Animal Magic: The nutty world of Grace Quirrel and Samantha Fox

Working for peanuts...Grace Quirrel on my patio

THE garden of my villa in the Costa Blanca coastal town of Guardamar is not short of wild life - particularly in the summer.
OK, I can do without the eerie twilight flapping of bats around the turrets of neighbouring houses. And I wasn’t best prepared for the three baby hedgehogs my grandson rescued from the hedgerow as they tried vainly to suckle milk from their lifeless mother.
But the suction-padded lizards that scurry up and down the walls fascinate me. So does the incessant chatter of the crickets or whatever they are (I wonder if they ever play Test matches with the bats?)
Back in September, I felt I was in the Garden of Eden when a litter of tiny feral kittens took temporary tenancy of the bamboo gazebo in my garden.
Nevertheless, I have yet to see anything in Guardamar to compare with the urban beauty of my furry friends Grace and Samantha back in Manchester.
Grace Quirrel and Samantha Fox (cringe cringe) have taken up semi-residency at my UK home - and while I see precious little of them thse days, I adore them.
The hunting fraternity would no doubt dismiss both species as vermin...and happily rearrange Samantha’s fur into a natty Manc coat.  But urban foxes and grey squirrels have become as much a part of life in the northern ferretlands as flatcaps and black puddings.
Even four miles from Manchester city centre.
They get an unintentional  helping hand from local councils, too. None of those slick nightly refuse collections we all marvel at in Spain -- it’s once a fortnight if you’re lucky. And if the lid is not tightly shut on the garbage bags, it won't be emptied, presumably by order of a council terrorist called Bin Over-Laden.

Anyway, the council's inaction means that Grace and Samantha will have bags and bags of goodies for Christmas...courtesy of a garbage-emptying cycle which leaves enough overflowing bins to fill the bellies of an entire colony of foxes.

My only fear is that Grace will become too fat to chase cats (yes, I have seen her in action). She's already a bit of a pudding, legacy of the unending supply of peanuts  chucked out to her through the patio doors by the grandkids.

But did you ever see a more beautiful specimen of vermin?

Year of the miracle: Buddy's first birthday grin and tonic

IT’S exactly one year since my sixth grandchild came into this world – and went perilously close to leaving it at the same time.
Buddy John Harry Holmes was born by Caesarian section, three months early and just 28 weeks into my daughter Hayley’s pregnancy.
He had no heartbeat, wasn’t breathing and weighed less than one kilo.
For the next few days, it was touch and go whether our Buddy would survive.

We all hoped and prayed he’d make it and that the lack of oxygen in those first few minutes had not caused any permanent damage.
For the answer, look at the picture above, taken at his first birthday party in Burscough, Lanc-ashire.
Apart from his model looks (I would say that, wouldn’t I?), our Buddy is as good as gold. He rarely cries, sleeps virtually to order - and always has a beaming smile.

Hardly the frail, emaciated, under-weight specimen you'd expect of a pitiful child who was born half-dead.

No, my Buddy miracle is just Buddy gorgeous!

Will the strain of pain in Spain drive me back to the rain?

