Twice shy

Spent the weekend in Polop de la Marina, visiting the outlaws. Worked my way through the manuscript of Missing Adventures, which begins with Stepford-meets-Malory Towers and ends with a leisurely tennis match, and is all rather splendid in between. Now have to think of which bit of it we’re going to stick on the cover.

Oh, I know…

Anyway, as well as having the best placename since Penge, Polop is a small town just a bit out of Benidorm, surrounded by vast and craggy hills. One is meant to be in the shape of a sleeping lion. We didn’t venture too far, but climbed up to the cemetery at the top of the town where the best views awaited. We managed a quick swim in the Mediterranean and I asked correctly for eggs in the supermarket.

Being a cultured sort, the place reminded me of Picasso’s Resevoir Horta, which I liked so much when I first saw it projected in the upstairs room of the Art department at Peter Symonds.

Mostly, though, it was the small English bars where I didn’t have to mention my Spanish. And in the evenings a Spanish bar where a beer and a wine were merely €2.20. The pretty girl behind the bar laughed at my paltry grasp of the lingo, but agreed that the Brits’ karaoke across the square sounded like “los gatos”.

Also spent both nights being eaten by mosquitos, which shows just how tasty I am. The Dr and the outlaws were entirely untouched, while I’ve counted some 30 nibbles. And now they are itchy and blobby and throbbing, as if they might any time explode…

¿Cuál es la palabra para "el tejón"?

Back from a much-needed break to Malaga to see A. and J. (we went to their wedding last year). Apart from a quick mooch round the Picasso Birthplace Museum, it was uncharacteristically lacking in being good for me. Yes, even the Dr wanted a holiday. Instead we wandered to nice eateries, ate lots of fresh fish and sampled bars that don't get going before midnight.

In one trendy place that served very good mojitos, J. pointed out the flag hanging above the bar. The Spanish flag is three horizontal bars: red, then yellow, then red again, the yellow band twice as thick as the red ones.

In the dim and disco lighting, it took a moment to realise what was different: this one went red, then yellow, then purple.

This republican flag from the 1930s, J. explained, was banned in Spain under Franco, and even now it's a bit of a shocker. He spoke of the frission of seeing it hanging from the arm of the Philip IV statue in Madrid, in the midst of a political protest.

The nearest I could liken that was to Winston's turf mohican.

(The Internet also tells me of the irony of the purple band: it's not purple, but royal Castilian purpure.)

J.'s own republic sensibilities would be stronger but his king is helluva tough. Our Charles III did something similar, I said, in the first issue of 2000AD.

As well as the politics, we discussed how Bowie's lyrics translate and pretty much everything under the sun. My best effort to explain a reference to badgers was "a sort of mash-up of a boar and a tiger".