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Corona quarantine diary
Objavljivač niti: Mervyn Henderson

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
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POKRETAČ TEME
Valentine's Day Feb 13

Now there's an idea (I'd forgotten!). I just might. Thanks!

 

Gerard Barry
Nemačka
Local time: 18:44
nemački na engleski
Alternative plan? Feb 13

@Chris: Not sure if I have a detailed alternative plan (and I hardly need to explain myself to you anyway), but in the interest of freedom and civil liberties I would be in favour of loosening the current restrictions dramatically. I just read in the Irish Times that the Irish government is considering raising the current €500 fine for "non-essential" travel out of the country to €2,000! Prior to corona, it was only communist countries that used to punish people for leaving their countries. ... See more
@Chris: Not sure if I have a detailed alternative plan (and I hardly need to explain myself to you anyway), but in the interest of freedom and civil liberties I would be in favour of loosening the current restrictions dramatically. I just read in the Irish Times that the Irish government is considering raising the current €500 fine for "non-essential" travel out of the country to €2,000! Prior to corona, it was only communist countries that used to punish people for leaving their countries. We've come a long way, haven't we?Collapse


 

P.L.F.Persio  Identity Verified
Holandija
Local time: 18:44
Član (2010)
engleski na italijanski
+ ...
Seconded! Feb 14

Lingua 5B wrote:

I'm sure you'll build a story about Valentine's too. Something titled "Corona romance"


There is a young man in Bilbao,
To whom everyday we say:
Ciao!
It's Valentine's Day,
So give us a tale
Of romance and cod in Bilbao.


Mervyn Henderson
Angie Garbarino
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texjax DDS PhD
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
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Cod and romance Feb 14

Thanks, PLF! Cod had occurred to me, strangely. But a few contretemps this weekend, so no writing for a while. Post-Valentine's, it'll have to be.

P.L.F.Persio
Chris S
 

Lingua 5B  Identity Verified
Bosna i Hercegovina
Local time: 18:44
engleski na hrvatski
+ ...
Covid Romance #1 Feb 14

Covid Romance

The 9th day of 14-day quarantine
fell exactly on Valentine's day.

If eyes speak a thousand words
no words were needed
but still, they are like farts
need to let them go.

He told her I waw you
which meant
I love you
said through Cov mask.

6 feet away with choco-stained teeth,
she quietly responded:
I love you too,
you're my boo.

This quiet moment
of lov
... See more
Covid Romance

The 9th day of 14-day quarantine
fell exactly on Valentine's day.

If eyes speak a thousand words
no words were needed
but still, they are like farts
need to let them go.

He told her I waw you
which meant
I love you
said through Cov mask.

6 feet away with choco-stained teeth,
she quietly responded:
I love you too,
you're my boo.

This quiet moment
of loverly bliss
was interrupted with
his sudden coughing attack.

She ran out to
a different room
as Corona is stronger
than love.

The End
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P.L.F.Persio
Kevin Fulton
 

Chris S  Identity Verified
Velika Britanija
švedski na engleski
+ ...
#1? Feb 14

There’s more?

P.L.F.Persio
 

Lingua 5B  Identity Verified
Bosna i Hercegovina
Local time: 18:44
engleski na hrvatski
+ ...
lol Feb 14

Chris S wrote:

There’s more?


Not sure, maybe Mervyn will come up with something. Or maybe #2 will be provided by Chris S.


 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
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Back soon Feb 15

The weekend contretemps has stretched into this week, too. But I'll think of something at some point. I loved the Covid Romance!

Zibow Retailleau
Chris S
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
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Not for the moment Feb 16

I thought I might be able to swing back into humour by this week, but I'm afraid not. My Valentine's thing, if it ever emerges, will be late. I'm really not in the mood. I had a funeral this weekend. No, not mine, so you can either rejoice or fume at that.

I think I mentioned another funeral here recently, but that was for someone I hardly knew, and it's different when it's a little closer, of course. But this time I knew the deceased personally, and had spent a lot of time with he
... See more
I thought I might be able to swing back into humour by this week, but I'm afraid not. My Valentine's thing, if it ever emerges, will be late. I'm really not in the mood. I had a funeral this weekend. No, not mine, so you can either rejoice or fume at that.

I think I mentioned another funeral here recently, but that was for someone I hardly knew, and it's different when it's a little closer, of course. But this time I knew the deceased personally, and had spent a lot of time with her. Not Covid, either - old age.