I’VE always been mystified when elderly expats, who clearly love the Spanish life, up sticks and return to the rain and pollution of over-populated Britain.
I know at least half a dozen couples who have turned their backs on the Iberian sunshine, always reluctantly, citing fears of deteriorating health and/or losing their partner.
“Why worry about healthcare?”, I’d ask. “The Spanish system is generally regarded as superior to the NHS in Britain. And as for being on your own, the expat community is awash with widows, widowers and never-weds all in the same boat.’’
I certainly don’t mind being on my own.  It’s been fun going solo for the last couple of years and I couldn’t be happier. Apart, that is, from the fact I’m too old to dismiss my  ever-growing waistline as a ready-to-drop papoose.
I certainly have more friends in Spain than I ever had in the UK, many of them, like myself, without partners. And I am never lost for something to do on the odd occasion my eyes aren’t glued to a computer screen.
However, during my current visit to spend Christmas with my family in Manchester, I’ve begun to see the idea of repatriation in a different light…or darkness even.
Yes, I am beginning to question how I would manage on my own in Spain if, as I fear, I become wheelchair bound and reliant on the assistance of carers.
Regular readers of my column (if there are any) will know that humour is the weapon I use to fight adversity. I dismiss the intermittent trembling of my left hand by admitting I have Parkinson’s Disease and adding: ‘If the shaking gets any worse, they’re giving me my own chat show.’’
As for my blocked cardiac arteries, I joke about my visits to  the stentist, an Irish lady called Angie O’Plasty.
No one wants to hear this, but I have so many health problems that I’ll soon have an entry of my own in the official  medical dictionary. I can see it now.
Donnagitis: A multitude of different complaints. A person who craves the invention of oral stental floss.  (Give me a break from those damned angioplasties!)
But seriously, my mobility has deteriorated alarmingly this last few months and I know my problems will become progressively worse. Here in Manchester I have an amazing team of carers who are, quite simply, the best.
With two daughters and six grandkids here among the flatcaps and ferrets, I am beginning to ask questions of myself. I already struggle to get up from armchairs and sofas and get out of cars – so I’ve no hope of coping in Spain when I perpetually need winching up. The price of hiring a crane is outrageous as it is.
I never believed I would say this, but I am slowly resigning myself the fact I will one day return to the land of my birth. Still breathing, too..
Returning to the UK sounds so unlikely when I tell you I love every minute of living in Spain.
I live the dream – waking each morning to the accompaniment of bright sunshine and that indescribable atmosphere of ‘foreignness’. Just as I did 30 years ago, when family holidays in Spain were the highlight of my year.
I’d wake on the final morning of our stay and think to myself, ‘Hell, it’s so wonderful here and I’ve got to head back to England and work. I don’t want to go!’
This past couple of years  I’ve been waking   every morning and bursting (very badly) into song – my favourite being   ‘’Every day’s a holiday in my house’’ (to no particular tune). It was going to be my anthem until that weird morning when I wake up dead.
Now I’m beginning to think I’d quite like to spend my final days ferreting for flat caps, if you get my drift (yes, even in the snow).
If I freeze to death, I’ve got to go sometime anyway.  But at least  my daughters will be there to wrap me up warm, look after me, and earn that inheritance they think I'm going to leave them...

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) December 14, 2012

Five-mile high life is plane shaky on the throne of a Monarch

IT’S not as if it came as a surprise. These days I don’t expect visits to the UK to be fun – a least not outside my own little family circle

So it was with some apprehension that I boarded Monarch Flight ZB677 at Alicante for the nearest thing I’m going to have to a holiday this year. The idea was to take in a couple of family celebrations in the build-up to Christmas before returning to Spain early in the New Year.

By the time Flight ZB677 squelched onto the rain-lashed runway in Manchester, my nerves were completely shredded. My body had been invaded by more shakes than the Manchester City boardroom, thanks to a pilot who learned to fly on a Big Dipper. Either that or he got syphoned into one long tube of French turbulence from which there was no escape.

Have you ever tried doing the Hippy Hippy Shake in an airborne  loo at 35,000 feet to the sound of a panicky stewardess barking out orders for everyone to return to their seats and belt up muy pronto? 

‘’The toilets are NOT to be used at this time,’’ came the instruction from the cabin as yet another airquake caught me with my pants down. Literally.

I’d have fallen off the seat if there had been room. As it was, I chose to sit it out until the shuddering stopped…happy in the knowledge that at least I couldn’t be drowned by a tsunami. 

The sea of white faces that greeted me when I finally emerged from the toilet and made my way back to seat 9C told me all I needed to know. My fellow passengers weren’t enjoying it either.

Even my choice of seat had rebounded on me. I usually choose an aisle berth because I invariably need to use the loo during a flight and don’t like to disturb the people next to me.

Unfortunately, that feeling is not always reciprocal. On this occasion the couple who had bagged the two inside seats BOTH decided they wanted a wee within half an hour of takeoff. And as luck would have it, their preferred time for urinary exercise was just as I was tucking in to my 10-euro Monarchaise dinner treat – a very tasty Lancashire Hotpot.

