Ding Dong Bell, pussy's doing well
When we first arrived in Spain 14 years ago – we needed to go shopping in that well known French retail hades – yep, that's the one. Deep joy. We needed a simple doorbell – something that rings, dings or dongs. What we got was a music centre. It plays 26 different tunes – in alphabetical order - Annie's Song to Zing Went The Strings Of My Heart. However, it does frighten the starch out of Jehovah's Witnesses when it plays Iron Maiden's 'Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter.'
The bell had to go – so off we sallied to our local Far Eastern Temple of Tat, take a look at the photo in the top left-hand corner. Do I look shifty? Yes! I'll give you, daft – but a no-goodnik – surely not? The reason I ask is whenever I saunter around a Mercado Chino I'm shadowed by a family member. Usually, he looks like Hop Sing from Bonanza – not the other day - he had more than a passing resemblance to Goldf- inger's Odd Job, who in fairness was Korean. Ah, but North or South? I also didn't like the look of his sharp brimmed bowler. Speaking of things Bond-like, I feel I'd fit well in a 007 film – stop that derisive snorting, and indulge me.
Cats do not have masters they have minions. Dogs, however, are there to idolise you and hang on every word you utter. To Mutley, you are Socrates incarnate – to Garfield you are, well it doesn't really matter, because he's not listening anyway. With a pooch, you could say “Look, we're going to tether you to 8 of your mates and have you pull a sledge for miles and miles through the frozen tundra of Alaska, being driven by a fat lad of a lumberjack bawling mush, mush at you – okay?” “Yeah yeah (pant pant) can't wait, bring it on.” We've had a number of cats and dogs, sometimes both at the same time when we lived in the UK – at the moment it's just the one posh puss - Lady Sadie.
Since she arrived, I've become a multi-tasking skivvy. I'm a doorman, a doormat, a scratching pole, a pillow and a waiter in both senses, serving her deluxe gourmet grub (which pro rata costs 3 times the amount of our humble fare) and waiting for her to come home at all hours – now I know what it's like to be a downbeat drudge. However, when HRH Sadie deigns to sit on my lap I feel like - SMERSH's International Crime Mastermind and 007's nemesis – Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Back to 'the bells, the bells' and it's some 15 years since the BBC and your scribbler – if I may go all Paltrow - 'consciously uncoupled.' Uncoupled? More like a full on train crash, but that my friend, is a tale for another time.
Yes, as far as the Beeb are concerned I'm about as welcome as a Rabbi at a Labour party Momentum convention. The invisible pills were working up until a couple of weeks ago when one bell wouldn't stop ding- a- linging - the telephone. A chum and ex-colleague at the BBC had put my name around to various local radio stations that I could comment on the heatwave we experienced here. Now, I didn't realise this was such a big story back in Blighty, but the media tart in me recycled the story a number of times on several stations until it was turning into a one trick pony. 'This is Spain, it's August, no more clues.'
The whole Warhol period of fame came to a shuddering halt when I answered the phone to a braying posh voice “Is this Cliff Arsely?” “Close.” “Jolly good. My name is Cara De Pedo and I am a producer with BBC Radio in London. I'm led to believe, by some chappie up in the provinces, that you are some sort of meteorological expert resident in Spain. We'd like to get your prognosis on the current heat wave catastrophe enveloping the Iberian Peninsular.”
Now, I don't mind being patronised if I get to trouser mucho dinero, but as I hadn't received a single céntimo for my troubles, I'd had enough. So I started screaming “The house has burnt down, the donkeys have stampeded, the crops are decimated, the tractor's blown up, it's a dystopian nightmare (see, I can use big words too).” Funny, la-di-da Cara never called back.