Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Barcelona

I told a friend I was going to Barcelona to watch football, he laughed in my face, then asked me what was really on. Some EuroPride or something. I told him that I was going over to see some football over and over again, but he still didn't listen.

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I know nothing about football. It took me years to figure out there was more than one team other than 'The One Beckham Plays For' and 'The One Beckham Used To Play For'. In school, the only thing I learned about it was it was best to be in Defense, meaning you could run out a little way when the ball came up your end, shrug as they went past and leave the goalie to deal with it. If you were on a particually sucessful team, the ball would never come your way and you could spend the whole time making daisy chains and twirling around pretending to be Kate Bush.

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It was my mother who wanted to go and see the football, and decided I was the best person to take. I still have no idea why, although she probably thought it would be a good way to MAN ME THE FUCK UP. It did not work: on the tour of the stadium, I kept thinking 'these corridors are very much like the ones from the 2005 Doctor Who adventure 'Dalek' as that too was filmed in a sadium'. She said it'd be nice for when I saw the match the following day, now I've seen everything and where everything was, it'd now be more exciting for me. I asked her how many tours of Doctor Who exhibitions we had done. She said there had been Too Many. I said that she'd done all those and *still* didn't know where the dimensional stabilisers were, how the hell was I meant to now understand footskitball?

We reached a natural impasse at that point and went for drinks instead.

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I like holidaying with my mother. There's something so 'provincial gay' about it, like we're off to see the donkeys at Blackpool, instead of wandering down the sea front looking for the bars with the cheapest sangria and the hottest men. She's terribly good fun. And there's nothing that draws in the gays like a man taking his mother out. You can see them thinking 'oh if he looks after his mother like that, he's a keeper...'


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I also like the Metro here in Barcelona: there's a man's voice announce that there's a station coming up, then a lady's voice then coming in to tell you what station it is. She sounds like a right back-seat driver.

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Actually the men out here are hot. Really hot. Swarthy. And surly. Like they'd spit on their hand and consider that foreplay. Clearly I'm in love with every one I pass. I've bitten my knuckles so often my teeth have predefined gaps to fit into. I'm not sure what my mother would do if I pulled a hot Spanish boy. She's probably cheer me on, if she didn't like my current boy so much. She keeps trying on hats and mentioning 'nuptuals'. At first I thought she was being dirty and I'd slap her.

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The women seem to be looking at me here. I have no idea why; women are a mystery to me at the best of times, and now we have a whole different culture on top of those feminine whiles. It took me ages to figure out why they're making eyes at me: I'm so damn pale that they think I'm a relative of Edward Cullen. For fuck's sake.

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I think the strangest thing about the whole experience was eating ice creams in December. The nicest thing was getting some time with my mother away from the usual nonsense. And the most infuriating was not being able to talk to anyone. As a language, English is so widespread that foreign languages are not taught in the same aggressive nature as other European countries. All the Spanish I know is 'a small beer, please', 'thank you', 'goodbye', 'the bill, if you please', and 'hello, girlfriend' - the latter the only thing I picked up in Sitges, despite the insistance of someone's hand at the foam party. I wish I knew more phrases. I wish I knew 'excuse me, would you mind moving?' as it would please my passive aggressive nature perfectly. I wish I could talk to strangers as I'm sure they could be marvelous. And I'd love to tell those bastards with the accordions to get the shuddering fuck out of my listening range, you're not going to get any money and I'm trying to talk to my friend here. And thank you so much for putting 'Spanish Flea' in my head for the rest of the day, you unwashed peasants.

You know, just the basics.

2 comments:

Kathleen Bradean said...

Oh good lord, how I adore you (despite how you glitter in sunlight)

Snooze said...

I hope I have a gay son.