If you think it’s a long walk from the plane to the meeting point at the new Alicante airport, try flying into Manchester’s Terminal 2. I wore out three pairs of shoes getting to passport control, where I finally raised my first smile of the night.

No queue to show my passport – and  a delightfully eccentric Sikh midget with a high-pitched voice directing everyone at full volume.

It’s not so bad after all, I thought as I jumped into daughter Lisa’s car for the 15-mile motorway  drive home. At 11.30pm, we’d be there in a quarter of an hour.

Don’t you believe it! Within ten minutes of leaving the airport we were stuck in a solid queue of traffic stretching across  the M60-M61 interchange. As ever, UK traffic jams can strike at any time of day or night. The British traffic is truly terrific.

It was lovely to see the home I lived in for 30 years still standing, if somewhat weather-beaten. But it was the police car in next door’s drive that threw me.

It turned out  the neighbours had been burgled earlier in the evening by cheeky villains who had then done a bunk in  the family Merc. Unfortunately they hadn’t bothered to raid my place as well.

Unfortunately? Well yes, they are welcome to what little of value remains in the house, particularly the 42 inch plasma TV, which has a colour problem that will cost more to repair than to buy a new one.

The guarantee has run out so I’m saddled with it as it is…unless it is stolen and then replaced by the insurance company.

Anyone know a good, honest colour-blind burglar?

Thanks Tulisa - your jibes have given Christopher the X Factor

A COUPLE of months ago, I vowed never to watch the X Factor again after joke singer Rylan Clark was manipulated back into the show by the collusion of the judges. Well, I have a confession to make – I’ve started watching it again.

And that’s because there’s nothing I enjoy more than seeing so-called experts with egg all over their faces.
 
 In their desperation to see the back of vulnerable Christopher Maloney - and, perhaps with a little coaxing from Simon Cowell - three of the judges have constantly pilloried the camp Scouser. But as someone who delights in seeing an underdog win, I’m happy to say that the cynicism of Tulisa and Co has rebounded on them bigtime.
 
 It is rumoured that Chris regularly gets TWICE as many votes as any of the other competitors and if that’s so, then he will this weekend become the first X Factor winner with no X Factor.

I accept that fellow finalists Jahmene Douglas and James Arthur have vastly more appeal to the younger generation.

But I’m fed up hearing Maloney berated by people like Tulisa, an average singer who has no  right to be judging the talent of vastly superior vocalists.

It seems all the negative comments have inspired the public to cast a sympathy vote for Maloney. - particularly sentimental old grannies like me who find him cuddlingly vulnerable.  All three finalists are assured of a big future, so it doesn’t really matter who wins.

But how enjoyable it would be to see Tulisa’s bitchiness come back to bite her in the bum.

How fate brought sick Daisy face to face with Peter Andre - UPDATE

GHOSTLY WHITE: Daisy in hospital recently

Peter signs a CD for Daisy in 2010

SINCE I wrote the article below, Daisy's health has deteriorated to the point that she is in almost permanent pain and unable to go to school. She has just begun a revolutionary new course of treatment which involves more painful injections and which is by definition experimental. The CICRA charity (Crohn's In Children Research Association) is constantly striving to give children like Daisy the happy childhood they deserve - and I have decided to throw my weight behind their efforts - literally. Take a look at https://www.justgiving.com/Donna-Gee and you'll see what I mean. If you are able to sponsor me, fantastic. Now for something completely different...

THE past four months have been a living hell for my granddaughter Daisy.

She’s spent roughly half that time in hospital, has lost two stone in weight and her once-rosy cheeks have been replaced by a ghostly white complexion.

She is currently on a medical regime which involves taking 32 pills a day…plus a fortnightly injection she describes as ‘’like a really bad wasp sting’’.

Even when Daisy is not in hospital, she’s bent double in agony much of the time and cannot go to school. Such is life for a 12 year-old with a particularly aggressive type of Crohn’s Disease.
At what should be the most exciting time of her life, she’ll become a teenager next month not knowing what the future holds. If she is lucky, the ulceration of her bowel will respond to treatment and the digestive spasms that crease her up will ease – just as they did for her older sister Rosie, 21. She has the same incurable illness as Daisy, but has been in remission for four years.