They do it in two parts here, and sharpish too - where I come from, they're in the ground within four days, but here it's more like two or three. If you didn't know the person well, you only go to the mass. If you did, you go to the actual burial, like I did in the second round.

I went to the odd funeral in Northern Ireland with my dad. Very different to here. Hushed voices saying "So sad, but what a relief, really." Tea. Cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Sometimes egg mayonnaise. It depends.

The other side of the community in NI have a much gayer take on it. No, I don't mean it's all medallions, pink shirts and tight trousers, and every sentence beginning with "Darling, how wonderful ...!". They're much more up front with it, is what I mean. They have a few pints with the priest, and stand there looking at the corpse, and say totally daft things like "He's so like himself, isn't he?" And everybody nods. Nobody says, "Of course he's like himself, fool. Why wouldn't he look like himself? Why would he look like somebody else? It stands to reason he looks like himself. Sure he looks like himself. Only dead."

Here they go for a few drinks afterwards. In Ireland they do it all night. There are stories about the corpse being carted about with them from bar to bar, in fact. One for the road. One for the "road to heaven", they call that. Or to the other place. Actually, they don't call it that. I just made that up. Then again, maybe they do, and I just didn't know they do.

We had a few drinks after part two yesterday, the actual burial, except it was a format I didn't know, not actually a burial, but putting the coffin in a crypt with the rest of the family. I said to one man afterwards, "Dying is easy. It's life that's difficult." And I know what I'm talking about, because I've died myself in a kind of accident, and in the last few seconds you find yourself thinking very calmly, "Oh, so this is what it's like?" Then you wake up in the ICU, and think "Oh bugger, I pulled through, back to business as usual."

But I don't know why he found the comment so strange. So I asked him if he thought that the blokes who flew the planes into the Twin Towers were cowards or brave men. He said he thought they were brave, but morally wrong. I said I think they were brave too, because you need to have balls of steel to do that kind of thing, let's not fool ourselves, but they only had to be brave for a certain amount of time. They weren't afraid of taking on death, but they were shit scared of taking on life. And life is infinitely more difficult. This bloke just shrugged, and ordered another round. Which is getting on with life, too.
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Matthias Brombach
P.L.F.Persio
Chris S
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
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Alhambra Crisis Feb 18

A shortage of the popular 1925 Alhambra green bottle is giving cause for concern in Spain. Over the last eleven months the six-packs were one of the items most frequently beeped through supermarket checkouts the length and breadth of the realm, but yesterday I came up against that empty space on a shelf once again.

“I just don’t understand it,” said Iñaki, 34, shelf-filler at the El Corte Inglés food hall in Bilbao. “I did my frigging back in, me, staggering to and fro wi
... See more
A shortage of the popular 1925 Alhambra green bottle is giving cause for concern in Spain. Over the last eleven months the six-packs were one of the items most frequently beeped through supermarket checkouts the length and breadth of the realm, but yesterday I came up against that empty space on a shelf once again.

“I just don’t understand it,” said Iñaki, 34, shelf-filler at the El Corte Inglés food hall in Bilbao. “I did my frigging back in, me, staggering to and fro with this stuff during lockdown and afterwards. I was taking six-packs directly out of the plastic wrapping on my trolley for the punters because they couldn’t snap them up fast enough, and now this. It’s not just here, you know. Can’t get green Alhambra for love or money. But we have the red-bottle toasted variety if you want, look.”

But no, nobody wants the red bottle, especially not female beer drinkers, who prefer a milder sip. What the masses are clamouring for is green, green for go, but green these days is a no-go and a no-no.

Prime Minister Sánchez was ridiculed yesterday in Parliament for his handling of the Alhambra Crisis, amid calls for his resignation. “Imagine my utter shame at the weekend,” spat the leader of the opposition, “when I was unable to produce even one 1925 Alhambra for a small gathering at my place in the country. I was forced to resort to Mahou, Estrella de Galicia and even San Miguel, for God’s sake. I wager Sánchez isn’t suffering too much from depleted stocks, though. No, you can be sure he can dig into his own supply at the Moncloa Palace while the hardworking Spanish people go without. I bet the man has crates of the stuff up there.”

