidst the mesmerism of the constant thump of music.
Make some noise. Away from Magalluf and a couple of hours later, there is noise. It comes from a villa that has been rented out. It is not from the apartment opposite where the Polish workers had been making some noise, a great deal of it, until three the previous morning, culminating in the smashing of bottles as they were discarded in the bottle bank. This hadn't been a noise of which I had been aware, thankfully because it was directed towards the sea and was blocked by the building itself. The villa's noise, though, was heading south and so in the other direction.
There is some noise, some music you can put up with, but seriously, Phil Collins? At gone two in the morning? And to make matters far worse, Phil Collins singing in Spanish. This affront to any possible definition of common courtesy and consideration required action. Make some noise? I did. It wasn't projecting, it was shouting. But I couldn't be heard. Not even by shouting through the open window through which the one-time Genesis drummer was singing his Spanish lament of one more night. One more night of making noise. Una noche más. De ruido. Though why the Germans in the villa had Phil in Spanish, I've no idea.
I don't really hold with this business of resorting to calling the cops, but I was willing to make an exception, thanks to Phil Collins. Plod was on the scene swiftly, but by the time they arrived, the windows had been closed, noise was not being made. I suspected a tip-off had been given by the Poles opposite in a rare moment of fraternity across the Oder-Neisse Line of the road.
It is quite possible that on Saturday night Mallorca registered its highest ever levels of noise. If it didn't, it wasn't for lack of trying. But then noise, and a great deal of it, is inevitable. Noise is summer, summer is noise. Restrictions on building work, sound limiters, terrace curfews. They may all have been designed to cut the noise, but there are always other noises to step up to the plate and replace them.
Make some noise? Easy, no problem, and it doesn't really need a DJ to command it.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Noise. Where would be without it? In some sleepy little village in the island's hinterland probably, surrounded only by the rustling of the bougainvillaea. There again, there would be a damn great Canadair suddenly looming into sound, preparing to dump its watery payload on the latest work of destruction by a pyromaniac, or a group of protesters demonstrating against the Castellano imposition, taking to the nearest dusty lane and smashing the pots and pans of a cacerolada. Or, and even in the sleepiest of villages, there would be the fiesta party, enough noise to waken the dead and unleash the demons with their whirling, fire-cracking tridents.
There is noise and there is noise. The natural Mallorcan noise is that of the Mallorcans themselves. When I first trod the boards as a teenager, my drama teacher took me to a courtyard, made me stand on one side while he was on the other. Pro-ject, he demanded. There is a difference between shouting and projecting, but the Mallorcans have been schooled in what is neither. It is a natural form of communication, known simply as loud.
Noise, you fancy therefore, begets more noise. From the natural state of noise, the addition of the unnatural registers far less than when the natural state is for quiet or for less noise. This unnaturalness is crucial to a Mallorcan summer (and sometimes a Mallorcan winter as well). Fiestas, parties, the endless stream of motos, grunting along the roads, the endless stream of traffic full stop. But rarely is it the case that whole groups of people are cajoled into making some noise, lots of it, over and over again.
The ceaseless, repetitious enjoinment of the audience at the Radio 1Xtra gig at Mallorca Rocks to make some noise on Saturday evening was like the whipping-up of troops into a frenzy prior to battle. The sheer relentlessness of the command was a mesmeric imperative amidst the mesmerism of the constant thump of music.
Make some noise. Away from Magalluf and a couple of hours later, there is noise. It comes from a villa that has been rented out. It is not from the apartment opposite where the Polish workers had been making some noise, a great deal of it, until three the previous morning, culminating in the smashing of bottles as they were discarded in the bottle bank. This hadn't been a noise of which I had been aware, thankfully because it was directed towards the sea and was blocked by the building itself. The villa's noise, though, was heading south and so in the other direction.
There is some noise, some music you can put up with, but seriously, Phil Collins? At gone two in the morning? And to make matters far worse, Phil Collins singing in Spanish. This affront to any possible definition of common courtesy and consideration required action. Make some noise? I did. It wasn't projecting, it was shouting. But I couldn't be heard. Not even by shouting through the open window through which the one-time Genesis drummer was singing his Spanish lament of one more night. One more night of making noise. Una noche más. De ruido. Though why the Germans in the villa had Phil in Spanish, I've no idea.
I don't really hold with this business of resorting to calling the cops, but I was willing to make an exception, thanks to Phil Collins. Plod was on the scene swiftly, but by the time they arrived, the windows had been closed, noise was not being made. I suspected a tip-off had been given by the Poles opposite in a rare moment of fraternity across the Oder-Neisse Line of the road.
It is quite possible that on Saturday night Mallorca registered its highest ever levels of noise. If it didn't, it wasn't for lack of trying. But then noise, and a great deal of it, is inevitable. Noise is summer, summer is noise. Restrictions on building work, sound limiters, terrace curfews. They may all have been designed to cut the noise, but there are always other noises to step up to the plate and replace them.
Make some noise? Easy, no problem, and it doesn't really need a DJ to command it.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
The Entertainment Industry: Holidays
It was a sort of Joe Loss And His Orchestra. I'm pretty sure it was. Not that I paid a great deal of attention. I was more interested in my "Football Monthly" special devoted to the World Cup.
The year was 1966. The place was Hastings. The hotel was called the Yelton. The smell of beef or pork dinner clung permanently to the walls, the floors and the air of the hotel. Following dinner, there was rarely anything specifically arranged, except for the occasion when this band turned up in a function room dominated by thick velvet, to which the stale smell of lard was able to attach itself with particular efficiency.
Holiday entertainment did exist at the English seaside, but it was rarely in-hotel. The following year, the "summer of love" and hippies ringing bells around the streets of Bournemouth, I was dragged off to the Winter Gardens to see The Rockin' Berries and Mrs Mills. Things hadn't advanced greatly by the time I was able to go off for a drunken week with friends to the Gower and ended up at a caravan site where the evening's entertainment was a drums-trumpet-organ combo. If you've ever seen "The Inbetweeners" one where they go to a Caravan Club meet at Camber Sands, you'll realise that things still haven't moved on.
At some point in the history of holidays, entertainment ceased to be the only very occasional, the truly abysmal and the optional and became the regular, slightly less abysmal and obligatory. But when was it? It certainly wasn't on the first occasion I set foot on Mallorcan soil - 1969. There was no hotel entertainment and of what there was outside, the best that can be said about it was that no one had the bright idea to ship Mrs Mills out.
We used to make our own entertainment and all that. Yet, by the 1960s we were no longer making our own entertainment. Not in the normal course of events anyway. We were supplied with entertainment, and I use the word with caution, and it did of course comprise Gladys Mills, plonking away on the old Joanna before giving way to some absurd Scots singer in a kilt. Yep, that was entertainment, folks. On the telly. But whereas we had become used to not making our own entertainment, when it came to holidays, we were forced to, though it mainly seemed, where I was concerned, to consist of having to sit outside a pub with a lemonade and a bag of Cheeselets.
One can come up with any number of reasons as to why holiday entertainment has become the essential that it now is. But perhaps the greatest single reason is familiarity and the absence of the new. In 1969, it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference whether there were kids' club, in-pool aerobics, Abba, bingo, sports competitions or not. And of course there weren't, and nor were they necessary. There was something very new that was all that was needed, and it was the thing up in the sky.