If she’s unlucky, Daisy will require major surgery. It all seems so unfair for a youngster whose dad suffered a massive brain haemorrhage when she was three years old and has been in hospital, paralysed and blind, ever since.

Last Friday Daisy was discharged from her latest hospital stay, even though she was far from well. The lives of her medical team would have been at risk had they refused to let her go. Her mother Hayley  had booked tickets to see Peter Andre ‘Up Close and Personal’  at Manchester’s Apollo Theatre and this was one event she was NOT going to miss.

Two years ago, Daisy was photographed with singing heartthrob Andre at a CD signing at a local ASDA store in Manchester – and prayed for the day she could see her idol in concert. Now it was actually going to happen…with family friend Louisa, a qualified nurse, joining Hayley’s entourage at the Apollo in case Daisy’s pains became intolerable during the evening.

We’d been racking our brains for a way to contact Peter Andre in the hope he might just find time to say hello to her. We knew it was a forlorn hope…and with 3,500 fans yelling for his attention at the Apollo, that forlorn hope quickly deteriorated to ‘no chance’. Their seats were four rows from the back…just about as far from the stage as it was possible to get.

Frail Daisy was dwarfed by adults vying for the best viewing points and as everyone leapt to their feet to welcome their hero, she was left staring at people’s backs. In desperation, she stood on her seat to get a better view and was immediately ordered down by the fans behind her.

In tears, she resigned herself to the worst. At least she could hear her idol, she reasoned. That was better than nothing.

Then fate took a hand in the most dramatic way. Someone pointed out a free seat in the very back row; here was a chair Daisy could stand on without fear of being ordered to sit down and where she could get an uninterrupted, if distant, view of her beloved Peter.
The six-stone waif was about to enter dreamland.
In the distance, Andre left the stage as his dancing entourage began a routine to the tune of John Lennon’s Imagine.

Then the hand of fate took over. ‘Suddenly Peter emerged from a door just to Daisy’s right, singing - and started walking along the aisle behind us,’’ says Hayley.

“Daisy turned round and he saw her straight away. She was crying hysterically and Peter came straight over to her and started singing to her. He touched her face and she grabbed his arm…and then he moved away.

“Daisy somehow found the energy to jump over the seat and run after him but was held back by one of his minders.

“But it was an amazing experience for her and a fantastic pick-me-up that none of us could have dreamed of.’’

Daisy is still overcome by the experience: ‘’I can’t believe what happened. I and lots of my friends had been tweeting him for two weeks hoping he might just agree to say hi to me but it was more in hope than expectation. Then it just happened all by chance. I actually felt the muscles in his arm and I can tell you he smelt wonderful!’’

A great perfumance, you might say – and one that brought a rare smile from a child whose happy personality has been knocked sideways by her health problems.

We all know that pain and happiness just don’t mix. But for those few wonderful seconds at the back of the Apollo, agony turned to ecstasy for a sick child...and the hand of fate showed its gentle side.

Thanks, Peter.

Manchester a better place to live than Spain? Don't talk wet!

