One Remarkable Week In Spain

Goodness, what a week this has been. History has been made. Scarcely believable things have happened. There have been new dawns, new orders but seemingly no orders for new curtains. Yes, it has been a truly remarkable week. Joana Camps sat down and spoke with the unions.

Not that the unions were overly impressed. It was all just a photo opportunity for the education minister, they reckoned. But what an opportunity. One for Joana to display THAT hairstyle. All she needs are some bushy sideburns to complete her retro Noddy Holder circa 1974 look. "Ma-Mama weer all crazee now," she probably didn't inform the unions, but had she, for once her linguistic cock-up would have been justified and indeed accurate.

The meeting with the unions was, naturally enough, seen as something of a victory for the hunger-striking teacher, who finally succumbed to the temptation of someone wafting vegetable soup under his nose. And thus, the Great Conflict edged towards becoming the Less Than Great Conflict. Or, because the school holidays are now upon us and no one will be paying any attention to the Conflict for the next three months, they may as well sit down and do what they should have been doing. Talking. In whichever language they prefer. And just as an aside, I have a question. The hunger-striking teacher. Was he being paid? Or how does that all work exactly?

Less earth-shattering have been events in Brazil, where Spain's world domination was brought rudely and suddenly to an end. A nation was plunged into mourning and despair. It must have been like this when Cuba was lost in 1898. And there was also the highly un-Spanish lack of leaving everything to a mañana of many weeks or months in the form of the rapidity with which a new king was ushered in. The big question on the nation's lips was - where would Felipe, Letizia and the nippers be living now? "Zeleb", the celebrity website, had the answer. They'll be staying put at at their modest, five-bedroomed, four-million-euros-worth Pabellón del Principe, so there would be no need for Letizia to get herself down the local IKEA and order new curtains for the Zarzuela.

Speculation was rife as to what Felipe's sudden promotion would all mean. One consequence could be an end to the Catalonian conflict. Spain's kings might traditionally not have spoken Catalan (for fairly obvious reasons), but the new man does. His Joana Camps trilingualism (he's fluent in English) was taken as the chance for him to somehow broker a deal between Mariano Rajoy and Catalonia's Artur Mas, though quite why the fact that he can speak Catalan should mean a resolution of the independence issue was lost on some - me, at any rate. But were it to mean a resolution, then this would truly and eventually cap what has indeed been a very remarkable week in Spain.

World Cup Years: From Surrey to Mallorca

It was, I think, a Bush. It was a large wooden type affair that commanded a sizable amount of the lounge floor. Home entertainment units of that era were all large wooden type affairs. Stereograms on legs (was ours a Ferguson?), the size of coffins, would occupy similar acres of space. The stereogram had appeared on the scene a few years before. The Bush, if that indeed was what it was, was a later arrival. One day in 1970 it was manouvered into the living-room with the aid of a crane and several pack horses (I exaggerate, no I lie, of course). The moment had arrived. A knob the size of a door handle was turned, and the Bush sparked into life. And life was suddenly very different. Colour TV.

There was one very particular reason for the ceremony of the Bush's entrance. The World Cup. It seems that every household in Britain (well, England anyway) bought, rented or obtained on HP a colour TV for that summer. For the first time, we would be able to appreciate that Brazil played in yellow and blue and not in varying shades of grey and, as things were to turn out, that England also played in red, as they had done four years before. With a different result. Colour transformed telly-watching, but not even colour could obscure the fact that Alf cocked up the substitutions and Bonetti had a mare. Defeat. And four days later, Harold Wilson lost the election. 

The four-year World Cup cycle is such that it is a life event. You can break down your time on Earth, where you were and what you were doing, according to the World Cup and the dramas that have been played out at the various tournaments.

I have virtually no recollection of 1962, except, oddly enough, the game between Hungary and Czechoslovakia. It was played in a country far, far away and it took two days for matches to be shown on British TV. Sadly, I did not see the Battle of Santiago. Of course, and also sadly, they don't make football matches like that nowadays. They went some way to making them like that in 1966 - Rattin and all that - but all that was forgotten, including Nobby Stiles kicking Frenchmen, amidst the tension of was it over the line or not and Kenneth Wolstenholme's they think it's all over. In our little bit of suburbia, life couldn't have been much better. England were world champions and there were still five weeks or so of summer holiday to go.