Holiday, holiday to a Mediterranean resort that is, has lost its sense of the new. Holidaymakers expect things to be laid on. The appeal, for example, of an all-inclusive lies in part in its convenience and its lack of stress, and the all-inclusive, the origins of which are much older than you might think, was instrumental in fostering the contemporary demand for entertainment at hotels, regardless of the type of board. The charge levelled at the all-inclusive that it creates a holiday that could be anywhere ignores the fact that holidays in the Med of whatever sort could be anywhere. A trib act or an entertainment team is much the same whether it's Alcúdia or Antalya. Or is it?
The importance of entertainment for today's holidaymaker has been the subject of an investigation by the Spanish tourism journalist Ignacio Gil via the "Hosteltur" magazine's online community. The results of this are a 50-page eBook. A key message that comes out of this investigation is that entertainment is vital to a hotel's ability to differentiate itself, and given the homogeneity of holiday across the Med, differentiation is crucial. Entertainment is not a cost, it is an investment. It is not obligatory so much as it is absolutely fundamental. And this fundamental demand goes beyond the grounds of a hotel. It is one made of entire resorts.
Gil's report is timely, because it confirms much of the dynamic that is behind the transformation of Magalluf. This is largely one to do with entertainment. It confirms also the Balearic Government's thinking in allowing hotels to expand their range of offer; they will become all-inclusives without necessarily offering an all-inclusive board arrangement, and this all-inclusivity will be one with entertainment firmly in mind.
It's not too much of an exaggeration to suggest that holidays are no longer part of a tourism industry but of an entertainment industry. One can look back and think wasn't it all rather more exciting in the days when everything wasn't laid on, but then one can forget that what little that was laid on was some rubbish band or Mrs Mills.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
The year was 1966. The place was Hastings. The hotel was called the Yelton. The smell of beef or pork dinner clung permanently to the walls, the floors and the air of the hotel. Following dinner, there was rarely anything specifically arranged, except for the occasion when this band turned up in a function room dominated by thick velvet, to which the stale smell of lard was able to attach itself with particular efficiency.
Holiday entertainment did exist at the English seaside, but it was rarely in-hotel. The following year, the "summer of love" and hippies ringing bells around the streets of Bournemouth, I was dragged off to the Winter Gardens to see The Rockin' Berries and Mrs Mills. Things hadn't advanced greatly by the time I was able to go off for a drunken week with friends to the Gower and ended up at a caravan site where the evening's entertainment was a drums-trumpet-organ combo. If you've ever seen "The Inbetweeners" one where they go to a Caravan Club meet at Camber Sands, you'll realise that things still haven't moved on.
At some point in the history of holidays, entertainment ceased to be the only very occasional, the truly abysmal and the optional and became the regular, slightly less abysmal and obligatory. But when was it? It certainly wasn't on the first occasion I set foot on Mallorcan soil - 1969. There was no hotel entertainment and of what there was outside, the best that can be said about it was that no one had the bright idea to ship Mrs Mills out.
We used to make our own entertainment and all that. Yet, by the 1960s we were no longer making our own entertainment. Not in the normal course of events anyway. We were supplied with entertainment, and I use the word with caution, and it did of course comprise Gladys Mills, plonking away on the old Joanna before giving way to some absurd Scots singer in a kilt. Yep, that was entertainment, folks. On the telly. But whereas we had become used to not making our own entertainment, when it came to holidays, we were forced to, though it mainly seemed, where I was concerned, to consist of having to sit outside a pub with a lemonade and a bag of Cheeselets.
One can come up with any number of reasons as to why holiday entertainment has become the essential that it now is. But perhaps the greatest single reason is familiarity and the absence of the new. In 1969, it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference whether there were kids' club, in-pool aerobics, Abba, bingo, sports competitions or not. And of course there weren't, and nor were they necessary. There was something very new that was all that was needed, and it was the thing up in the sky.
Holiday, holiday to a Mediterranean resort that is, has lost its sense of the new. Holidaymakers expect things to be laid on. The appeal, for example, of an all-inclusive lies in part in its convenience and its lack of stress, and the all-inclusive, the origins of which are much older than you might think, was instrumental in fostering the contemporary demand for entertainment at hotels, regardless of the type of board. The charge levelled at the all-inclusive that it creates a holiday that could be anywhere ignores the fact that holidays in the Med of whatever sort could be anywhere. A trib act or an entertainment team is much the same whether it's Alcúdia or Antalya. Or is it?
The importance of entertainment for today's holidaymaker has been the subject of an investigation by the Spanish tourism journalist Ignacio Gil via the "Hosteltur" magazine's online community. The results of this are a 50-page eBook. A key message that comes out of this investigation is that entertainment is vital to a hotel's ability to differentiate itself, and given the homogeneity of holiday across the Med, differentiation is crucial. Entertainment is not a cost, it is an investment. It is not obligatory so much as it is absolutely fundamental. And this fundamental demand goes beyond the grounds of a hotel. It is one made of entire resorts.
Gil's report is timely, because it confirms much of the dynamic that is behind the transformation of Magalluf. This is largely one to do with entertainment. It confirms also the Balearic Government's thinking in allowing hotels to expand their range of offer; they will become all-inclusives without necessarily offering an all-inclusive board arrangement, and this all-inclusivity will be one with entertainment firmly in mind.
It's not too much of an exaggeration to suggest that holidays are no longer part of a tourism industry but of an entertainment industry. One can look back and think wasn't it all rather more exciting in the days when everything wasn't laid on, but then one can forget that what little that was laid on was some rubbish band or Mrs Mills.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Thursday, December 01, 2011
The Most Precious Time Of All
Have you seen the Thomson ad? You must have done. Watch "X Factor" and you can't miss it, which will probably be why I have. Or had.
The Thomson ad is being given added prominence among the Spanish media for two reasons: one, that Tenerife reckons that it is benefiting from it specifically; two, because Thomson (i.e. TUI) is making as much play as it can out of the travails at Thomas Cook.
The ad is one of the most remarkable pieces of holiday promotion you could wish to see. Unashamedly and gut-wrenchingly sentimental, if it doesn't move you, then you have no soul. It does everything an advert should do, with an emphasis on playing with the emotions.
Break the ad down and you appreciate just how effective it is. Take the language used. Key words and phrases such as "those close to you", "share with them", "cherish", "the people who mean everything in the world to you", "holidays are the most precious time of all" make you well up just by reading them; they are the art of a neurolinguistic programmer who has got right inside the heart, head and mind of the audience.
The words are those of a child, just to add greater poignancy to the whole thing, but they are spoken by a child for a hard-nosed reason: children are massively important when it comes to family purchasing decisions and especially where holidays are concerned. Advertisers know this and exploit the fact for all it's worth.
Then there's the music, a plaintive reworking of The Pixies' "Where Is My Mind" with a distinct nod in the direction of Coldplay. It is recognisable without being known.
And finally, there is the imagery: Tenerife, because that's where the ad was filmed. The island may not be mentioned, but Tenerife is doing all it can to cash in not just in summer but also this winter. Hard luck, Mallorca, the Canaries win again, both because they were the location and because they are open for winter business.
Behind the creativity of the advert, before it was even first worked up and story-boarded, was something much less slushy. BMB (Beattie McGuinness Bungay), the agency which created the ad, was set a "business problem". From the agency's website, I quote: "Consumers see little difference between any of the large holiday operators, resulting in low brand preference and attribution". The "idea" to address this problem was to "remind consumers of the importance of spending quality time with your loved ones and how Thomson truly facilitate this".