Raining champions - a typical Manchester day

By the time you read this, I’ll be in England. Not that I want to be. In fact, I can think of few places I would less like to relocate to in November than over-populated, rain-sodden, ice cold, traffic-polluted London.
So I’m going instead to over-populated, rain-sodden, ice cold, traffic-polluted Manchester, the city which was my adopted home for nearly 40 years before I came to Spain.
I am going to the capital of the north for one reason only – to spend the build-up to Christmas with my two daughters and their families. My intention is to remain there until the New Year but I already have doubts whether I’ll stay the pace.
The rain may be wetter and the football better in Manchester than it is in London. But the Spanish lifestyle offers another dimension to life – and I am enjoying it more than I could ever have hoped.
Instead of suffering Capital Punishment or Northern Frights at the hands of England’s rapidly-growing scum society, I’ve got the seaside holiday heaven of Guardamar (Guardamarvellous to me)  virtually on my doorstep.
I have literally miles sandy Mediterranean beach just down the road. I can drive the 10km to the office at any time of day in less than 10 minutes – and forget about being caught in rush-hour or school-run traffic. Ever.
I have enough bars and restaurants within a few kilometres of my home to dine out every night for the next 20 years without ever going to the same place twice.
And I’ve made more friends since leaving Britain, both English and Spanish speaking, than I did in half a lifetime back home.
If I develop this any further, I can see me missing the plane to Manchester after all and breaking down in an uncontrollable flood of tears as I count the cost. Never mind the family, I paid over 50 quid for that ticket!
To be serious, for some reason I no longer feel any pull toward the land of my birth.
I’ve been living in Spain on and off for nearly seven years – and more or less fulltime since the beginning of 2011. And my first words to myself when I wake every morning is ‘’Every day’s a holiday’’.
For much of my adult life, my family and I spent our holidays predominantly in Spain, I would greet every day of those vacaciones with a special feeling – that wonderful sense of difference. Of being in a foreign land where the sun shines every day. Of freedom from the everyday grind of work and household chores.
Now I live the dream of those two or three weeks a year virtually every day of my life…even though I am arguably working harder than I have ever done.
There is something surreal about waking up almost every day of the year and squinting into the sun blazing through the bedroom window. About peering out into a leafy garden that resembles a sea of colour and tranquillity …spoilt only by the cat churning up a mound of gravel and doing an impression of a Real Madrid footballer (Kaka).
I have a confession to make. I had no idea where this article was going when I started writing it. All I know is that I am going to the home of the English football champions.
And I fear I’ll find myself up to my neck in Kaka…
Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) November 16, 2012

Halloween? Just give the Brits knives and Fawkes

I’m not doing Halloween any more. I’ll stick to the  Spanish version in future...or I fear I’ll be heading for  the Old Fawkes Home pretty pronto.
It  seems to me that the concept of dressing up on All Hallows Eve hasn’t got through to the older generation of Brits, as I discovered to my embarrassment on October 31.

They always said I look like a witch

 I suspect that most of them, like me, still find Guy Fawkes more interesting company than ghosts and vampires. But a Halloween party is a Halloween party, so I and three friends  invested in some suitably demonic  attire and eventually arrived at Retaurante St Joan in El Altet in full scary mode.
The  other 32 guests got there before us – which wouldn’t have been difficult. Because only ONE person had made more than a token effort to join in the mood of the occasion.
It was all such a letdown…a ‘theme’ evening devoid of a theme. And the evening  was only salvaged by the enthusiastic  participation of the local Spanish community of all ages.
I can in a way understand the apathy of older Brits because when I was a kid, Halloween  was an irrelevance. We were too busy celebrating the failure of Guy Fawkes and his boys to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605.
 How weird…now had the Gunpowder Plot  succeeded, that WOULD have been a  reason to celebrate.
Back in the mid-20th century, we DID celebrate by hoisting effigies  of the aforesaid Fawkes atop our bonfires on November 5 as  fireworks lit up the sky.
Nowhere did we see ‘Trick or treat’ extortionists frightening grannies to death as they answered a ring on the doorbell. Instead, we con-kids would gently request a ‘Penny for the Guy’ from householders – and treat them to scowls and curses if they didn’t give us at least ten times that amount.

Every witch way but fancy dress (apart from my quartet)

Those of us with a work ethic made an effort to create a Guy worth investing in. The lazy ones just shoved a mask on the smallest urchin in the gang and wheeled him from door to door in a battered dolls pram.
In Bonfire Night,  we used to have a jolly good November celebration in the UK ...a celebration the whole family could enjoy..
But  at some point, the Americans all emerged from Macdonald’s,  put their fat mitts into the mix (yes, there were Mitts before Romney put on the election gloves) and shunted the Gunpowder Plot into oblivion.
As for selling Guy Fawkes to them, forget it. They say cutlery made specifically for men will never catch on in Albuquerque.

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) November 9, 2012

Forrest grump: The demonisation of teacher Jeremy is so childish

(This was published before Megan and Jeremy were tracked down in Bordeaux )

AM I the only Brit who believes maths teacher Jeremy Forrest’s romantic continental jaunt with pupil Megan Stammers does not constitute a heinous crime?

