You're My Best Friend

A month on. 12 June I spoke about the scratch card malarkey in Alcúdia; here we go again.

I despair of some people. One of the scratch-cardists' sites is on the corner opposite New Pacific in the port. I wandered past the other day. Some buffer had got himself engaged in conversation with one of SC-ists. There was something about the old dictator; an old buffer giving it large with his vague knowledge and believing his interlocutor was in some way a mate. Some tourists need a slap. Everyone becomes a mate or best friend - and in some cases (bars for example) they sometimes do become so - but many are anything but. They want your money - period. The SC-ists more than most. Engañabobo. That buffer. The SC-ist could have seen him coming, happy to listen to what old twaddle and buffery was on offer in exchange for the potential handing over of a four-figure credit-card remuneration. One born every minute, and one born every minute who is prepared to serve himself up on a plate. Let's have a nice chat with this nice young man, and now let's pay for something we don't want and can't afford. Engañabobo.

The people who can afford to hand over a Mastercard in return for some holiday club deal are precisely the people who do not get suckered. Probably because they have their own villa anyway. It is those who cannot afford who get mullered. Frankly, some of them deserve little sympathy. All the talk of lack of tourist spend, and then some guy takes you to the side and entices you into a situation in which you can hand over maybe four or five times what you have budgeted to spend for your two weeks. Perhaps some other businesses could learn something from the SC-ists, because they surely are doing something "right" or they wouldn't still be around.

A translated copy of the letter that was sent to "The Bulletin", which was the same as the email which I received that sparked all this off back on 12 June, is doing the rounds at the town hall, which means the police as well as the tourism department. The tourist office people know, as the police will and many others, where the main centres of SC-ism occur. If you don't, let me tell you. Opposite New Pacific, by the Alcúdia Garden and at the top of The Mile.

I have been unsure about the status of the SC-ist operation. Perhaps others are similarly unsure. But when the person who sent me the email tells me that when the police put in an appearance and the SC-ists scatter and then return later in different clothing, one has to ask why they might do this. I've said before, and will say again, there is no issue with people looking to earn a kosher euro or more, but that ain't the case if tourists are being given grief, hassle, bother and abuse, even if some of them, some of these tourists, can be seen coming.


And some rather unpleasant news. A stabbing. Place: Sabor Latino, part of the Bells empire. Don't know the end result, but it wasn't pretty by all accounts. Rather more pleasant, though not totally pleasant, as will become clear, something that just suddenly appeared. Where was the photo op in "Ultima Hora" with the mayor and other worthies? When did it happen? Two to three weeks ago, according to Marina at the paseo tourist office in Puerto Alcúdia. Can't say I'd noticed till yesterday. What is it? In fact it is a they. Toilets. Public lavs. A wooden privvy place near to the tourist office. Marina was somewhat concerned about the cleaning arrangements. Once a day, it would seem. And the loos are only open when the tourist office is open, not that its management has anything to do with the tourist office. So, if you get taken short on a Sunday or at night, you won't be able to use the loos. To be honest, having peered in and got something of a whiff, I would advise paying for a coffee or something and continue using the nearest bar. I suppose it's good of them to have put some public loos in place, though I'm not sure they exactly do anything for the paseo.

Finally, and it just shows what a free gift of a bottle can do, word up for the arrival of Homer's favourite beer at Vamps. Yep, Duff Beer makes it to Alcúdia. And I shall be partaking of the bottle on finishing today's entry. Not actually sure what the whole deal with this is as Matt Groening has said he would not license the name, but there is a Cerveza Duff website, so ... or should that be ... doh. And oh ... what would happen to the Duff brew if they brought in beer price controls? Nope, I don't know either.


QUIZ
Yesterday's title - the controls were set for the heart of the sun, Pink Floyd, and here it is, all ten minutes of it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_0iZQ-TuA). Today's title - easy.

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Are We Not Men?

The first day of summer. What a difference in terms of evocativeness there is between two adjectives - first and last. The former, the first, is optimism, excitement, the new. Now some of you might say that summer doesn't actually start for some seven weeks and a bit, and you would be right except you would also be wrong. Yesterday was the last day of the Mallorcan winter; today is the first of summer. And for this inaugural day of the new summer, the weather has put on its finest gown and has danced a tango of vivid blue. The weather knew.

