Beside the Seaside

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Benidorm

Last night and tonight, Benidorm has done me proud. I've seen -- for free -- the Beatles (twice), Elvis, Tina Turner, Abba, the Temptations, Eddie Cochran, Lionel Ritchie, three of Take That (plus Robbie, solo), a Dutch hypnotist, Frank Sinatra, two comedians, one of whom was funny, and three Bay City Rollers -- who were also funny. One of them looked like Gary Neville in a Rollers wig. Then they admitted his hair was for real.

Welcome to Benidorm: home of the crap tribute act. Actually, 'Robbie' sounded good -- but he looked like one of Ant and Dec. The 'Rollers' took it all with a pinch of salt. Two of the 'Beatles' (Jorge Harrison and Paulo McCartney) were Spanish, and seemed bewildered by their lives.

(I also saw Sticky Vicky. (No relation to Sticky Nicky, who I met last week.) If you really really want to know who Sticky Vicky is, and what her act involves.. you better ask for a, well, a blow-by-blow account in an email. All the women in the campsite think she's a hoot.)

There are kids of seven and eight -- and grannies and great-grandmothers -- staying out later than me, and possibly out-drinking me -- and I'm not slouching in the staying-up-past-my-bedtime department.

These people are cramming their week's holiday in and nothing's to get in their way. I saw them on the beach this morning -- bearing all despite the clouds. Pasty-white beer bellies.. I could feel my Full English breakfast start to repeat on me.

From the moment they get past Spanish customs and immigration at the airport, from where the reps will get them on their coach, drive them to their hotel and direct them to the local caffs and pubs, there's no earthly chance for Benidorm tourists to meet a Spanish person, hear a word of Spanish spoken, eat any Spanish food, see anything more Spanish than a sombrero (Mexican) available for them to buy.

Benidorm. I love it. But I'm going to have to escape sooner rather than later.

--

I found someone here who isn't from t'North. My neighbours, in the campervan behind my tent, are David and Di: they're from Suffolk. (The northeners, they whisper to me, are a bit clique-y.) It gets worse: Dave is a former rozzer and he remembers with fondness the Ipswich-Norwich games. Not for any reason a Norwich fan would like. He wants to bring back National Service.

So far, so stereotypical ex-pat, escaping Britain because it's gone to the dogs. But there's more underneath. It turns out Dave and Di have a home in Normandy -- near Ger-Ger-Granville -- where one of their good friends is Norman. Norman helped design the fuel tank of the Bonneville. He lives in a chateau and he uncovered Roman remains in his barn. Dave has a dicky heart but doesn't let it get in the way. They have a friend who plays Norwegian folk music on his fiddle but they don't think he's reached Benidorm yet this year. Di is waiting for an email. She makes a perfect cuppa, but they don't buy fancy biscuits here anymore.

Oh yes.. welcome to the credit crunch.

In fact, money is the single biggest topic of conversation among the 'permanents' here. They're suffering. The pound was worth something like €1.43 a year ago. Today it dipped below €1.20.

There's talk in the grown-up papers of fiscal parity -- £1:€1 -- within the year.

Luckily for the aged population of the campsite and of Benidorm as a whole, surviving on pensions, often on fixed income, they all read the Mirror, the Sun, the Mail and the Express, so their news is of football and footballers having sex. Still, they spend all day talking about the exchange rate.

(When I bought my copy of the Guardian this morning, the newsagent had to check the price in her ledgers. "You're the only person who's bought that paper this year," she confided. "Thank you." She doesn't stock *any* Spanish newspapers.)

Why I could never live in the Costa Brava - look at the choice of papers. (Not sure I could live in the UK with weather like that, either...)

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