Jeremy Forrest

The news that the couple’s disappearance was to be featured on BBC’s Crimewatch programme confirmed to me that the UK authorities see the guitar-playing Forrest as an evil paedophile.
Which I doubt vey much.
We now know the guy has been under a lot of stress (helped, no doubt, by antagonism from those trying to keep him away from Megan).
So I can understand why they decided to flee to a country where they can be together without fear. And where better than France, a nation which understands the complexities of romance and passion better than any.
“We are not going to arrest Jeremy Forrest,’’ announced a senior French prosecutor on Wednesday. “He is not a criminal.’’
That’s because the age of consent in France is 15, not 16. But from the massive UK police and media campaign to track the couple down, you’d think the guy had run off with an eight-year-old.
The manhunt has been pretty useless anyway. As I write, the lovers are probably somewhere in darkest Transylvania. Or perhaps even in Torrevieja, in which case Crimewatch won’t be hearing from me.
Did you wonder, as I did, why the UK police called that dramatic initial press conference with Megan’s parents on Monday…and then told us Megan was in no danger?
Forrest’s ‘crime’ seems to be that he has allowed himself to become emotionally entangled with one of his students.
Hardly an offence to justify the kind of dragnet normally reserved for dangerous killers.
Assuming that Jeremy and Megan are aware of the chasing rat pack, their feelings for each other will be growing by the day. And that is ­precisely what Megan’s family do NOT want.
The fact that the couple have been canoodling for several months in the face of widespread disapproval indicates that they are happy to lock out the world if it allows them to stay together.
And the WORST thing Megan’s family, her school and the police can do is to try to keep them apart forcibly.
Love will always find a way, even if Britain’s ‘enlightened’ society still deems any teacher-pupil relationship as sordid and wicked. When the teacher is married (albeit very flimsily), the demonisation increases dramatically. So much so, that we have so-called experts suggesting on Sky TV that he’s a child-molester who has been ‘grooming’ Megan to satisfy his evil desires.
‘‘Megan has done nothing wrong,’’ came the cry at that first over-dramatic press conference. What about Forrest? Silence…until that French lawman opened his grand bouche on Wednesday.
If Sir is found, or he and Megan decide to come home, I fully expect the UK police to hurl Forrest behind bars.
However, Megan is unlikely to encourage Jeremy to surrender to a system that may well deprive her of her boyfriend for several years.
The likelihood is that he will be banged up and charged with everything from abduction to under-age sex. Just about everything except Whipping a Pleb on a Bicycle, in fact.
From the way Megan’s distraught parents pleaded with her to phone them, you’d have thought her life was in imminent danger. Yet the police assured us they had no fears for her safety, despite her failure to return to the UK with Forrest on a pre-booked car ferry on Sunday.
The public witch-hunt against her companion just didn’t add up from the start. To demonise Forrest in huge headlines merely drives a bigger wedge between Megan and those who have already tried and convicted the man she ran away with.
It certainly makes it less likely that she will contact her seemingly frantic ­family.
Forrest clearly has issues of his own, not least the break-up of his marriage – and naturally Megan’s nearest and dearest would prefer her to mix with youngsters her own age. There is also the unwritten taboo that the paths of teacher and pupil must never cross outside the classroom.
As for the fact he is twice Megan’s age, so what?
One of my daughters married a man 14 years older than herself and he’s the best father in the world. There were a few tut-tuts when she started going out with him when she was 20 – but they knew what they wanted. And so, I guess, do Megan and Jeremy.
How many of you reading this column had a schoolgirl crush on one of your teachers? OK, so you just fantasised about it…but what a romantic thought, to be whisked off to an exotic country, away from all the nay-sayers, by the man you want most in the entire world.
Megan sounds to me like a typical teenager– a bit of a rebel who resents her parents and school officials trying to regiment her into a lifestyle that pleases them.
My other daughter rebelled at 14, became a punk and was barely 16 when she moved into a hovel with her boyfriend. But she grew out of the romanticism (along with her hideous nose ring) and now we look back and laugh at it all as she works to keep her own flock of three from going astray.
I don’t know the full details of Jeremy Forrest’s background, but in the absence of anyone speaking up for him, I found myself trying to understand his motives.
Logically, he should have waited until Megan is 16. But if they want to be together so much that they are prepared to risk everything, then my instincts say leave them to get on with it.
At least until they are ready to return to the fold.
From my own experience, the best way of bringing young rebels back into the fold is to give them more rope, not hang them. What I do know is that the way the Jeremy and Megan affair has been handled does nobody any favours.
If I were them, I’d dump the car, jump on a long-haul flight … and head for somewhere exotically romantic with no extradition treaty.
It’s unlikely they’ll live happily ever – but what a good plot for a romantic thriller.

