Español: Rita Barbera en unas jornadas del PP contra la violencia de género en Valencia, diciembre de 2008. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
After Paqui had died, what we called ´The Czech Republic´asked if they could move into The Rancho with us, because their abode had been torn down. The reason being that it was an eyesore, which the denizens of the new five star hotel, that was now finished, did not deserve to look upon. I might have spoiled their appetite! We had also been served a demolition notice, but would only move when the bulldozers moved in. The fact of the matter was that I didn´t give a damn anymore whether the place stood or fell, for the light that made it shine was gone forever.
I tried with all my might to obliterate my remaining brain cells with alcohol, but failed. Everywhere I turned I ran into the spectre of my lost love. That was the place where she blagged up some churros for the both of us. There we´d kissed and cuddled. Where hadn´t we? She´d been inordinately proud of her blue-eyed, tall, blond guy and had shown me off to anyone she´d ever met, I think. Gypsies are for the most part not well though of in Spanish society and she was happy to have enchanted a blond bum, with great expectations, of course. Now, six years later, I still have expectations, but they´re a wee bit smaller.
I might have to weave back and forth a bit here, because to say that my recollections of these times are a bit sketchy would be a euphemism, as I was hardly ever compos mentos. I remember a Polish dimwit, who gave out to me for crying and told me that a real man don´t cry. He didn´t seem to mind so much anymore, after I´d decked him. I admired Paul no end for having gone through this five times already and to still be standing(sort of…) I followed his advice and took things one day at a time. What else could I do? I could cry an eight ocean and that still wouldn´t bring her back.
A strange phenomenon occurred around that time, in that I was horny as a jack-rabbit. Maybe this was an archetypical reaction to death? I didn´t go with anyone though. On the one hand, I was never one for one-night-stands and on the other hand there was a significant lack of ladies, who wanted to throw themselves at a bum, sad or otherwise. There still is actually. What do those young, rich guys have that I haven´t?
The cops were particularly nasty then, I remember that much. We were all parking cars on the beachfront. We stood in front of one of the few empty parking spaces and waved at oncoming cars. If they wanted to park in one of ´our´ spots, we´d guide them in. It´s amazing how many people suck at parking and the boardwalk was rather high there. Then we´d stand to one side and if they wanted to give us something, lovely and if not, that was alright aswell. No hassles! For some reason though, this was illegal, so we had to play cat and mouse with the police.
This was around the time of the umpteenth American Cup(a regatta) and the mayor, Mrs. Barberá, must have told the cops to rid their clean streets of the riffraff. True to Franco form, they took to it with gusto. I saw two Czechs and one Russian, whose torso and legs were black and blue, courtesy of the Valencia police department. They would ask for your documents, keep them and when you showed up to collect them at the police station the next morning, they would very politely ask you to join them in a small room, where five police officers would then proceed to beat the crap out of you with their night sticks.
There was one little, fat fascist pig, who asked for my documents, kept them and so on… I very politely informed him that I was on to their little game and that while I would not resist, I would afterwards certainly write to every newspapers, tv-station and up to the European high court. I would create such a shit storm as to cause them all to lose their jobs. He must have taken my friendly little warning to heart, because the next day all I had to do was sign a chit for receipt and was free to go, unmolested. Mama Burcke didn´t raise no fool, folks!
To be continued…