The 1974 tournament, one of two successive World Cups for which England failed to qualify, was my first World Cup away from home. It was university time. In 1978, it was getting used to the realities of working-life time; realities which, nevertheless, were punctuated by reliving the excesses of university. Argentina also relived many excesses. There was the match against Hungary, a glorious throwback to the kick-and-kick days of Rattin - watched after one highly indulgent evening in Brighton - and the dubious business of the 6-0 win against Peru. 

1982 was Spain's year, a recognition that the country had truly entered the modern world and no longer had a regime which might try and ban the Soviets from playing on Spanish soil. 1986 was Maradona, and 1990 was Gazza, Pavarotti and the inevitable defeat on penalties. It was also the year when I watched England play Ireland in a bar in the south of France. It was dreadful. The French pundit described the match dismissively as "le football primitif". 1994 was when FIFA, pandering to its US audience, first really tried to make football a non-contact sport. It wasn't quite the same without the violence we'd grown to love, and, to make matters worse, we had to endure Bebeto and the baby-rocking celebration. In 1998, Zidane did his best to revive the good old days by stamping on a Saudi, Beckham didn't stamp on Simone, Ronaldo had a fit, and Zidane went from villain to hero. Which brings us to 2002, and it is 2002 where the story really starts. The Mallorcan years of the World Cup. This year's tournament is my fourth.

The Mallorcan years are marked by the absurdly early time in a bar to watch Owen score, Ronaldinho lob Seaman, stamp on Danny Mills and still see Brazil win, by Rooney being sent off in 2006 and by the celebrations in 2010. Spain were world champions. They are marked also by the trappings of living in tourist resort land:  the England flags draped from balconies, the England fans bellowing their heads off in Brit bars. Wrong? Not a bit of it. The World Cup's back in Mallorca. Come on, England.  

Just A Game Of Futbol: McDonald's in Australia

The football World Cup is almost upon us. Advertising by official sponsors of the tournament has already arrived, and not everyone is happy with it. McDonald's, presumably in the absence of any Brazilian restaurants, is the official restaurant of the tournament. To mark this involvement, the burger giant is taking the radical step of temporarily dispensing with its usual french-fries dispenser. New designs will take the place of the traditional box and will come with a mobile app game, to boot.

This dramatic departure from tradition is all about communicating with Millennials, says McDonald's senior director of global marketing. This is a generation which loves art, unique customisation and McDonald's french fries. Does it really. The senior executive vice-president global chief brand officer of McDonald's (which is a hell of  a long job title) says that it's all about "bringing fun, innovative programming to our customers and celebrating our shared love of futbol".

Whatever you say, Misters senior director of global marketing and senior executive vice-president global chief brand officer, but wait one moment. What is it that we all have a shared love of? Football? No, futbol. That's what it says in the quote I have lifted from adage.com. Spain has come to dominate world football, and it would now appear that the Spanish language has taken over and turned football into futbol. Or maybe it only has done in McDonald's-land. (There should, some of you might appreciate, be an accent over the u, but let's not get too pedantic.)

But hang on another moment, does the non-appearance of the accent, if only in the adage.com article, imply something more political? The word is identical in Catalan except for one important difference. There is no accent. Well, well. Its absence almost certainly doesn't imply anything political, but in these linguistically-fraught and correct times, one can't be too careful. Just as one can't be too careful about the type of image one wishes to portray in an advert. Which brings me to the spot of unhappiness.

Down under in Australia, McDonald's, in good Aussie tradition of giving any name some matey version, is known as Macca, which is not to confuse it with a one-time bass player from Liverpool who, in the dim distant past, was once any good. And Macca, as it states on its Aussie website, is "kicking off with an exciting line-up that'll be sure to score goals with your tastebuds". Kicking off the World Cup, that is, with a quite lamentable string of football clichés. Sorry, futbol clichés.