Published in The Courier (www,thecourier.es) -  September 28, 2012

Kill now, talk later: Trigger-happy Yanks have the answer to burglars

IT’S not often that I praise the laws of God Bless America, but the fattest nation on earth have got at least one thing right.
If a lowlife breaks into your home, you are free to play The Terminator and save the cost of keeping him behind bars for a few years. (We’re talking heavy-handed Yanks here, not namby-pamby British wimps who’d send the villain on a luxury cruise on the QE2).
I’ve always been against free public ownership of firearms and America is testimony why. The evidence is overwhelming - countless massacres by nutters who can walk into a shop and buy a lethal weapon over the counter. That’s as mad as the archaic UK law that allows a homeowner only to use ‘‘reasonable force’’ to deter an intruder.
The fact the scumbag is trying to bludgeon you to death is merely coincidental. Just take your punishment like a good victim and the government will see you get a nice funeral.

Alan Duncan: Support for victims

I am told that Spain, surprisingly, has similar laws to the UK when it comes to burglars. Guardia officers from Guardamar advised members of my local Neighbourhood Watch this week NOT to take on robbers because the law favours them rather than their victims.
Just as it seems to have done with the Leicestershire couple arrested this week for firing a gun at four men who broke into their home in the middle of the night.
One of the villains called an ambulance, another went to hospital (nothing trivial, I hope) – and the husband and wife were arrested on suspicion of causing grievous bodily harm.
Although the intruders face prosecution for aggravated burglary, local MP Alan Duncan, a government minister, said: "The householder is the victim here and justice should support them and prosecute the burglars."
Problem is that Duncan and his cronies – the people who make the laws of the land – have yet to change the archaic legislation that burglars can treat their victims as if they were BBC TV’s Mrs Brown doing a head-hitter’s job on Grandad with her frying pan. Talk about a pain in the feck!
When TKO Radio disc jockey Rachel Angus confronted an intruder wearing  a balaclava in her living room here on the Costa Blanca recently, the villain was probably more frightened than she was.
But had he moved menacingly towards her, what was she supposed to do? Leaf swiftly through the law books for an explanation of ‘reasonable force’ before he landed the first blow?
No, she should have whacked him over the head with any available ‘weapon’ – and if it killed him, tough.
Fortunately, I suspect the joke they call political correctness (and which chokes anti-crime activity in the UK) is not always respected in Spanish Guardia circles – particularly when they catch these scumbags in the act.
A friend once asked an officer what she should do if she and her husband ever cornered an intruder.
“Just put him face down in the nearest river - we won’t be rushing to find him,’’ was the Guardia man’s reported answer.

A medium to rare talent - but how many clairvoyants are genuine?

I WAS probably 35 when an aunt told me that my late mother had been a medium with an enormous interest in the spirit world.
The news that Mum, who died in a polio epidemic when I was six years old, sent a shiver up my spine.
I wondered if she might have shuffled off all her psychic baggage along with her mortal coil - and dumped it all on me.
Basically, I was scared and I figured that if I steered clear of it all, just as I have always tried to avoid horror films, then I could live in peace.
There’s nothing I would like more than to hug the Mum I scarcely remember - and if there really is life after death (or should that be debt) maybe I will. But I do not believe that chucking euros at someone who purports to have a hotline to both Heaven and Hell will persuade my Mum or Dad to reveal even the tiniest secret. And certainly not to anyone outside the family.
Until a few months ago, I had an open mind on the psychic phenomenon. Now I believe most ‘mediums’ are gift-of-the-gab merchants who may think they have special powers but are more interested in cashing in on them.
Yes, money certainly plays a part. And in some cases big money.
The much-feted American psychic John Edward (yes, the Jedward of the West) charges 800 dollars for a private consultation. Don’t tell me he’s in it to help people - it’s all big business to him.

