Now I know that some of you will deny that you envy my life here in Marbella. On top of all the usual noise, my neighbour is replacing his tiles for the third time in two years. Johnny Spaniard is like that — he changes his kitchen or hall tiles more often that his wife changes her dress. I know this, because the only thing I can tell you about him is that he once shared a Miami prison cell with Manuel Antonio Noriega, and he reckons he learned a trick or two from him.
I have one year to write it or I will have my testicles cut off, sliced, and fed to the sheep on his Welsh subsistence hill farm. Whoops … did I just say Wales? Ah … maybe that was a red herring amigo, but we will come back to Wales later in the blog. Warning: if you are Welsh and female, you may not want to read the rest of this.
So apart from trying to survive the heat and dodge the hordes of sweating, sun-dried, tattooed Mancunians, what have I been doing? I did manage to escape for the first two weeks of August, and spent a relaxing week in our Polish country retreat.
Some seven thousand souls live there, and there in a kabab-slash-pizza shop, a petrol station that serves beer, and of course, a church. During our last stay, finding that I had very little to entertain me, I decided to take up art, and proudly unveiled my first attempt. He owns most of Sidmouth. But not in August. Strolling through the old town my friend — who I have known since my rugby days — and I made a few observations about things other than the culture and the architecture.
Apart from the beautiful bride, and her family, of course. And your average Polish woman is good looking … in fact, some are really beautiful. As my friend had attended our wedding in Poland, he felt qualified to concur with my very non-scientific analysis.