Macca has a series of TV ads. They are to promote World Cup specials for different countries. There are only a few countries for which there is a Macca special - Bosnia-Herzegovina, for example, doesn't appear to merit one - but of the few countries, the Spanish entry has caused a bit of a fuss. It's that cliché thing again, this time as in clichéd national stereotyping.

The ad is for the Spain Brekkie Wrap, a delicious-looking item that features sausage, scrambled egg and ketchup. It is only fifteen seconds long, but the ad manages to pack in as many clichés as are possible in such a short period of time. In the ad there are two what one guesses are futbol commentators. Commentator one announces the delicious contents before breaking into "olé, olé, olé" and inspiring commentator two, till then sour-faced and bearing a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein with a matador's hat on, to become animated, stick a rose in his mouth and mime the playing of a flamenco guitar.

While one might conclude that the ad's crime is in being rotten as opposed to being offensive, commentators who have posted on McDonald's España Facebook page are in no doubt that it is both rotten and offensive. "Is anyone going to do something about it? Can we sink any lower?" "Are you not ashamed? Spain, its culture, people and products deserve respect." "The advert is demeaning to Spanish and Hispanic culture. Then there's the sandwich. Two shitty sausages masquerading as chorizos with scrambled egg without seasoning. This is a Spanish sandwich?" "The advert is a disgrace. It ridicules us."

At least one poster points out that the ad is not intended for broadcast in Spain and so says that it is not offensive just ignorant. But his is the only comment with a moderate opinion among the others. The strength of these opinions, not that they are likely to have any impact, do serve to remind us all, including McDonald's, that we live in a joined-up world. What's good for Australia is not good for Spain, and moreover, the Spanish are going to find out and have done.

The World Cup, the global game, the global media of social networks. If only it were just a game of futbol.

WikiWorld: Spain, Wikileaks and World Cup

Wikileaks and World Cups. They tell you much about a nation's diminished role in the scheme of things. A political leader considered to be pretty much useless by the Americans and humiliation by the quasi-nation that is FIFA.

But so much for Gordon Brown and England. Another nation has to cope with its own minor role in the scheme of things. So minor it had to combine with a minor-minor nation to try and prise the World Cup out of the clutches of the Russian mafia that has made the country one of its favourite offshore bases.

Spain is not a world power. Centuries ago it was. It has had to adjust to being an also-ran, which doesn't stop it trying to reclaim some one-time glory and importance. But when it does, it ends up looking a tad silly. As with the presidential predecessor José María Aznar. "My friend Tony" were the words put into the mouth of Aznar when he was being savaged by the satirists. The little man of world politics like a mini David Steel sitting on the shoulders of the really powerful and his lackey.

This was Iraq. Aznar stood shoulder to shoulder - well, slightly lower than shoulder to shoulder in fact - with Bush and Blair, desperate for some international kudos that had long since deserted Spain. Aznar's back in the news, thanks to the splendidly cringeworthy revelations from Wikileaks.

In 2007 Aznar confided in the American ambassador to Spain who, praise be, then broke the confidence. He was thinking of a return to frontline politics and all because he doubted that his successor as national leader of the Partido Popular, Mariano Rajoy, was up to the job. There are many who would have agreed with Aznar then and would still do so.

Poor old Rajoy. If, and it really isn't much of a choice, he were to succeed Zapatero as national president, it would be a case of trading in Mr. Bean for Mr. Grey, the uninspiring, uncharismatic bearded blunder of the PP. For one who aspires to great office, to a place on the world stage (sort of), he has an unerring capacity to come over all Bush-like, as was the case when he pooh-poohed climate change because his cousin had said so. It was only slightly better than taking the word of the bloke in the pub. Admittedly his cousin was a physics academic, but going on the say-so of one person, a relative, is a rather worrying trait for a potential national leader.