Sánchez called for calm, patience and understanding, and promised to set up a special Alhambra Committee to look into the issue, although he claimed he was no more responsible for a commercial beer shortage than he was for a pair of jeans, say, being unavailable in azure or mustard. This prompted jeers from opposition MPs, one of whom said Sánchez was “clutching at straws, shirking his responsibility, dilly-dallying and improvising with a box of Elastoplast when an emergency operation is obviously necessary”.

The crisis continues …


[Edited at 2021-02-18 08:19 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-18 08:19 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-18 11:09 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
Chris S
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
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Je suis Pablo / Je ne suis pas Pablo? Feb 19

Rioting in Madrid, Barcelona and Lleida (particularly the last two Catalan cities), and elsewhere too, in support of 30-something rapper Pablo Hasél. Rather a curious surname for a bloke from Lleida, but it isn't his - he took it from an Arab story book, apparently. Pablo was convicted for insulting the Crown, calling the former King a thief - probably the mildest term used in his badass raps - and incitement to violence (apologies for armed groups ETA, in the Basque Country, and Terra Lliure i... See more
Rioting in Madrid, Barcelona and Lleida (particularly the last two Catalan cities), and elsewhere too, in support of 30-something rapper Pablo Hasél. Rather a curious surname for a bloke from Lleida, but it isn't his - he took it from an Arab story book, apparently. Pablo was convicted for insulting the Crown, calling the former King a thief - probably the mildest term used in his badass raps - and incitement to violence (apologies for armed groups ETA, in the Basque Country, and Terra Lliure in Catalonia - it should be said that neither of them have been active in recent years).

Pablo was notified that he had 10 days to make his way to prison. Not surprisingly, he announced they'd have to come and "kidnap" him. Which they did the other day, among much shouting and media exposure. And so the streets have been filled ever since with burning police motorbikes, overturned containers set on fire, and shop windows smashed.

Unfortunately for the government, and to the outrage of the opposition, which whines even when you wonder what they're actually whining about, but this time they have huge whining scope, some of its leftie members and rank and file have refused to condemn the rioting. Well, that's what happens when you team up with the pinkos, innit? They start in sooner or later.

The government is saying that free speech is all very well and healthy and to be encouraged in a consolidated democracy, but incitement to violence and crapping all over Their Royal Highnesses is another thing altogether. I don't even know why they're bothering, though, because surely in their consolidated democracy, the courts are totally independent of the government, and therefore it's nothing to do with them.

Or aren't they?

Young Pablo is a bit of a firebrand all right, but was it so long ago that everyone took to the streets brandishing pens and pencils and screaming "Je suis Charlie"? In some countries you aren't allowed to say certain things - I'm pretty sure you can go to jail in Germany for denying the Holocaust, for example - but I think the question here is that nasty "incitement to violence".

Even so, I reckon that if someone incites me to violence, normally I'm free to decide whether or not to take them up on it, and what I do or don't do is my responsibility, not theirs.

Having said that - I'm such a fence-sitter sometimes, but I think I have to be here - it's not my car or shop front they're burning. Not yet, anyway ...

[Edited at 2021-02-19 10:32 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
Chris S
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
+ ...
POKRETAČ TEME
Alhambra Crisis Feb 19

Beer drinkers rejoiced today as the shortlived Green-Bottle Alhambra 1925 Crisis that had distressed them for the best past of two or three weeks was finally resolved. This observer found so many green-bottle sixpacks on the shelf at El Corte Inglés today that some of them had been set on their sides to fit in, hopped impatiently from one foot to the other at the checkouts while glowering girls sorted through the fistfuls of 1-cent, 2-cent and 5-cent coins proffered by old dears to pay for a co... See more
Beer drinkers rejoiced today as the shortlived Green-Bottle Alhambra 1925 Crisis that had distressed them for the best past of two or three weeks was finally resolved. This observer found so many green-bottle sixpacks on the shelf at El Corte Inglés today that some of them had been set on their sides to fit in, hopped impatiently from one foot to the other at the checkouts while glowering girls sorted through the fistfuls of 1-cent, 2-cent and 5-cent coins proffered by old dears to pay for a couple of yoghurts, and sped homewards in a daze with the booty. Being from climes where few people care whether or not beer is cold, he then downed one rapidly in two gulps, pausing only to say Ahhhhh!, followed by a certain expletive which cannot be specified here.