The campaign will end up costing Thomson five million pounds, which equates to over two million euros more than the Balearics have in total for tourism promotion in 2012. But were the tourism ministry to embark on television campaigns in the future, it could learn an awful lot from the Thomson ad.
Look at the business problem again. You can easily substitute "large holiday operators" with "leading holiday destinations". From this, you can change the idea to "how Mallorca truly facilitates this".
The advert is generic, not that it has prevented Tenerife from working it to its advantage, but there are important lessons. Firstly, the ad is believable, and this, unlike Mallorcan (Balearics) attempts, is partly because there are no celebrities, which has been a Mallorcan obsession for too long. Secondly, though the imagery of Tenerife is obviously integral, it is also incidental. Shots of landscape and what have you, another usual obsession, do not sell like emotion sells, especially when you want to grab a television audience by the throat.
I have been highly dismissive of adverts such as the Nadal one. They have been ineffective in all sorts of ways, which is why the small promotion spend for 2012 is a blessing in disguise, as it stops the same mistakes being made; mistakes that have centred on a belief that you sell through "place", which translates as landscape scenes. Yes, you can, but not initially. You sell, most powerfully, through emotion, which is exactly what BMB have done for Thomson. They have taken the simple concept of the family holiday and the simple and familiar representation of the family on holiday and come up with something really rather wonderful.
I am not suggesting that Mallorca should imitate the Thomson ad, even if it had the money to do so, but if an appreciation can be made of the power of emotion then future promotion might just become more effective and might also go some way to demonstrating how Mallorca can truly facilitate the spending of quality time and can differentiate itself from other leading holiday destinations.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
The Thomson ad is being given added prominence among the Spanish media for two reasons: one, that Tenerife reckons that it is benefiting from it specifically; two, because Thomson (i.e. TUI) is making as much play as it can out of the travails at Thomas Cook.
The ad is one of the most remarkable pieces of holiday promotion you could wish to see. Unashamedly and gut-wrenchingly sentimental, if it doesn't move you, then you have no soul. It does everything an advert should do, with an emphasis on playing with the emotions.
Break the ad down and you appreciate just how effective it is. Take the language used. Key words and phrases such as "those close to you", "share with them", "cherish", "the people who mean everything in the world to you", "holidays are the most precious time of all" make you well up just by reading them; they are the art of a neurolinguistic programmer who has got right inside the heart, head and mind of the audience.
The words are those of a child, just to add greater poignancy to the whole thing, but they are spoken by a child for a hard-nosed reason: children are massively important when it comes to family purchasing decisions and especially where holidays are concerned. Advertisers know this and exploit the fact for all it's worth.
Then there's the music, a plaintive reworking of The Pixies' "Where Is My Mind" with a distinct nod in the direction of Coldplay. It is recognisable without being known.
And finally, there is the imagery: Tenerife, because that's where the ad was filmed. The island may not be mentioned, but Tenerife is doing all it can to cash in not just in summer but also this winter. Hard luck, Mallorca, the Canaries win again, both because they were the location and because they are open for winter business.
Behind the creativity of the advert, before it was even first worked up and story-boarded, was something much less slushy. BMB (Beattie McGuinness Bungay), the agency which created the ad, was set a "business problem". From the agency's website, I quote: "Consumers see little difference between any of the large holiday operators, resulting in low brand preference and attribution". The "idea" to address this problem was to "remind consumers of the importance of spending quality time with your loved ones and how Thomson truly facilitate this".
The campaign will end up costing Thomson five million pounds, which equates to over two million euros more than the Balearics have in total for tourism promotion in 2012. But were the tourism ministry to embark on television campaigns in the future, it could learn an awful lot from the Thomson ad.
Look at the business problem again. You can easily substitute "large holiday operators" with "leading holiday destinations". From this, you can change the idea to "how Mallorca truly facilitates this".
The advert is generic, not that it has prevented Tenerife from working it to its advantage, but there are important lessons. Firstly, the ad is believable, and this, unlike Mallorcan (Balearics) attempts, is partly because there are no celebrities, which has been a Mallorcan obsession for too long. Secondly, though the imagery of Tenerife is obviously integral, it is also incidental. Shots of landscape and what have you, another usual obsession, do not sell like emotion sells, especially when you want to grab a television audience by the throat.
I have been highly dismissive of adverts such as the Nadal one. They have been ineffective in all sorts of ways, which is why the small promotion spend for 2012 is a blessing in disguise, as it stops the same mistakes being made; mistakes that have centred on a belief that you sell through "place", which translates as landscape scenes. Yes, you can, but not initially. You sell, most powerfully, through emotion, which is exactly what BMB have done for Thomson. They have taken the simple concept of the family holiday and the simple and familiar representation of the family on holiday and come up with something really rather wonderful.
I am not suggesting that Mallorca should imitate the Thomson ad, even if it had the money to do so, but if an appreciation can be made of the power of emotion then future promotion might just become more effective and might also go some way to demonstrating how Mallorca can truly facilitate the spending of quality time and can differentiate itself from other leading holiday destinations.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Bandanarama
Dock. Dock. Dock.
I am searching for the best onomatopoiea. You may have better. But you'll know to what I refer. Lie back on a beach, close your eyes, think of nothing in particular, and within seconds your personal bit of tranquility will be invaded by the sound of wooden-racket beach paddle tennis. Dock. Dock. Dock.
There is little that is more irritating. Piers Morgan perhaps, but at least he doesn't generally speaking plonk himself down next to you on a beach and annoy the hell out of you with his supercilious smugness. I have a theory that Morgan was bullied at school, and that he is now taking it out on the world. I digress though.
The irritants of holidays. Some aren't irritants as such, more why in God's name is someone doing thats, such as walking barefoot the ten minutes or so back from the beach. Given, as previously mentioned, the propensity of the local Rovers to scatter their messages from a bottom hither and thither, it is preferable to soil the sole of a flip-flop than the sole of a foot.
Others are genuine irritants. Like the I'm completely ignoring the sign at the entrance to the local Eroksi which asks that I don't enter minus a top (presuming I'm a man, that is) and minus footwear (with or without whatever might have been trod in en route).
Let's say, for sake of argument, that you come from Luton. Do you go to the local Tesco wearing only a pair of shorts? As a rule, you don't. Do you walk the ten minutes to Tesco's in bare feet? Normally, not. And do you, either on a work day or at the weekend, wear a bandana?
In Luton there are, even now, building workers, plumbers, chartered accountants thinking to themselves, "you know what, when I go on holiday I'm going to get me a bandana." Or get the whole family bandanas. And a Jeep convertible. A family of bandanas, all black paisley affairs, rode into town the other day, with his and her matching bandanas and those for the kids as well. A statement of bandana-ism is clearly best made when everyone can see it. Wearing bandanas whilst concealed by a Ford Focus would be pretty stupid.
According to the website coolbandanas.com, a cool bandana is "great for heat-related health problems". I can accept that there may be a health benefit to the bandana, but so there also is to the hat or even the hair. A further advantage of the bandana, so says another website, is that it keeps hair out of your face, which it would if the person wearing one had any.
The typical bandana-wearer (male) has usually gone the full Phil Mitchell. It's the double whammy of fashion victim-ism: a number one covered in a square piece of fabric with connotations of gangstas. The number one (or lower) is hugely impractical in hot climes. Just ask former England cricketer Chris Lewis, for instance. He shaved his hair off during a match in the West Indies and promptly got heat stroke. The bandana might have helped stave it off, but then why opt for two fashion statements when you can do without either?