While we have been bombarded with information of seemingly rather greater importance, Spain, appropriately enough, has been relegated to the footnote category of Wikileaking. In the world scheme of things, matters Spanish are not exactly earth-shattering, but "El Pais", a sort of "Guardian" of the Spanish media left, has nevertheless been informing the Spanish public about not only Rajoy but also US pressure to stop Spanish High Court investigations into matters such as alleged war crimes in Iraq and about the use of Palma airport for rendition flights.

Wikileaks, Spanish style, doesn't make for easy reading if you are a Spanish politician, as US officials don't seem to be overly impressed. The King, on the other hand, is approved of by the Americans. And then there's Zapatero himself. He has not enjoyed great relations with the US, who doubtless see him conveying a rather bemused, bumbling, if genial, persona. Just as he was when to everyone's surprise, including his own, he snatched the presidency from Aznar. But this doesn't stop him turning up at events like the World Cup vote. Not that it did much good. Nor did the vain attempt by the president of the Spanish football federation, Ángel María Villar, to butter up the FIFA voters with his grovelling declaration that: "FIFA is clean and does things with honesty. You are all honest and hardworking and worry about football".

The Spanish, and indeed President Zapatero, do have rather more pressing issues to worry about than the failed World Cup bid, but there has been some anger regarding the decision to hand the 2018 tournament to Russia. One commentator has suggested that "we (the Spanish presumably) should emigrate to another planet".

Ah yes, to another planet, another world, where there would be no Wikileaks, Spain and England would still rule the waves and have their empires and there would be no "clean" FIFA to prevent Spain and England from forever more sharing the hosting of the World Cup between them.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Waving Flags

So there I was, thinking that maybe I'd do something about it being the fourth of July, as in making the observation that there aren't so many Americans hereabouts, save the incoherent, Riki Lash, the scuba-Mallorca-ing, Mick and Jessie, and the Hollywooding, Michael Douglas. I was thinking about something for independence day, something about flags being waved perhaps, something about national pride, and then ... along came the Germans.

Suddenly, German flags have started to appear where German flags had previously not been. Outside Spanish bars, for example. How bizarre, except as a flag of economic convenience. Flags were waving and flying from cars along the main road through Alcúdia and Playa de Muro yesterday. Horns were blowing. Deutschland was über alles; Germans were over all, especially the Argentinians. Then Nobby (Linekers) phones. All kicking off down in the port. Shame, I've gone in the opposite direction. Shame, might have been nice to have seen the plod cordoning off the road around the Alcúdia Garden while Argentinians and Germans piled into each other. 200, 300 mass brawling, suggests Nobby. What great sport in the name of sport. Flags waving and punches flying. But take note. Argentinians and Germans. Nary a hint of trouble when Germany beat England. Just a load of very drunk people, too embarrassed to do anything about it, other than to want to attack a plasma screen and get at the ref.

In the port the other day, I happened to look up at flats. All the flags were hanging. From the balconies. Brazil, Spain and Germany and Argentina. Two have probably been taken down now. You wonder, though, what might happen when the flags fly when Germany meet Spain or if Germany meet the Dutch. If there is one nation that has more reason to dislike the Germans than the British, then it is the Dutch. All historical, and all nonsense, but there you go.

As for the Americans. Well, no American flags have flown during the World Cup and you are unlikely to see one. But how Mallorca would love it were you to. When they talk about seeking out new markets, there's a pretty old one that has never been tapped. Palma airport needs to have transatlantic flights, then a greater state of Mallorcan independence might follow.



Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Oh What An Atmosphere: Football on holiday

Football on holiday. There is this thing that baffles me slightly. Chanting support for our boys. In bars. Outside bars. Does it somehow permeate the plasma and filter across global satellite communication systems to be relayed above the noise of the vuvuzelas in a South African stadium? Probably not.

"England till I die." At the clinic next to Foxes, the lady in charge was getting anxious. The noise was such that she couldn't hear someone on the phone. So she said. "England till I die," and someone on the end of the phone gagging his or her last. Maybe she should be grateful that the clinic is not next door to a Spanish bar, though possibly she was unnerved by the raucousness of those feared English footy fans - and their ancient reputation. A police car passed, just as a Rooney was launching himself into a one-man Peter Kay conga. "Are you on your way to Yellow, sir?" The police might have asked. "Yellow?" He was English, after all, and a Rooney, to boot. The clinic Oberführerfrau, arms sternly crossed, watched as the police car kept going and watched as it came back and kept going.