Obviously PM Sánchez had been reading this forum, and had taken action accordingly. In Parliament, opposition leader Pablo Casado sniffed, stroked his gnome's beard, and admitted this was "welcome news", although he added bitterly it was "about time", qualified measures as "too little too late", and called for the resignation of the Ministeress of Industry, Trade and Tourism forthwith, whereupon the remark "Screw you, Pablo" was clearly heard from the government bench, and the Minister of Transport was immediately called to order by the Speakeress. When the Minister explained that he had actually been referring to the jailed rapper, miscreant, recidivist troublemaker and quasi-terrorist Pablo Hasél, the Speakeress said "Oh, I see, well, that's all right, then, yes, screw Pablo, and long may he be screwed too."

Mass domestic inebriation is expected to ensue this weekend up and down the country.
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P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
španski na engleski
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You got to move it move it, you got to move it move it Feb 20

So you have a party. No, not a party with alcohol and balloons and streamers and confetti and canapés and cakes and strippograms and nose powder and stuff. You have a political party. No, not a party with alcohol and balloons and streamers and confetti and canapés and cakes and strippograms and nose powder and stuff where you talk about politics. You have your very own political party. And you have an HQ, don’t you? You have it at a huge big gaff on one of Madrid’s larger streets. It’s b... See more
So you have a party. No, not a party with alcohol and balloons and streamers and confetti and canapés and cakes and strippograms and nose powder and stuff. You have a political party. No, not a party with alcohol and balloons and streamers and confetti and canapés and cakes and strippograms and nose powder and stuff where you talk about politics. You have your very own political party. And you have an HQ, don’t you? You have it at a huge big gaff on one of Madrid’s larger streets. It’s been there for yonks. It’s practically an institootion.

But now you find that the sleaze allegations – well before your time, as you constantly point out – about brown envelopes furtively handed out in smoke-filled rooms to big cheeses in the party back in the day by big businessmen in exchange for big contracts are on the up and up, and even raising questions as to how the party managed to pay for that huge big gaff in the first place. What can you do?

Simple. You just move out of that huge big gaff. Spain’s Partido Popular has a plan, and the plan is to leave its huge big gaff on Calle Génova, presumably for another huge big gaff at another choice address. It’s a cunning plan, too, because then people will forget about all the sleaze surrounding the old huge big gaff. Problem sorted. Or is it?

And, just to consolidate your position as Chief Gnome, you put your trusty Rotweiler Teodoro García Egea in charge of the move. Since you know the Chief Snarler is waiting in the wings to take over as a fresh pair of hands should you put a foot wrong, especially considering your disastrous results in the Catalan elections recently, at least the uppity little shit will be associated with the building and its sleaze for the rest of his political life. Meanwhile, back at home, you can shout for the moneyed bimbo to crack open a bottle of 1925 Alhambra, sit back, put your feet up on the table, and say Ahhhhhh!

Everything’s going to work out just fine …
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
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A moment of madness Feb 22

Monday usually means a trip to the fruit and veg shop, and so down I went to stock up. Veg first, Brussels sprouts, green beans, cabbage, and then the fruit – kiwis, bananas, strawberries, pears, and, of course, oranges. I was busy scooping half a dozen of them into the bag, and a little man beside me pointed at them, nodded with eyebrows raised, and said: “I see you go for the most expensive variety.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I don’t mind paying a little bit more for the ex
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Monday usually means a trip to the fruit and veg shop, and so down I went to stock up. Veg first, Brussels sprouts, green beans, cabbage, and then the fruit – kiwis, bananas, strawberries, pears, and, of course, oranges. I was busy scooping half a dozen of them into the bag, and a little man beside me pointed at them, nodded with eyebrows raised, and said: “I see you go for the most expensive variety.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I don’t mind paying a little bit more for the extra quality. I insist on it, in fact. The only oranges I eat are Torres Oranges.”



Torres Oranges. How can you resist them? Feast your eyes on those rounded orbs. Flaunting themselves like that, proudly displaying their attributes and charms, knowing they’re the juicy juiciness’s juiciest. Ripe for the picking, aren't they? Just waiting for you to come along, put them under your arm, and take them back home with you, show them who’s in charge here, rip their luscious peel off, and have your wicked, wicked way with them. Any which way you damn well like. Torrid oranges. Torres Oranges.



