Mercadona checkout

Since when did checkout ladies become sales assistants? That’s what seems to be happening lately at my local Mercadona, and at probably everyone else’s, I suppose.

I’ve been offered shrink-wrapped half-melons, two loaves for the price of one, a fold-up makeup bag for the beach – that was before the young girl looked up as saw I was a chap with a skin that was well past moisturiser and lip seal, although one little darling insisted on outlining the benefits of a new skin softening and anti-aging soap that was on offer. I’m sixty years old with a face like a washboard. I admired her persistence, but I didn’t think I’d be a perfect test case. I saw her a couple of weeks later and said I’d bought a bar and did she think it had made any difference?

I’ve just got back from the milk and bread run, and the checkout offers seem to have been continuing in personal care and hygiene mode. Dora, or so her name tag called her, asked me if I’d like some shower gel for only one euro, and opened the cap for me to appreciate the delectable aroma. I lost my sense of smell about five years ago, and besides, I prefer a bar of soap, so that did no good. Then she asked if I’d like some shampoo for the same bargain price, but even she had to laugh, along with everyone else in the queue, when I just simply pointed at my head. I’m bald as a coot, with only a fine stubble protecting my shiny skull from the suns rays.

©2009 Derek Workman

We’re all going on a lemming’s holiday

Everyone likes to squeeze the last moments out of their summer holiday, but no-one moreso than the Spanish. The ‘Salida’, the mass exodus from city to beach that takes place on Friday afternoon, the weekend nearest the 1st August, and the ‘Entrada’ the return on the Sunday of the last weekend of the month, are the times when you shouldn’t be seen dead on Spanish roads or that is what you might actually be seen – dead.
No-one seems prepared to leave a day later or earlier to avoid the record pile-ups or massive tail-backs, and each year the government and national police launch ‘Operación Salida’ (and ‘Entrada’) in an attempt to lessen the traffic blow – and invariably fail. The May holiday weekend is seen as a barometer of the August rush (a contradiction in terms if ever there was one) and this year’s indicates that is going to be a busy time for the emergency services.
The Costa Blanca has been historically known as la playa de Madrid - Madrid’s beach, and hordes of escaping masrileños descend on the beaches and resorts of the region. Last year traffic jams covered almost 170 kilometres of motorway during the salida, almost half the distance from the Capital to Valencia city, and a trip that usually takes a comfortable four hours was taking up to twenty. On their return, the tens of thousands who fought their way to the coast fought their way home again, this time, according to pleased police sources, they only had to endure tailbacks of 90 kms trying to enter the capital city. It was also a good weekend as far as deaths were concerned, a mere 39 people died in 37 accidents, while in 35 accidents in which no mortality occurred a paltry 16 were considered serious.
After a month of wall-to-wall people on Valencia’s beaches last year, fighting for a restaurant table and facing the worst traffic jams for years, the madrileños and Spanish from all corners of the country will have forgotten all about them in their lemming-like rush to the sea for the August holiday. Only one question remains to be answered – why?

@2009 Derek Workman

A bike ride on the Formula One Urban Circuit of Valencia

Intrepid cyclist and British Valencia journo, Derek Workman put on his 'go faster' cap and took to the hot tarmac of the new Formula One Urban Circuit by the port of Valencia last night. He cycled for just a few of metres of the 5.56 km course, which is still being readied for the first event, The Formula Three weekend on the 26th July.
Derek then had a chat with Eric Taylor live on air on Onda Cero International. Derek told Eric that the track was a delight to ride on and though his multi-geared mountain bike was fast, he was unable to reach the 300 km per hour max speed limit the tarmac is built to withstand.
More on the Valencia Formula One Urban Circuit here

Gaelic Football

I’m not sure if Gaelic Football came first, and being a mixture of football and rugby played with a round ball confused the Brits so they had to make two games of it, or the Irish decided to combine both the games to draw bigger audiences and permit semi-legal kicking the hell out of each other. Anyone from the southern hemisphere will recognise the game as Australian Rules Football, which, contrary to its name, seems to have very few rules at all – other than kicking the hell out of the opposing team.

When I went to watch a game of Gaelic Football at Levante FC’s training ground on Avendia Alafuir, the players were there more for a bit of a lark and a pint or two late, so the violence of professional games wasn’t on show. That may also have been because both teams included colleens (women, for the non-Irish speakers), who nonetheless did a fair amount of shouting and bawling. The referee was also a woman who, in plaited ponytail and flip-flops, skipped up and down the sidelines trying to keep order, although she spent a fair amount of time asking other chicas on the sidelines if anyone was keeping score. The Spanish groundsman was totally confused – a game that allowed both men and women to play together (the first equal-opportunities sport?), players to kick and handle the ball and the score didn’t depend just on goals but also on points, but how the points were given seemed totally obscure. There again – it is Irish after all!


It seems to be that you can only run a few steps before kicking the ball – usually a little flick upwards into your hands, a neat trick when travelling at speed. The goalie – obviously a first-timer – got a bollocking because he threw the ball out of the goal instead of kicking it. “You’ve got to kick it out, mate. Every time!”

Timing seems a bit fluid. “Let me know when it’s fifteen minutes for half time,” the ref called to her sideline aficionados. Half-an-hour a game! That wasn’t going to raise a sweat. “No, were going to give it tirty minutes a side,” someone called from the pitch. “Right’ch’arethen,” the ref called back. A short while later a voice called, “Eight minutes left.” “We’ll give them one more minute fer yer man wasting time,” the ref called back.

I’m pretty sure that a trainer for Levante wouldn’t run onto the pitch partway with a bottle of water to refresh the poor wee players, but just before half-time one of the male sideliners ran onto the pitch shouting, “De yers wanta take a break fer water?” “Ders only tree minutes left – GEDDON WIDIT!” one of the petit ladies hollered back.

Probably the best thing to do if you go to watch Irish Football is not to try and understand it. Probably half the players don’t – and I wasn’t one hundred percent sure about the ref – but what the hell, everyone was having a great time and were there for the craic more than anything else.

But as ever, the poor ref got all the stick!

For more great reading material from Derek Workman go here