That's the thing with the bandana. It is a fashion statement. No more, no less. But, in addition to its association with American gang culture, it is also has an association with gay culture. I'm not about to explain how this works, but suffice it to say that some wearers, giving their heads a relief, might wish to avoid putting the bandana into a back pocket.
Nevertheless, one could excuse the bandana on the grounds of metrosexuality. New men wear bandanas. Unfortunately, they are also inclined to wear something else: the sarong. This does at least, and mercifully, seem to be declining in popularity, which can be put down to Luton metro man having had a rare rush of common sense and realised that he looked a complete pillock.
But of course, there is more to it than just a fashion statement. It is about doing things, and wearing things, that you wouldn't dream of doing when not on holiday. The bandana is about letting your hair down, not that most wearers have any. We should in fact praise the bandanarama on display in a Jeep convertible or strutting along a prom; praise it as a symbol of being on holiday and really not caring a stuff. Because back in Luton, you really would look daft with a bandana and would probably be arrested if you went into Tesco's only wearing shorts.
But if bandana it is, please, please don't dock, dock, dock and please, please, put something on your feet because ... watch out! Oops, too late.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
I am searching for the best onomatopoiea. You may have better. But you'll know to what I refer. Lie back on a beach, close your eyes, think of nothing in particular, and within seconds your personal bit of tranquility will be invaded by the sound of wooden-racket beach paddle tennis. Dock. Dock. Dock.
There is little that is more irritating. Piers Morgan perhaps, but at least he doesn't generally speaking plonk himself down next to you on a beach and annoy the hell out of you with his supercilious smugness. I have a theory that Morgan was bullied at school, and that he is now taking it out on the world. I digress though.
The irritants of holidays. Some aren't irritants as such, more why in God's name is someone doing thats, such as walking barefoot the ten minutes or so back from the beach. Given, as previously mentioned, the propensity of the local Rovers to scatter their messages from a bottom hither and thither, it is preferable to soil the sole of a flip-flop than the sole of a foot.
Others are genuine irritants. Like the I'm completely ignoring the sign at the entrance to the local Eroksi which asks that I don't enter minus a top (presuming I'm a man, that is) and minus footwear (with or without whatever might have been trod in en route).
Let's say, for sake of argument, that you come from Luton. Do you go to the local Tesco wearing only a pair of shorts? As a rule, you don't. Do you walk the ten minutes to Tesco's in bare feet? Normally, not. And do you, either on a work day or at the weekend, wear a bandana?
In Luton there are, even now, building workers, plumbers, chartered accountants thinking to themselves, "you know what, when I go on holiday I'm going to get me a bandana." Or get the whole family bandanas. And a Jeep convertible. A family of bandanas, all black paisley affairs, rode into town the other day, with his and her matching bandanas and those for the kids as well. A statement of bandana-ism is clearly best made when everyone can see it. Wearing bandanas whilst concealed by a Ford Focus would be pretty stupid.
According to the website coolbandanas.com, a cool bandana is "great for heat-related health problems". I can accept that there may be a health benefit to the bandana, but so there also is to the hat or even the hair. A further advantage of the bandana, so says another website, is that it keeps hair out of your face, which it would if the person wearing one had any.
The typical bandana-wearer (male) has usually gone the full Phil Mitchell. It's the double whammy of fashion victim-ism: a number one covered in a square piece of fabric with connotations of gangstas. The number one (or lower) is hugely impractical in hot climes. Just ask former England cricketer Chris Lewis, for instance. He shaved his hair off during a match in the West Indies and promptly got heat stroke. The bandana might have helped stave it off, but then why opt for two fashion statements when you can do without either?
That's the thing with the bandana. It is a fashion statement. No more, no less. But, in addition to its association with American gang culture, it is also has an association with gay culture. I'm not about to explain how this works, but suffice it to say that some wearers, giving their heads a relief, might wish to avoid putting the bandana into a back pocket.
Nevertheless, one could excuse the bandana on the grounds of metrosexuality. New men wear bandanas. Unfortunately, they are also inclined to wear something else: the sarong. This does at least, and mercifully, seem to be declining in popularity, which can be put down to Luton metro man having had a rare rush of common sense and realised that he looked a complete pillock.
But of course, there is more to it than just a fashion statement. It is about doing things, and wearing things, that you wouldn't dream of doing when not on holiday. The bandana is about letting your hair down, not that most wearers have any. We should in fact praise the bandanarama on display in a Jeep convertible or strutting along a prom; praise it as a symbol of being on holiday and really not caring a stuff. Because back in Luton, you really would look daft with a bandana and would probably be arrested if you went into Tesco's only wearing shorts.
But if bandana it is, please, please don't dock, dock, dock and please, please, put something on your feet because ... watch out! Oops, too late.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Friday, July 02, 2010
The Beach Is The Only Place To Be
There are probably those who live away from Mallorca who think enviously of those who do live on the island and of their heading off to the beach on a daily basis. It is a rather false impression.
While there are those who do make the beach a daily ritual, and those for whom the whole day at the beach is the ritual, there are plenty for whom the beach is a rare event and some for whom it is an alien place. And not just those who live away from the coast.
When some who first come to Mallorca, as in a permanent way and even if they are meant to be working or running a business, it can be easy to fall into the trap of feeling that life is just one long holiday. Legion are stories of those whose business went belly-up because they were toasting their bellies on the beach while packing away a cold Saint Mick or several - day after day. Life may be a beach in Mallorca, but it is also a bitch, if the beach becomes all-consuming.
Look around in some bars, restaurants and other establishments, and you may well see some pasty faces. How can this be, you might think. All that sun, and little by way of a suntan. The other day, the delightful Swedish girl at the Laberinto maze said that I didn't have much of a tan. "I haven't been to the beach yet this year," I replied. It's not as if it's far away. More or less just around the corner.
Well, I did go - yesterday. For about an hour. Old blogotees among you might recall my reminiscing about a previous career as a beach bum and about beach life as it once was. You can never take the beach out of the boy, but is the man who is tired of the beach, tired of life? No. Just gets restless. And it's not holiday, after all.
Perhaps that's it. Go to the beach, and there are loads of people on holiday. And you're not. It seems like a bit of a fraud, something to be a bit guilty of. There again, the beach, as the heat really kicks in, as it now is, is the only place to be in the afternoons - for a while at any rate. But as a place to get some freshness. The beach becomes functional as opposed to romantic; it's like having an air-conditioned room that you can take yourself off to when the atmosphere, only some metres inland, becomes stifling.
Perhaps also it's the case that familiarity breeds familiarity. The same old beach. I need to re-connect with the beach, re-discover the beach, which may well mean not going to the same beach. Yesterday was quite alarming. I recognised some who are there every year, some who I know. A German family, for example. It's quite disconcerting to note the way that the children have grown. But they're still the same, as they were last year, two years ago, the year before that.
That is almost certainly it. So many beaches and so little time to go to them. But like all the other attractions of Mallorca, the natural ones, that is, the tendency is to just slip into the familiar and the easy. And there is another impulse to break the familiarity trap. Not going to the beach is as much of a crime as going to it every day, all day. In my book, anyway. I had this awful feeling a couple of days ago. Summer's been here for some time, and I'd not been to the beach. I got that line from the Style Council - "the long hot summer's just passing me by". That would never do. I'd thought so much about it, that I dreamt about it. October was here and the beach had gone.