But so much for being vaguely lyrical. On this first day of summer what actually happens? Well, on this first day, the hordes disembark from the squadrons of charter and cheap flights to be greeted on the tarmac by groups of Gladys Pughs and Ted Bovises. "Hi-di-hi," cry the Gladyses. "Ho-di-ho," comes back the refrain. Except of course it isn't like that, but somehow it feels as though it should be. The first day of the Mallorcan summer has a wake atmosphere of the town departing for the annual holiday, of the factory closing down and of being greeted by a Gladys with a kiss-me-quick and being whisked off to the holiday camp and a round of whoopy cushions, rubber fried eggs and knobbly knees. For all the diversity of the Mallorcan tourist socioeconomics, the first day of summer sparks a celebration of proletarian hedonism that lasts till the last day. And so may it continue.


I have been known to write about toilets. I consider it a potential life's work to scour the lavs of northern Mallorca and to bring their odours and splendours to a wider audience. But for now. In a bar of my acquaintance, there is a glowing green sign on the door to the men's WC that says, "MEN". Not unduly surprising you might believe, but there is a lot of sense to it. Go to many a bathroom area and the doors are frequently decorated with confusing not to say androgynous signs or plaques. Is it the men's or is it the ladies'? You're never really that sure. So something simple like "men" can avoid all manner of potential social embarrassment, though I am told that, for the Germans, there remains all manner of "Männer" difficulty, as they (the German men that is) seem to prefer to use the ladies. Whatever.


QUIZ
Steely Dan came from William Burroughs. And in chain mode - Dan Ackroyd was part of which group that has, or certainly used to have, a strong "tribute" presence around Alcúdia. Yesterday's title was Culture Club. Today's title - the answering line goes: "We are..." Who?

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Index to April 2008

Albufera - 9 April 2008
Alcúdia Barfly blog - 27 April 2008
April Fool - 1 April 2008
Bars - 10 April 2008, 14 April 2008, 24 April 2008, 26 April 2008, 27 April 2008
Beaches - 19 April 2008
Blogs - 19 April 2008, 27 April 2008
Boat fair - 6 April 2008
Can Ramis - 28 April 2008
Cartoon characters - 9 April 2008
Driving - 11 April 2008. 23 April 2008
Education - 17 April 2008
Entertainers - 15 April 2008
Entertainment - 22 April 2008
Fishing - 18 April 2008
Gastronomy tourism - 8 April 2008
Gavin's At The Port Bar-Cafeteria - 24 April 2008
Golf courses - 8 April 2008
Grupo Boulevard - 5 April 2008
Haircuts - 29 April 2008
Highlander Bar - 26 April 2008
Hotels - 22 April 2008
Irish bars - 14 April 2008, 27 April 2008
Jellyfish - 18 April 2008
L'Aup Restaurant - 16 April 2008
Las Delicias Restaurant - 9 April 2008
Little Italy Restaurant - 20 April 2008
Los Pescadores Restaurant - 20 April 2008
Live music - 3 April 2008, 14 April 2008
Lucky-lucky men - 21 April 2008
Mallorca Photo Blog - 19 April 2008
Marketing - 3 April 2008, 4 April 2008, 5 April 2008
Parking - 26 April 2008
Pinewalk - 20 April 2008
Pirated goods - 21 April 2008
Pollensa Festival - 3 April 2008
Pornography - 25 April 2008
Posh Paddy Irish Bar - 27 April 2008
Posidonia Oceanica - 19 April 2008
Puerto Pollensa - 17 April 2008
Record shops - 21 April 2008
Restaurants - 3 April 2008, 4 April 2008, 5 April 2008, 8 April 2008, 16 April 2008, 20 April 2008, 24 April 2008
Roads - 23 April 2008
Sea accidents - 15 April 2008
Season - 12 April 2008
Segway - 13 April 2008
Sepia fair - 6 April 2008
Shamrock Irish Bar - 14 April 2008
Shops - 7 April 2008
Smoking - 2 April 2008
Smugglers Bar - 10 April 2008
Time - 30 April 2008
Tobacco sales - 2 April 2008
Tobacconists - 25 April 2008
Tourist stories - 10 April 2008, 11 April 2008, 13 April 2008
Trikes - 23 April 2008
Turtles - 9 April 2008
Weather - 18 April 2008

With A Paper Folded Outside The Loo

The loo, the bog, the crapper, the pit, the dunny. Powder my nose, point Percy at the porcelain, visit the little boys’ room.

