Satellite television influence
An extract from Malcolm Smith's book 'Mañana and still No Problema' about his early years in Spain.
DURING the time-span I chronicled in 'No Problema – You Must Be Joking', English language television was a luxury enjoyed by a small number of expats.
Apart from a few illegally imported or smuggled in ‘BskyB’ satellite receivers operating through false or ‘family’ addresses in the UK, the only English language spoken on ‘The Box’ was in educational language programmes of the ‘Digame’ ilk in Spanish transmissions… or via smuggled video tapes of American films and poorly recorded British ‘soaps’, comedy sitcoms and long running series like Coronation Street.
Video swap clubs were set up in English bars and a fair trade in over used and scratched video tapes operated on a regular basis.
Through this underground system, I watched Lisa Minelli in Cabaret several times, a number of episodes of TW3, and Some Mothers Do 'Ave ‘Em with Michael Crawford, black and white recordings of Never Mind the Quality, Feel the Width, starring John Bluthal and Joe Lynch and early editions of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
How things have changed! With the advent of ‘digital TV’ and the enterprise of locally based satellite receiver operators, English language TV is alive, well and blossoming in Mediterranean Spain. Now football crazy expats can enjoy watching their favourite sport – with English commentary – in virtually every Costa bar as well as at home. And at home, in typical fashion – as they were accustomed to do in the UK they can sit back and enjoy the repeats of repeats of repeats of all the wonderful old British comedy series which have been doing the television rounds since year dot; a bygone time when Ealing Studios produced the first of the ‘Doctor’ series.
Ironically, it is cheaper to get ‘square eyed’ here than it is in England. After installation of one of the local satellite systems which broadcast over thirty channels, including BBC, ITV, several Spanish stations, two Irish, Discovery, National Geographic plus a range of BskyB channels from sport to UK Gold for a few euros per week and there’s no licence fee either.
Whether so much TV watching is good for retired folk is academic but one satisfying thing has come out of this technological breakthrough; the propagation of good, old fashioned English humour.
I did not realise until quite recently that there are far more other TV addicted expats here than just Brits, and many of them can’t get enough of Mr. Bean, Dad’s Army and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.
I made this startling discovery at tennis, or, more correctly after a game during a 'tapas and cerveza' socialising session. Josie – of Dutch extraction – may be a bit of a virago on court, challenging every call and arguing every point but when she sits down with a lager and blackcurrant juice afterwards and the chat starts, she exhibits an amazing knowledge of English TV comedy.
Werner, a German national who is even older than me and doesn’t speak a word of English,
raves about the antics of Mr. Bean. It’s surprising what a melting pot of similar interests social tennis can become and humour appears to be one of the keystones.
Roar, who comes from the northern twilight zone at the Arctic extremity of Norway claims not to understand English humour. Despite this, he still finds it hard to suppress a grin when I accuse him of being a retired salesman who flogged refrigerators to the Inuit and Eskimos. Apart from this he also admits to being an avid Mr. Bean fan.
The French and Belgian contingent (after all they do have 'Allo 'Allo! accents) tend to be addicted to ‘Peetair Sellairs’ comedy but this could be because they understand the idiom. What surprised me most was that virtually every nationality raves about Fawlty Towers; not just the ineptitude of Manuel but the episode where John Cleese gives the instruction “Don’t talk about the War” whilst parodying the ‘Goose Step.’
Even Heinz – Prussian to the core – was amused by this and in my opinion his sense of humour died at birth. 'He iz the von' who, ven on court, calls aus to every ball he misses! Both the French and German expats of my acquaintance go into raptures about 'Allo, 'Allo! Someone only has to utter ‘Mein liddle tenk’ ‘Gode Mooning’ ‘It is I, Le Clerk’ or ‘I will say this only once’ for them to break into gales of laughter.
The mere mention of Herr Flick or Von Shmallhousen has an even more dramatic effect, with everyone in the group attempting to caricature or imitate these characters. I get the impression that when these folk are not playing tennis they must be glued to the ‘telly’ watching British comedy reruns!
International expats aside, I reckon even the Spanish are addicted to British humour, otherwise there would not be so many restaurant waiters around who seem to be on the verge of saying ‘I know nothing, I from Barcelona!’
One particular European acquaintance of mine – with or without television influence – has the most fantastic ‘English’ sense of humour. Clemente who is Flemish and hails from Antwerp is a natural stand-up comedian who takes the Mickey out of his country’s neighbours in hilarious style.
I’m of the opinion that if politicians studied old fashioned English comedy, particularly such send-ups as ‘Yes Prime Minister’ and ‘Spittin Image’ Europe would get it together a bit quicker.
But back to Clemente… and ay shall ownlee tell this storee wons. Clemente’s parody of a French accent is worse than mine and difficult to repeat on paper but I shall try. Here goes…
Ay em driveeng down the rewd and ay am stopp-ed by un gendarme. This flick, he sai “monsieur yew ear driveeng bedlee, yew ‘av been drin-king and merst blew een zis beg.” Ay protest “bert monsieur le polis, ay cannot ‘blew in ze bag becawse I ‘av ze asthma, eet weel keel me.” The gendarme then ‘e sai, “Follow me to the polis station.” I do this, then inside he sai “yew merst yurinate in ziz bottel.” I reply, “bert ay cannot monsieur becawse I ‘av the prostate problaim… eet weel keel me.” E is, ow you say, bloodee mad. “OK” ‘e sez, now I will telephon le docteur.” “Why do you telephon docteur, I ask.” “To kerm an’ take un blerd sempool” he replies.
Ay protest again. “Yew cannot do zis monsieur becawse I am anaemic – eet weel keel me.” Now monsieur le polis go-es, how yew sai, ‘bonkairs.’ ’E grabb-ed me by the showldeur and dragg-ed me outside. Pointing to le middle of the rewd ‘e demandé that I ‘walk along the white line.’ Wons more, I protest. “Bert monsieur, ay cannot do zis, Ay em piss-ed!
Sometimes the humour is off the cuff and probably not intended. Johann who hails from the Hague was swallowing a rather large pill and washing it down with water as we stood by the side of the tennis court between sets.
Jokingly, I said that there was no need for him to take viagra to play tennis.
He indignantly retorted that it wasn’t viagra but a muscle relaxant so I laughed and said, “how do you know?” He said, “I know because I have on one occasion taken viagra.” “OK, that’s fantastic” I said, “did it work.” Crestfallenly, he admitted that it had not had the desired effect so I asked him why. “There was not a woman handy at the time,” he responded.
On an even more lighter note, when a jet shot across the sky overhead leaving a fine white contrail behind it, Adrian who is also Dutch, looked up and said: “Look, there’s a Belgian aeroplane.”
I was puzzled: “How do you know that a plane so high in the sky can be a Belgian one?” I asked. “Easy,” he said “the Belgian’s always leave a vapour trail behind them so they can find their way home.”
Boom Boom. Who says it is only the English who have a crazy sense of humour.