No, you don't spend your days on the beach, but to not go to the beach ... Why be here?
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
While there are those who do make the beach a daily ritual, and those for whom the whole day at the beach is the ritual, there are plenty for whom the beach is a rare event and some for whom it is an alien place. And not just those who live away from the coast.
When some who first come to Mallorca, as in a permanent way and even if they are meant to be working or running a business, it can be easy to fall into the trap of feeling that life is just one long holiday. Legion are stories of those whose business went belly-up because they were toasting their bellies on the beach while packing away a cold Saint Mick or several - day after day. Life may be a beach in Mallorca, but it is also a bitch, if the beach becomes all-consuming.
Look around in some bars, restaurants and other establishments, and you may well see some pasty faces. How can this be, you might think. All that sun, and little by way of a suntan. The other day, the delightful Swedish girl at the Laberinto maze said that I didn't have much of a tan. "I haven't been to the beach yet this year," I replied. It's not as if it's far away. More or less just around the corner.
Well, I did go - yesterday. For about an hour. Old blogotees among you might recall my reminiscing about a previous career as a beach bum and about beach life as it once was. You can never take the beach out of the boy, but is the man who is tired of the beach, tired of life? No. Just gets restless. And it's not holiday, after all.
Perhaps that's it. Go to the beach, and there are loads of people on holiday. And you're not. It seems like a bit of a fraud, something to be a bit guilty of. There again, the beach, as the heat really kicks in, as it now is, is the only place to be in the afternoons - for a while at any rate. But as a place to get some freshness. The beach becomes functional as opposed to romantic; it's like having an air-conditioned room that you can take yourself off to when the atmosphere, only some metres inland, becomes stifling.
Perhaps also it's the case that familiarity breeds familiarity. The same old beach. I need to re-connect with the beach, re-discover the beach, which may well mean not going to the same beach. Yesterday was quite alarming. I recognised some who are there every year, some who I know. A German family, for example. It's quite disconcerting to note the way that the children have grown. But they're still the same, as they were last year, two years ago, the year before that.
That is almost certainly it. So many beaches and so little time to go to them. But like all the other attractions of Mallorca, the natural ones, that is, the tendency is to just slip into the familiar and the easy. And there is another impulse to break the familiarity trap. Not going to the beach is as much of a crime as going to it every day, all day. In my book, anyway. I had this awful feeling a couple of days ago. Summer's been here for some time, and I'd not been to the beach. I got that line from the Style Council - "the long hot summer's just passing me by". That would never do. I'd thought so much about it, that I dreamt about it. October was here and the beach had gone.
No, you don't spend your days on the beach, but to not go to the beach ... Why be here?
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Holiday, Celebrate
Forty years ago and forty years on. This blog has celebrated all sorts of anniversaries, but in a sense the forty years since the BBC started its "Holiday" programme somehow seem imbued with greater pathos than even anniversaries such as 30 years since Elvis and ten years since Diana. Those years are more personal, more intimate, more understandable.
How it's all changed - holiday that is. I guess the BBC decided to finally ditch the "Holiday" programme two years ago because there was no need for it. Why would there be, when the internet can offer you videos, webcams, forums, informed and misinformed sites, when there are any number of books, of DVDs, any number of this and that. The "Holiday" programme was, though, its own portal, one into a world that was new, different, mysterious. In 1969 foreign holidays were the exception. The destination was largely unknown. What information that was available came from the brochure and was often a work of fiction.
My first Mallorcan holiday was in 1969. Arenal. See how things change. Arenal barely raises a mention on the Brit Mallorcan itinerary nowadays; it's Berlin, Bremen and Baden-Baden. I can remember little of it, except that it was August and at times unbearably hot; except the scene from the hotel room of what amounted to a shanty town on some scrubland where one family appeared to live under a tin sheet. How things change. Except a bar across from the beach where my father and his mate spent many an hour and was memorable if only for being an establishment of alcohol that was not denied to minors. Except going out one night to some show - no idea where or what it was (a manor house maybe) - where they came round with one of those thin-tapered wine/sangria dispensers and literally poured it down your neck, even the necks of minors. Except my older sister and her friend meeting some local boys and there being a bit of a to-do, from which I was excluded. I guess some stuff doesn't really change.
Perhaps there was an element of it all being a status symbol. "We're going foreign this year. Mallorca." Though of course we would have certainly spelt it with a "j" and probably pronounced it with one. We got a colour TV the following year, just in time for the World Cup, but we could also now see holiday destinations as they really were, rather than stripped of their blues and yellows.
The telly was our eye on holiday, it was our only eye. The "Holiday" programme - Cliff Michelmore, John Carter, Frank Bough, Des Lynam, Kathy Tayler, Anne Gregg, Jill Dando, Monty Don. It begat the ITV version with Judith Chalmers, wishing we were there. And so it remained our eye until the devil unleashed the internet and spoiled us with information, spoiled us into becoming virtual tourists, denied the excitement of the unknown. There is of course excitement about holiday, of course there is, but we now know everything we need to know before we even arrive at the check-in. The mystery's gone. The fascination has disappeared. No more are we innocents abroad with innocence as to where we are going. As tourists we are like lovers from whom the spark has gone after the initial lust of newness. Instead we merely cuddle up to our destination and fall asleep in a familiar touch and embrace.
And what of the Mallorcans? Were they to know that on an island many kilometres north were people watching a man in a suit with sturdy-rimmed glasses imparting knowledge as to resorts such as Arenal? Were they to know that the name of their island was to become, for many years, a pejorative by-word for total naffness? Were they to know that this holiday movement was to bequeath Alcúdia its Mile or Can Picafort a whole new town of unrelenting hotelness or Muro a length of road running parallel to its playa and to even more hotelness?
Forty years. Not a lifetime, but millions of holiday lives. No, I don't suppose the Mallorcans or even Cliff Michelmore could have anticipated all those.
QUIZ
Yesterday's title - The band was Love and the theme tune to the original BBC "Holiday" programme was by them and was actually called "The Castle". There is a youtube but thanks to WMG you can't hear it. Shame. Today's title - probably had this before, but seems appropriate.
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
How it's all changed - holiday that is. I guess the BBC decided to finally ditch the "Holiday" programme two years ago because there was no need for it. Why would there be, when the internet can offer you videos, webcams, forums, informed and misinformed sites, when there are any number of books, of DVDs, any number of this and that. The "Holiday" programme was, though, its own portal, one into a world that was new, different, mysterious. In 1969 foreign holidays were the exception. The destination was largely unknown. What information that was available came from the brochure and was often a work of fiction.
My first Mallorcan holiday was in 1969. Arenal. See how things change. Arenal barely raises a mention on the Brit Mallorcan itinerary nowadays; it's Berlin, Bremen and Baden-Baden. I can remember little of it, except that it was August and at times unbearably hot; except the scene from the hotel room of what amounted to a shanty town on some scrubland where one family appeared to live under a tin sheet. How things change. Except a bar across from the beach where my father and his mate spent many an hour and was memorable if only for being an establishment of alcohol that was not denied to minors. Except going out one night to some show - no idea where or what it was (a manor house maybe) - where they came round with one of those thin-tapered wine/sangria dispensers and literally poured it down your neck, even the necks of minors. Except my older sister and her friend meeting some local boys and there being a bit of a to-do, from which I was excluded. I guess some stuff doesn't really change.