“Extra quality?” laughed this bloke. “That’s all a myth. They have a fancy sticker and a thin twist of paper around them, but that’s what you’re paying for, that’s the extra mark-up, all the frills and smart-look nonsense, to make you think they’re a superior product.” He pointed at another row of boxes. “Me, I go for González Oranges every time. 1.57 euro a kilo. No sticker, no paper, no flaffing around. Just the orange, right? You can’t eat the sticker and the paper, can you? And there’s no difference in quality, believe me, but a euro less per kilo …! Well, whatever you like, mate. There’s no accounting for taste. Far be it from me …” He chortled a little again, and moved off.

Well. I did take a look at those González oranges. True, they did look just the same, minus the frills, like he’d said. I looked right and left. Nobody about. I emptied my oranges back into their box, and filled the bag up with the others. I had just paid for everything, and was moving off doorwards, checking my mobile, and then I saw him coming in:

“Why, good morning,” I chirped, grinning like a fool. “How are … how are things? You’re looking good. And is that, is that a new suit? It is, isn’t it? Well. Doesn’t it just hang on you like nobody else? Sure it does. And it IS a good morning, too, isn’t it? Cleared up nicely, right? After all that rain last night. Certainly has …” – I looked at my watch – “oh bugger, is that the time? Pfff. Well, better get back to work, you know what they say, time and tide wait for no man …”

I was shuffling past him when I felt a restraining hand on my arm:

“Hello there, lad,” said Ramón quietly. There was a bit of an edge to his voice today, I noticed. He shot a glance at the man-wardrobe who’d come in behind him, weaving a bit so he could get his shoulders through the door, and then I saw two pairs of gimlet eyes scrutinising my plastic bag:

“Yes,” said Ramón, nodding and smiling. Or apparently smiling. But I noticed his eyes weren’t. “It certainly is a fine day. A beautiful day. Quite warm, too, isn’t it? And on a warm day like this, I always think there’s nothing better than a Torres Orange to wet my lips. Slake my thirst, you know. I could just do with one right now, in fact.” I heard a click, and looked down at his hand still by his side, with the tip of the flick knife just visible below his immaculate cuffs. “Would you, erm, happen to …?” he murmured as he took a look into the bag.

His eyes came up again when he saw the contents. They bored into me. “Well, well, well.” His head nodded slowly as he spoke. “And to think I had you down as a Torres man. ‘He’s one of our own’, I thought. ‘He’s a good fella.’” The nodding head was beginning to shake ruefully from side to side:

I was just about to babble an explanation when I caught sight of that other bloke again, bagging peas down the back:

“Actually, Ramón, I wouldn’t have done it, but, do you see that man at the back …?” Ramón’s baleful gaze followed the direction my finger was pointing in. “Yes, that guy right down there. Do you know, he actually threatened me, Ramón. He made me buy these disgusting things. I think he must work for the González mob or something. He said … what was it he said now?, oh yes, he said there was a special place in hell for people who buy Torres Oranges. A special place in hell, that was it, yes. I told him that was nonsense, of course I did, Ramón, and I even said González Oranges were a load of old toot, tasteless third-rate or fourth-rate crap, as everyone knows, but then his tone got really nasty, Ramón. He said I’d better watch my mouth, and watch my step too.”

God, I was warming to it now:

“He said things happen to people who don’t buy González,” I went on. “And then he told me that only the other day the police fished a man out of the Nervión with Torres stickers all over his forehead. Like a warning, you know. A gang thing. A warning to … to … to Torres people … like me, Ramón. To Torres people like me.”

Ramón’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the other bloke. He jerked his head to the heavy and snapped his fingers: “Carlos!” he said softly. I watched as Carlos went up to the bloke, looked around a bit, took something out of his pocket, shoved it up under the man’s jacket, whispered in his ear, and started to walk him to the exit with the something in his back.

The guy was protesting, “What do you mean, what … what? What is all this? Who the hell … what the hell?”, but then Carlos whispered in his ear again with such a nasty expression on his face, and then he shut right up. I saw the look of terror on his face as they walked by.

“So,” said Ramón, taking out a cigarette from a gold case and lighting it in a public place where no smoking is permitted, “drama’s over. So you can, erm …” - he gestured at my bag, and smiled over at the girl behind the till. “Just a little mistake, princess. Cancel his Gonzálezs, and he’ll be over with the Torres in a minute.” The girl grinned rather nervously.

