It’s been a while since my last blog and I’ve just about stopped seething about Brexit.
Just about, but not entirely.
Last night in the Moet bar we passed a couple of pleasurable hours in the company of locals Cecil and Manuel, reflecting on how the great British voting public have screwed up their economy for years and maybe decades to come. Why, we asked, did David Cameron allow such a momentous issue to be decided on the slenderest of margins by an electorate who based where they put their crosses on prejudice, ignorance, the ranting of Johnson and that buffoon Farage and the inexactitudes of the Daily Mail?
Anyway…what’s done is done.
Now, I’ve been promising to tell you, dear reader, about Spain and dog shit for some months and … drumroll… now the moment has finally arrived.
The Spanish love dogs, but no one over the age of forty considers it dignified to pick up
Pedro el perro’s poo. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; it is, literally, beneath them. The young are better, and the closer you get to the sea — for that read the expensive end of town — the less dog shit you are likely to stand in, but in villages up in the hills, such as Ojen, it is endemic.
For anyone born twenty years before the death of Franco, it is as much your birthright as bull fighting to let your dog roam — and therefore crap — anywhere he damned well likes. A man over forty with a dog on a lead is not a man… a hombre carrying a little carton of plastic poo-sacks is not a hombre — Franco would have had him shot, or even worse, sent to Sitges, with all the other homosexuals.
However, it is not all bad news because the Spanish
authorities — at least in Madrid — have launched an offensive to put a stop to this practice and anyone caught failing to pick up Pedro’s poo will be forced to clean the streets. One can expect, of course, a considerable delay before this initiative filters down to Marbella or even Ojen, and so — in the meantime — watch your step.
Still on the subject of dog shit — and for no better reason than writing about dog shit takes my mind off the shit-storm that will ensue as a result of Brexit — dog shit art is becoming pretty big in the US. You can tell it’s the US because they call it dog ‘poop’ due to having a problem with the word ‘poo’ (that, by the way, is why they call the shitter a rest room folks). My favourite is the exhibit entitled ‘Log Cabin’ closely followed by ‘Poo-dolph’. A Polish poo-artist friend of a friend garnishes delicious looking culinary preparations with pasta or potatoes, chips and veg adorning the steaming pile of Burek the Beagle’s breakfast.
Let me tell you, artistic amigos who use poo for paint, if you ever run out of the stuff, do please come to Marbella.
Well that’s about it for now chicos. It’s Saturday evening and time for earlies at
Victor’s Beach where the young and beautiful from the fashion and music world (and a few old duffers like me) go to party.