Perhaps there was an element of it all being a status symbol. "We're going foreign this year. Mallorca." Though of course we would have certainly spelt it with a "j" and probably pronounced it with one. We got a colour TV the following year, just in time for the World Cup, but we could also now see holiday destinations as they really were, rather than stripped of their blues and yellows.
The telly was our eye on holiday, it was our only eye. The "Holiday" programme - Cliff Michelmore, John Carter, Frank Bough, Des Lynam, Kathy Tayler, Anne Gregg, Jill Dando, Monty Don. It begat the ITV version with Judith Chalmers, wishing we were there. And so it remained our eye until the devil unleashed the internet and spoiled us with information, spoiled us into becoming virtual tourists, denied the excitement of the unknown. There is of course excitement about holiday, of course there is, but we now know everything we need to know before we even arrive at the check-in. The mystery's gone. The fascination has disappeared. No more are we innocents abroad with innocence as to where we are going. As tourists we are like lovers from whom the spark has gone after the initial lust of newness. Instead we merely cuddle up to our destination and fall asleep in a familiar touch and embrace.
And what of the Mallorcans? Were they to know that on an island many kilometres north were people watching a man in a suit with sturdy-rimmed glasses imparting knowledge as to resorts such as Arenal? Were they to know that the name of their island was to become, for many years, a pejorative by-word for total naffness? Were they to know that this holiday movement was to bequeath Alcúdia its Mile or Can Picafort a whole new town of unrelenting hotelness or Muro a length of road running parallel to its playa and to even more hotelness?
Forty years. Not a lifetime, but millions of holiday lives. No, I don't suppose the Mallorcans or even Cliff Michelmore could have anticipated all those.
QUIZ
Yesterday's title - The band was Love and the theme tune to the original BBC "Holiday" programme was by them and was actually called "The Castle". There is a youtube but thanks to WMG you can't hear it. Shame. Today's title - probably had this before, but seems appropriate.
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Shattered Dreams
The holiday blues. Someone was talking about this on the forum the other day. Holidays, I thought. I remember them. They did start to fade into irrelevance when it occurred to me that what is virtually my back garden is what holidays largely meant - the beach. But I still do remember them. And the blues. One time sticks firmly in the mind. Returning from France in a state of terminal misery, putting the television on and being transported to the reassuringly unreal world of Mulder and Scully - suspension of reality; more suspension of reality, because holidays are just that, and the blues are the result of realising they were all a dream. The theme music for "The X-Files" will always be associated with holiday end rather than the "want to believe", or maybe it is the latter - belief in something else, a different state of being.
Holiday blues, for some, start before the holiday. The holiday is after all, or so we are told, one of the more stressful events in our lives. I've never bought that argument, but there is the potential stress for some who, as the plane is taxiing, feel the urge to dismantle the emergency exit door as they realise they are about to be spending two weeks in close proximity with those they spend the other 50 weeks of the year avoiding. Then there is the pre-holiday stress of all those calculations - how many weeks to go and then how many days. But stress is not the same as the blues; the holiday blues are a state of dissatisfied mind as, in essence, the holiday is also a state of mind. It is a state of mind of suspended reality and the blues are the return-to-reality dissonance; how can one reconcile that unreality with the grinding normality of everyday life? The response is to shrug the shoulders, say cheerily but unconvincingly that there is always next year and then head off to Tesco and search for the bottle of wine that had been a holiday companion, as though some form of memento can keep alive the holiday. It is like a bereavement; the aching sensation of loss. We can't get it out of our minds, however hard we try, and so we start counting the weeks - 50, 49, 48. The year becomes determined by the pinnacle of the fortnight, and so we wish our lives away in order to get to that pinnacle as swiftly as possible, undeterred by the fact that the holiday is but one twenty-sixth of the year; the other 25 are those of unending normality. Maybe it would be better if we didn't go on holidays.
What it all really means, and most won't admit it as they would end up going crazy is surely there is something rather better than the drudgery of back home. And so the holiday blues continue because holiday is something better. The holiday destination takes on an almost spiritual dimension; it provides a stopping-off point on the search for whatever "it" is, like Kerouac's "On The Road". As with many other things, such as sitting all day in front of a computer, humans weren't made for holidays; they weren't in the initial grand design brochure of a bit of hunting and gathering and a mere survival instinct. Unfortunately someone overlooked the power of reason. Blame who you will - philosophers such as Descartes or Sartre or the peddlers of holiday from Mr. Thomas Cook to Billy Butlin to Cliff Michelmore and Judith Chalmers and to Stelios - but holiday has become a kind of leitmotif of the human capacity to conceptualise existentialist escapism: I think therefore I'll go on holiday. Someone also overlooked the power of dreams and the striving to actualise these dreams. The brochures tell us that they are attainable - dream islands, dream beaches and so on - but they are all too fleetingly within our grasp before the transfer coach to the airport pulls up outside the hotel and the dreams are shattered. Then the tears start. And so the holiday blues kick in and another form of reasoning begins - what if the holiday destination, the one with which such a strong bond has been formed, became the reality? There are those who have come to Alcúdia and to Pollensa on holiday and have returned to live the dream. The only problem is that, for some, the dream is not what the brochure of the imagination said it was.
AMA FESTIVAL AND CHILL-OUT
Just a note to say to check out the listings on the WHAT'S ON BLOG for the AMA Festival for women's awareness happening in Pollensa this weekend and the complementary chill-out sessions on the Cala Carbó beach in Cala San Vicente from tomorrow through till Sunday. Loads of DJs and live music in the evenings for the Pollensa events and the Cala stuff sounds very very worth going to.
QUIZ
Yesterday's title - Jimi Hendrix (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOrpuw1J9Og). Today's title - someone hated something - who were they?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Holiday blues, for some, start before the holiday. The holiday is after all, or so we are told, one of the more stressful events in our lives. I've never bought that argument, but there is the potential stress for some who, as the plane is taxiing, feel the urge to dismantle the emergency exit door as they realise they are about to be spending two weeks in close proximity with those they spend the other 50 weeks of the year avoiding. Then there is the pre-holiday stress of all those calculations - how many weeks to go and then how many days. But stress is not the same as the blues; the holiday blues are a state of dissatisfied mind as, in essence, the holiday is also a state of mind. It is a state of mind of suspended reality and the blues are the return-to-reality dissonance; how can one reconcile that unreality with the grinding normality of everyday life? The response is to shrug the shoulders, say cheerily but unconvincingly that there is always next year and then head off to Tesco and search for the bottle of wine that had been a holiday companion, as though some form of memento can keep alive the holiday. It is like a bereavement; the aching sensation of loss. We can't get it out of our minds, however hard we try, and so we start counting the weeks - 50, 49, 48. The year becomes determined by the pinnacle of the fortnight, and so we wish our lives away in order to get to that pinnacle as swiftly as possible, undeterred by the fact that the holiday is but one twenty-sixth of the year; the other 25 are those of unending normality. Maybe it would be better if we didn't go on holidays.