“… Oh, yes, of course,” I said, and went over to offload the González oranges and refill the bag with Torres. Ramón smiled as I went back to pay the difference. He patted my shoulder as I made for the door. A thought struck me. “Ramón,” I quavered. “That bloke. I suppose he’s not a bad sort, really, you know. You’re not going to … er …?”

There was a catlike expression on his face. “Going to …? Oh, I see,” he said. He leaned a little closer to talk into my ear: “Can you keep a secret, sonny?” he hissed.

“Naturally. Of course. Definitely. You bet. Certainly can, Ramón,” I shivered.

Ramón’s green cat eyes shone as he drew back and nodded. “So can I, lad. So can I.”



This story was brought to you by Torres Oranges. Torres Oranges. Is it really worth the risk? For one moment of madness? For just a few cents less? So don’t even think about it, and make the right choice. The only choice. It’s a dangerous world out there. Here today, and gone tomorrow. Torres Oranges.


[Edited at 2021-02-22 19:21 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-23 08:30 GMT]
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Chris S
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 18:44
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Remembering 23-F Feb 24

I know it looks like your seat at Wimbledon or Stamford Bridge or somewhere else with tiered seating, but this is a date, and a very important date in Spanish history too. The Spanish like to shorten their red-letter dates like that - 28-O for 28 October (1982), when Felipe González (not the oranges family) and his fresh-faced socialists came to power, 11-S (no explanation required), 22-A (my birthday, but they sometimes forget that one), and 23-F, of course, stands for 23 February 1981, when t... See more
I know it looks like your seat at Wimbledon or Stamford Bridge or somewhere else with tiered seating, but this is a date, and a very important date in Spanish history too. The Spanish like to shorten their red-letter dates like that - 28-O for 28 October (1982), when Felipe González (not the oranges family) and his fresh-faced socialists came to power, 11-S (no explanation required), 22-A (my birthday, but they sometimes forget that one), and 23-F, of course, stands for 23 February 1981, when that comical-looking geezer with a big bristling tache took over the Spanish Parliament pistol in hand with a gang of his Civil Guards early evening on that date 40 years ago yesterday, with most of the honourable members inside, including PM Adolfo Suárez and cabinet.

They never repaired the damage made when some of the Guards sprayed the ceiling with bullets, and left the holes there afterwards. As a poignant reminder of how fragile Spain's democracy was, not even six years after the demise of Franco. Or maybe because they couldn't be bothered repairing it, or paying for it. Whatever the reason, the holes in the ceiling are one of the main attractions during the "open-doors" gig when Joe Public is allowed in for a tour on 6 December, Constitution Day, every year.

Suárez was one of the few, or maybe even the only one, who didn't duck down in his seat when the guards shot up the ceiling a bit. You can see him in the footage, sitting there all alone at the end of the gov. bench. But he was all alone in the Parliament anyway, Suárez, having been stabbed in the back by most of his own and about to be made ex-PM.

So the second part of the news last night was on the 40-year old coup and, of course, the role played by the former king in quelling the revolt. Or not, as some say. We have to wait until 2031 for all the documentation to be declassified under the 50-year rule, but given how long it took for Juanca to roll up in full military uniform to say "Now, now, lads, back to those barracks", the pinkos and others have certain doubts about all this.

This theory is fuelled by the fact that Suárez himself had a big row with Juanca (it's an unfortunate name-shortening in English, isn't it? - but if you think that's unfortunate, remember that his father was the Count of Barcelona ...) about all this, because he reckoned the king had made far too many overtures to Franco's old mates, to the extent that the military fancied the new king might not be averse to a bit of tank-rolling and martial law. But Suárez left, and Suárez got Altzheimer's, and Suárez forgot about all that, and died. Whereupon all the back-stabbers were wheeled out to say what a truly wonderful human being he was (how many times is that one played out?)

Yesterday the new king praised the part played by his father in 23-F. Too bad he had to listen to the pinkos afterwards, who expressed their surprise that you can go to prison for writing a song (Pablo Hasél, still in prison as rioting continues), but if you suddenly leave the country for the Emirates after it's discovered you've been stashing away large amounts of illicit moolah in Switzerland, everything seems to be hunky dory.

Spain is different, they say.

[Edited at 2021-02-24 15:29 GMT]

[Edited at 2021-02-25 05:06 GMT]
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Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
 
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