Rooneys, Gerrards, the odd (very odd) Crouch, the occasional, nostalgic Beckham, an absence of Heskeys. England versus Slovenia. I felt possibly under-dressed in a sky-blue Man City reminiscent Karl Hogan. Not a red or white for me. "I am the only Slovenian in Alcúdia," said I in my best Slovenian accent. I used the gag, if you could call it such, once. Unlike the gag from the Rooneys and Gerrards. "Well held," every time James caught the ball. Ho-de-ho-ho.

Then there are the pints. Hundreds, thousands. Has anyone ever measured the peaks of pint purchase as a game progresses? A graph with game time on one axis and pints on the other, superimposed by another - pints purchased in the immediate aftermath of an England goal. Someone should. I will, if I'm given the grant to do so.

Around The Mile. A party on the Goodfellas terrace, or what looked like a party. Some mascoty beings, wrapped in St George, a white with red cross sun shade over a baby buggy. The passage way by Linekers packed like Wembley Way. Wayne with a mini-Gazza blond look, lacking only a lob, a goal and a dentist's chair. And a multitude of Rooneys; a potato field of Rooneys.

Football on holiday. Football on holiday in the afternoon sun in Puerto Alcúdia. "Oh what an atmosphere."

And it was only Slovenia. And it was brilliant.


* Some photos on the HOT Alcudia Pollensa Facebook page.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Accentuating The Positive: Friendly Alcúdia

Once more "The Diario" has gone out talking to tourists where other papers sit in the air-conditioning and pen pieces about the cost of a coffee. Tourists the paper spoke to were in Alcúdia. The impetus for doing this was the visit of the representatives of 25 tour operators who came to Alcúdia (and Can Picafort) on Friday and an observation that was being made during that visit that greater friendliness needs to be shown to tourists.

A lot is said about friendliness (or lack of it). But it is not a factor that has ever struck me as being much of an issue; only if someone wants to make it so. As always one can pull out an example of poor service or surliness, but generally speaking ... ? I'm not convinced. Nor are the holidaymakers to whom "The Diario" spoke. Friendliness, helpfulness were the positive aspects of the paper's investigation. Less positive were prices (more expensive than Malaga or the USA, according to a family that was spoken to) and the absence of good transport, i.e. the absence of a train to Palma. Some American visitors had expected that there would be one. Many people in Alcúdia had expected that there would be one - before the politicians proved themselves incapable of arriving at a compromise. Another visitor said that she thought that taxis were expensive and not always easy to find. The paper does point out something which most visitors would be unaware of, and that is that taxis in the different municipalities along the bay of Alcúdia - Alcúdia itself, Muro and Santa Margalida - cannot pick up outside of their municipalities. One can understand that this might cause some frustration. An empty cab goes past and keeps going past. Maybe the issue needs to be addressed, and not set aside only when Muro taxi drivers are called in as reinforcements by an Alcúdia taxi brigade which gets overwhelmed by demand on market days.

But overall the paper was pretty positive, albeit that it spoke to less than a handful of visitors. So, proves little, but at least it was trying.

Also positive is the word that business appears to be on the increase in bar world. The past week seems to have witnessed a significantly higher level of trade, and not just because of the football, although this has had an impact, an impact that does make one wonder. One bar, Mile-based, reports that Saturday last week was the second best day in ten years. Ok, England were playing (after a fashion), but so they have also played over the past ten years (when not failing to qualify). So, what of those fears that the hotels would gobble up the Sky footy trade? And moreover, what of all-inclusives and their effects down The Mile? The protests against all-inclusives seem to have been forgotten amidst a burst of recent good business.


* The Diario article is here: http://www.diariodemallorca.es/part-forana/2010/06/15/amabilidad-problema/578954.html


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.