What it all really means, and most won't admit it as they would end up going crazy is surely there is something rather better than the drudgery of back home. And so the holiday blues continue because holiday is something better. The holiday destination takes on an almost spiritual dimension; it provides a stopping-off point on the search for whatever "it" is, like Kerouac's "On The Road". As with many other things, such as sitting all day in front of a computer, humans weren't made for holidays; they weren't in the initial grand design brochure of a bit of hunting and gathering and a mere survival instinct. Unfortunately someone overlooked the power of reason. Blame who you will - philosophers such as Descartes or Sartre or the peddlers of holiday from Mr. Thomas Cook to Billy Butlin to Cliff Michelmore and Judith Chalmers and to Stelios - but holiday has become a kind of leitmotif of the human capacity to conceptualise existentialist escapism: I think therefore I'll go on holiday. Someone also overlooked the power of dreams and the striving to actualise these dreams. The brochures tell us that they are attainable - dream islands, dream beaches and so on - but they are all too fleetingly within our grasp before the transfer coach to the airport pulls up outside the hotel and the dreams are shattered. Then the tears start. And so the holiday blues kick in and another form of reasoning begins - what if the holiday destination, the one with which such a strong bond has been formed, became the reality? There are those who have come to Alcúdia and to Pollensa on holiday and have returned to live the dream. The only problem is that, for some, the dream is not what the brochure of the imagination said it was.
AMA FESTIVAL AND CHILL-OUT
Just a note to say to check out the listings on the WHAT'S ON BLOG for the AMA Festival for women's awareness happening in Pollensa this weekend and the complementary chill-out sessions on the Cala Carbó beach in Cala San Vicente from tomorrow through till Sunday. Loads of DJs and live music in the evenings for the Pollensa events and the Cala stuff sounds very very worth going to.
QUIZ
Yesterday's title - Jimi Hendrix (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOrpuw1J9Og). Today's title - someone hated something - who were they?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Sunday, June 22, 2008
One On One
According to Thomas Cook, which has published a Holiday Cost of Living survey (reported in "The Bulletin" yesterday), Mallorca is the eighth cheapest holiday destination out of ten listed. Quite whether that means that Mallorca is cheap is open to question I suppose; the other way of putting it is that it is the third most expensive. Words, like statistics, can paint a thousand cost-of-living pictures. Anyway, the Cook's tour of various international destinations and their bars, supermarkets and other places checked out the comparative costs of 15 goods and services, among which were - a draught beer and a packet of cigarettes - and came up with an average daily spend for your Brit tourist of 57.80 quid (or about 73 euros for those of us who have long forgotten how to evaluate things in pounds). The tour operator estimates this little lot of 15 items works out at a saving of a bit under 15 quid compared with costs in the UK.
Whilst not entirely uninteresting, the survey does have one flaw, and it is revealed in that little word, the indefinite article "a". Admittedly, the 15 items do also include a bottle of beer, a double spirit and mixer and a bottle of wine which, together with the aforementioned "a draught beer", might, you would have thought, be sufficient alcohol for one day's intake, but more than one item might just as easily be preceded with "several". Where "a" might remain applicable would be in the altering of the item concerned to "a gallon of draught beer" or "a carton or two of Embassy". Even the most committed of smokers might find it hard to actually puff away a full two hundred per day, but a cursory observation in the tabacos of Mallorca would reveal that a carton or two (duplicated by a factor of at least ten) would not be an inaccurate estimation of the average spend.
Then there are other items in the basket that are of dubious singularity. Take a can of Coke, an ice-cream or even a UK paper. One can of Coke and one ice-cream would be barely adequate in fuelling a Brit child's hyperactivity and dietary requirements for an hour, let alone a day, which of course is one reason why all-inclusives are so popular. And whilst I was on research duty at the Continental Park the other day (see yesterday's piece), a gentleman of bellydom came to reception to ask for not just "The Sun" but also "The Star". Or maybe two red-tops constitute a - one - newspaper, though even that would be doubtful.
One might also argue that the Cook's recipe of expenditure overlooks certain other necessities, such as the all-encompassing "a trip to the chemists" - a box of paracetamol needed to cope with the hangover is, after all, easily polished off in a day or so, washed down with a gallon of draught beer, while there are all the other pharmaceutical and medical requirements - the stuff to deal with mosquito bites, something for little Tyler's ear infection that he got after going in the pool and of course a family-sized bottle of anti-sunburn cream, and having seen one example of a super-sized family at the "super family" Continental Park, make that two.
Still, Mallorca can be content with its eighth place, as the island is holding its own against the competition of Florida, in ninth, and Croatia at number ten. Moreover, when it comes to the events for single items, Mallorca does well in the pint-of-beer competition, fifth behind the champion cheap-beer destination, Cuba, though the cost of that Mallorcan pint (1.86 pounds or about 2.35 euros) does rather depend upon where and which beer. Not sure what Thomas Cook would have made of it all; his first excursion was, after all, for fellow members of the Temperance Society.
QUIZ
Chain - Split Enz was Neil Finn's group before Crowded House. And the connection from Crowded House to "Who Loves You (Pretty Baby)"? Yesterday's title - A Tribe of Toffs. Today's title - it's from a footy song. Which one?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Whilst not entirely uninteresting, the survey does have one flaw, and it is revealed in that little word, the indefinite article "a". Admittedly, the 15 items do also include a bottle of beer, a double spirit and mixer and a bottle of wine which, together with the aforementioned "a draught beer", might, you would have thought, be sufficient alcohol for one day's intake, but more than one item might just as easily be preceded with "several". Where "a" might remain applicable would be in the altering of the item concerned to "a gallon of draught beer" or "a carton or two of Embassy". Even the most committed of smokers might find it hard to actually puff away a full two hundred per day, but a cursory observation in the tabacos of Mallorca would reveal that a carton or two (duplicated by a factor of at least ten) would not be an inaccurate estimation of the average spend.
Then there are other items in the basket that are of dubious singularity. Take a can of Coke, an ice-cream or even a UK paper. One can of Coke and one ice-cream would be barely adequate in fuelling a Brit child's hyperactivity and dietary requirements for an hour, let alone a day, which of course is one reason why all-inclusives are so popular. And whilst I was on research duty at the Continental Park the other day (see yesterday's piece), a gentleman of bellydom came to reception to ask for not just "The Sun" but also "The Star". Or maybe two red-tops constitute a - one - newspaper, though even that would be doubtful.
One might also argue that the Cook's recipe of expenditure overlooks certain other necessities, such as the all-encompassing "a trip to the chemists" - a box of paracetamol needed to cope with the hangover is, after all, easily polished off in a day or so, washed down with a gallon of draught beer, while there are all the other pharmaceutical and medical requirements - the stuff to deal with mosquito bites, something for little Tyler's ear infection that he got after going in the pool and of course a family-sized bottle of anti-sunburn cream, and having seen one example of a super-sized family at the "super family" Continental Park, make that two.
Still, Mallorca can be content with its eighth place, as the island is holding its own against the competition of Florida, in ninth, and Croatia at number ten. Moreover, when it comes to the events for single items, Mallorca does well in the pint-of-beer competition, fifth behind the champion cheap-beer destination, Cuba, though the cost of that Mallorcan pint (1.86 pounds or about 2.35 euros) does rather depend upon where and which beer. Not sure what Thomas Cook would have made of it all; his first excursion was, after all, for fellow members of the Temperance Society.
QUIZ
Chain - Split Enz was Neil Finn's group before Crowded House. And the connection from Crowded House to "Who Loves You (Pretty Baby)"? Yesterday's title - A Tribe of Toffs. Today's title - it's from a footy song. Which one?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Saturday, December 01, 2007
I Know What I Like
The internet’s strength is its weakness. This is no more apparent than when it comes to recommendations. They are available for everything, a cyber extension of the traditional testimonial of the printed advert and media: worldwide web word of mouth. A personal recommendation is every bit as powerful as an advert alone or the superlatives of a brochure. Which brings me to holidays. Planning a holiday nowadays has taken on the guise of researching for a degree. Source material, be it recommendation or other, is to be sifted and interpreted. Which bar, which restaurant, which excursion, which hotel, which resort, which country?