The toilet is an institution in British and Anglo-Saxon consciousness. Different parts of Britain offer different motifs for the place and the act, as do different parts of the US and Australia. The toilet for all that it represents, at its base level, merely defecation and micturition, is democracy in action, or perhaps in motion. It is a symbol of equality, founded on bodily function. The toilet, especially the public toilet, is engrained into British culture and British psyche. The late Marcus Merriman, an ebullient history professor at my Alma Mater, wrote about the public toilet. More noted for his work on Mary Queen of Scots, this Anglophile American was nonetheless impressed enough by the English (and British) affinity with the public loo and its architecture to direct research into such a study. And rightly so. Though the magnificent glazed tiling of, for instance, London’s old Victorian stations, has been widely vandalised by the arrival of sanitised whitewash and aluminium, the WC remains a visible sign of a history of public hygiene. But more than just a symbol, the public loo is a Briton’s right. Even if no relief is consciously required, a public toilet suddenly evokes a brain-to-bladder-or-bowel reaction that demands one “just nips to the loo”.

In Mallorca, there is no such heritage. If a national emblem of Great Britain were to be a public privy, the Mallorcan equivalent would be a tree or a wooded place, adorned preferably with an abundance of dock leaves. Or alternatively, it would be a bar or restaurant.

Need a public loo in Mallorca? Generally impossible. List three of the most frequent questions asked of tourist information offices, and among them will be “where’s the loo?”. The absence causes disorientation for the British tourist, used to getting a spatial bearing through the location of the nearest lav. For some, the non-availability is a sign of backwardness. Forget the preserved and restored historical monuments, the well-constructed and attractive marinas and promenades. These are nought in terms of achievement when set against the lack of a public pisser.

While many bars will happily oblige gratis someone with cross-legged desperation, not all do. Some charge. Some even require that one asks for a key, and then charge. Except of course if one stops for a drink, which means that in some short future while the whole exercise has to be repeated. Go for a day out, and it is an endless round of drink-now, pee-a-bit-later. The best solution, and the one with more luxury than the average bar, is the hotel, unless one is in the old towns of Alcúdia and Pollensa where the “petit” hotels don’t afford the level of anonymity that a large one of some 900 guests might. It is not that there are no public toilets, just that they are rare and situated in the most unlikely places. Go for a ramble through the forest between Playa de Muro and Can Picafort, and you will stumble across a two-cubicled hut that only those with a most pressing requirement would entertain.

For restaurants in Mallorca, the toilet is usually a purely functional necessity. It is uncommon for it to be a thing of beauty. One particular restaurant’s loos have received critical remarks - I haven’t yet published them and probably won’t. But this is not always so. On a first visit to Can Costa in Pollensa after William had taken it on, he was keen to point out the splendour of the WCs. And they were just that, in keeping with the fineness of the restaurant itself. But there again he’s British. Natch. A less-resplendent but still welcoming toilet is that at L’Ombra, also in Pollensa, also run by Brits.

Which all leads me to believe that here is a rich vein of research. In honour of Marcus Merriman, the search is on for the finest lavatories in northern Mallorca. Anyone with any nominations are welcome to email me.

And somewhat in keeping with today’s theme ... It duly peed it down yesterday, especially in the south where, once more, the new metro was flooded (see previous 22 August: It’s August, Jim, But Not As We Know It).


QUIZ
Yesterday - Manic Street Preachers. Today’s title - struggled a bit to think of a toilet reference, but here’s a corker, which also features the line “Rain falls like Elvis tears”.

PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)