Weather forecast for today was non stop rain, we've got lots of sun and non stop blue sky instead. I had to come in now to type this as I getting rather burnt. Well not quite, as SWMBO is planning a old fashioned English dinner, based loosely around “toad in the hole”, but not until this evening, I therefore decided to have one of my special cheese sandwiches. Half a baguette filled with sliced pickled onions, jalapeño chilies, branston pickle, dill and if there is any room for it, cheese. The type of cheese doesn't really matter, it's only there for it's consistency because you can never taste it. Also saves on mouth wash as the jalapeños tend to “cleanse” the gums somewhat.
Yesterday was spent walking into town for a coffee and waiting around until the England v Scotland six nations rugby match started at 6 o'clock. As it was threatening to rain, again, but again, eventually did not and also because the match would not finish until after dark, we were going to dive there and back. Which also meant that I would not be drinking which of course is very close to sacrilege.
During the game, drawn 15 all BTW, Tricia kept on mentioning that the Scottish team had quite a few players called Murray, as they had Murray printed on the FRONT of their shirts.
A “normal” six nations rugby day last year back in blighty would follow the standard rules.
Boys, anywhere from 4 to 8 depending on valid excuses, would meet at a much argued about pub 3 hours before kick off and at least 3 miles from the house where the evening meal was to be held. The “whip” from the last match or whatever remained in it, was formally passed to the host for the match being held that day. Everyone would then top up the whip with £20 each. Watch either the “other rugby match” i.e. not England or whatever football match was being shown at the pub in question. Consume beer with the express purpose of emptying the whip asap. Some members who shall not be named but we shall use the name Paul for convenience, would take this challenge to a far higher level by consuming pints of Guinness at a prodigious rate to the point that until he could not actually speak.
Approximately thirty minutes before kick off a quick “half” would be downed and walk to the venue could begin. On eventual arrival via various bushes and other likely stops on the way the host would produce a large “cooler” filled with more beer. One pound would be prised from each present and then everyone would write down the eventual final score which was pointless really as it was always won be Phil the Greek. A guess at a score that did not indicate anything but an English win was frowned upon and deemed ungentlemanly.
Pizzas varying from very fishy (Radford's) to mouth numbingly chili hot (mine), sausages, bargees, nuts, pickles, twiglets, dips and crisps were then eaten as the match progressed.
End of match, coats on and out and onward to another, closer, pub to discuss the finer points and why England had lost, oh and give PtG the winnings. Re-fill the whip if empty and then more beer and argue about rugby rules, blind referees and anything else that blokes talk about after a minimum of eight pints.
At least 30 minutes after we are supposed to turn up for the evening meal we actually turn up and meet each others SWMBO's who are all cold sober and running a competition as to who is more ashamed of their husband. On one “foreign” trip a member of the group, again nameless so I will use Paul once more, had to stop the bus we had hired because he was “bursting!” Unfortunately there was a strong wind and being slightly inebriated, peed into the wind instead of with it. He was wearing light fawn slacks, use your imagination? On the way back onto the bus my SWMBO said “Thank God that's not my husband!” Behind she heard “Unfortunately he's mine.” But as they say, what happens on tour, stays on tour.
Back to the dinner, twenty or so, people around the dinner table and the wine flows.
Originally the food and drink were supposed to follow the nation England were playing, France and Italy were a doodle but where do you get Welsh or Irish wine, so that only lasted a couple of seasons. So as the evening progresses and even more beer and wine is drunk, the ladies are passing round interesting pieces of gossip and the men are just passing out. We, the men types, are then poured into the cars and driven home by their respective wives, great night eh?
Just about see everything, the other day whilst walking around the local El Mirador village, three guys on horses rode by. Later on we see them hitched up next to a tapas bar and the guys are knocking the stuff back, I'm sure I could hear the theme from a “Fistful of Dollars” in the background.
Spent all day, after a long walk to Aquadulce and back, lying around in the sun. Tricia then cooked a fantastic Sunday dinner with Yorkshire puddings that actually worked! Woke up Monday morning completely knackered, why?
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