The bar or restaurant recommendation is hardly critical. It is also generally very useful, even if it is subjective: it facilitates decision-making once in the resort. If it turns out not to be to one’s taste, the investment has not been great. A resort on the other hand. As with all recommendations, the resort recommendation can be both for or against: it has the power to persuade a purchase or to deter.
Recommendations are subjective, an expression of personal taste, attitude or experience. They can also be prejudicial. Recently I read a remark in response to an enquirer who was looking for advice on resort choice in Mallorca. The remark concerned Alcudia. It went something like this: Alcudia is a single long street with a bridge, and bars few are far between. It misrepresented not only The Mile (to which the description applied) but also the whole of Alcudia. The enquirer seemed to take the non-recommendation at face value. I thought about correcting this impression, but I stopped when I realised I would have been responding to something which had offended me. It was as though my territory had been invaded. And herein lies the rub. Take a different example. Magaluf. Nowhere in Mallorca arouses a greater divide of opinion. There is no grey with Magaluf. Get a negative comment about Magaluf, and there is a howl of protest, defending the place. Territorialism and defence. It is as though one’s territory or choice has been attacked – the choice of where one lives, works or chooses to go on holiday. The leap to defence is a basic instinct.
In the case of some recommendations, there is a sense of “I know what you’ll like”, despite the fact that the one doing the recommending has little clue as to what the other person really likes or dislikes. It can stem from the same mindset as the need to defend: it is essentially the same side of the coin.
A holiday is a hefty investment. The recommendation is very useful, no question about that, but the choice cannot or should not be based on one opinion or on limited information. The strength of the internet lies in the breadth of opinion, the weakness – if it is allowed – lies in the subjectivity and prejudice that can inform opinion.
To matters political for those of who have been following the Unio Mallorquina succession issue. Surprise, surprise, Miquel Nadal, having dropped out of the running, complaining that he could not work with other runners, has been named the new president, and his rivals, including Alcudia’s mayor, Miquel Ferrer, have secured senior roles, Ferrer as secretary-general. Politics: the same anywhere.
QUIZ
Yesterday – David Cassidy, and the original was by The Young Rascals. Today’s title – the line continues “and I know what I like”. Who?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
The bar or restaurant recommendation is hardly critical. It is also generally very useful, even if it is subjective: it facilitates decision-making once in the resort. If it turns out not to be to one’s taste, the investment has not been great. A resort on the other hand. As with all recommendations, the resort recommendation can be both for or against: it has the power to persuade a purchase or to deter.
Recommendations are subjective, an expression of personal taste, attitude or experience. They can also be prejudicial. Recently I read a remark in response to an enquirer who was looking for advice on resort choice in Mallorca. The remark concerned Alcudia. It went something like this: Alcudia is a single long street with a bridge, and bars few are far between. It misrepresented not only The Mile (to which the description applied) but also the whole of Alcudia. The enquirer seemed to take the non-recommendation at face value. I thought about correcting this impression, but I stopped when I realised I would have been responding to something which had offended me. It was as though my territory had been invaded. And herein lies the rub. Take a different example. Magaluf. Nowhere in Mallorca arouses a greater divide of opinion. There is no grey with Magaluf. Get a negative comment about Magaluf, and there is a howl of protest, defending the place. Territorialism and defence. It is as though one’s territory or choice has been attacked – the choice of where one lives, works or chooses to go on holiday. The leap to defence is a basic instinct.
In the case of some recommendations, there is a sense of “I know what you’ll like”, despite the fact that the one doing the recommending has little clue as to what the other person really likes or dislikes. It can stem from the same mindset as the need to defend: it is essentially the same side of the coin.
A holiday is a hefty investment. The recommendation is very useful, no question about that, but the choice cannot or should not be based on one opinion or on limited information. The strength of the internet lies in the breadth of opinion, the weakness – if it is allowed – lies in the subjectivity and prejudice that can inform opinion.
To matters political for those of who have been following the Unio Mallorquina succession issue. Surprise, surprise, Miquel Nadal, having dropped out of the running, complaining that he could not work with other runners, has been named the new president, and his rivals, including Alcudia’s mayor, Miquel Ferrer, have secured senior roles, Ferrer as secretary-general. Politics: the same anywhere.
QUIZ
Yesterday – David Cassidy, and the original was by The Young Rascals. Today’s title – the line continues “and I know what I like”. Who?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Friday, October 12, 2007
Took Some Time To Celebrate
Another day, another holiday. What’s this one? Día de la Hispanidad - day of Spanishness, or something like that. A national day, though there are some factions none too keen on the whole deal, like some of the Catalonians, a bunch of whom are using today to declare that the Catalan countries are the last colony of the Spanish monarchy. Whatever.
In actual fact today is a sort of three-in-one day as it is also Columbus’s day and the day for the Virgen del Pilar. How about that, three “holidays” and they go and put them all on the same day, but given that holidays come thick and fast here, we should be grateful, or ungrateful, depending on your view. One chap in “Ultima Hora”, asked about the meaning of today, reckons it is of no consequence except for the fact that he doesn’t have to work. Like public holidays everywhere, in other words.
And just a footnote to yesterday’s history lesson. There was something else that bugged me about that article. Couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it registered. The article says that “a man named Pedro de Córdoba wrote to King Ferdinand (Fernando) in 1517 and told the monarch ...” What this “man” (actually a quite important figure of the times) told the king is of little consequence as, and this was what had been concerning me, Fernando died in 1516.
And as I looked at this article again, I noticed something else very strange. It says that Columbus could have merged two cultures, one of them (the Spanish presumably) being a culture that “had grown with the teachings of Aristotle, Galileo and Newton.” Eh!? Galileo was born in 1564, Newton in 1663. Given that Columbus died in 1506 ... Enough, enough. Where do they get this rubbish from?
QUIZ
Yesterday - Chick Corea. Today’s title is the second line from ...?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
In actual fact today is a sort of three-in-one day as it is also Columbus’s day and the day for the Virgen del Pilar. How about that, three “holidays” and they go and put them all on the same day, but given that holidays come thick and fast here, we should be grateful, or ungrateful, depending on your view. One chap in “Ultima Hora”, asked about the meaning of today, reckons it is of no consequence except for the fact that he doesn’t have to work. Like public holidays everywhere, in other words.
And just a footnote to yesterday’s history lesson. There was something else that bugged me about that article. Couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it registered. The article says that “a man named Pedro de Córdoba wrote to King Ferdinand (Fernando) in 1517 and told the monarch ...” What this “man” (actually a quite important figure of the times) told the king is of little consequence as, and this was what had been concerning me, Fernando died in 1516.
And as I looked at this article again, I noticed something else very strange. It says that Columbus could have merged two cultures, one of them (the Spanish presumably) being a culture that “had grown with the teachings of Aristotle, Galileo and Newton.” Eh!? Galileo was born in 1564, Newton in 1663. Given that Columbus died in 1506 ... Enough, enough. Where do they get this rubbish from?
QUIZ
Yesterday - Chick Corea. Today’s title is the second line from ...?
(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