John Edward charges $800 for a reading

As for his ability to contact the departed, I can only go on the few minutes I watched of one of his TV shows the other day.
The guy supposedly builds bridges between the studio audience and their dead loved ones. But his lines of enquiry merely added to my growing reservations about the clairvoyancy business.
I’m certainly not convinced  by generalities such as ”Your Dad wants you to know he feels he could have been a better father’’. Just about every Dad on earth could say that.
So when Jedward (that’s him in the two pictures) fired the  opening line, ’’I’m getting a ‘D’ or it could be a ‘D A’ at a packed studio audience, he could have roped in any one of those punters. Who doesn’t know a David, for heaven’s sake?
Still, for all his unconvincing patter, at least the American Jedward provides decent entertainment. Like the moment he probed the studio audience, brow furrowed in concentration, and announcd: ”I’m getting the name Stacey. Is there a Stacey here?’’
‘’My name is Samantha,’’ came the instant, irrelevant reply from one overkeen onlooker, her mind seemingly lost in Stace.
I’m not being fair in doubting John Edward’s spiritual talents because I’ve only caught snippets of his show. But I have had my cards read by two ladies here on the Costa Blanca, one of whom is particularly highly-rated.
This very confident and assertive woman spent half an hour turning over Tarot cards and hitting me with vague generalities that revealed  nothing meaningful about my past, present or future.
I was waiting to be told something that only my eccentric Dad and I could know - like how he’d put sugar rather than salt on tomatoes.
Or how he would assure me I’d be quids in when he died - only for the Inland Revenue to clean up his entire estate in back taxes when he finally keeled over.
Eat your hearts out, Lester Piggott and Ken Dodd.
To those of you who do believe in mediums, clairvoyants, spiritualists or whatever, I am NOT suggesting you are being conned.
All I am saying is that I am not convinced. Having said that, I am also very nervous about delving too deeply into the subject. And that, I suppose, suggests that I don’t know what I believe.
Hell, I think I’ll leave it till Christmas and nip along with Ebenezer Scrooge for a reading from Marley’s Ghost.
Bah, humbug.

LIZ MISERABLE: A serious problem in the Smile End Road

DID you, like me, wonder why The Queen couldn’t raise a smile at the Olympic Games opening ceremony?
Now I am as loyal to our Monarch as anyone. But the poor soul was so expressionless that she looked like she’d just left a Botox salon. (No chance of that happening - the nation can’t afford to mint a complete new set of postage stamps).
Then I thought, maybe she’s disappointed that her favourite sport,  horseracing,  is not in the Games. Could it be that when she saw Sir Chris Hoy carrying the British flag, she muttered those immortal words, “Ah, Ascot’’?
HM’s impassive face suggested she might have been jockeyed off a night out at Les Miserables.
That’s perhaps not as ridiculous as it sounds – the show is currently running in the West End at, would you believe, the Queen’s Theatre.

We are not amused, Mr Cameron

Either way,  Liz the Miz seemed haunted by the PA system booming Olympic programme details in French. Did no one tell Danny Boyle and Co that French is no longer a major player in the Euro language stakes but Spanish is. Vale, amigo?
Of course, that  parachute descent into the Olympic stadium alongside James Bond must have taken its toll on our beloved 0086.
Mind you, I’ve heard that 0091 (Prince Philip to the un-Bonded) plans to bungee jump into his seat for the closing ceremony.
Seriously, though, no matter how bored she was with Boyle, Bond, Bean and Beckham, could Her Majesty  not have TRIED to look happy? Talk about having a B in her bonnet!
The following day came the competitive action…and confirmation that Britain’s team are not quite as invincible as some of us thought.
Tom Daley and Peter Waterfield led the world for three rounds in the 10m synchronised diving, then made a floppin’ mess of their next double plunge.
By Tuesday, it wasn’t so much a question of how many gold medals we’d clean up, as ‘at what point in each event will we mess up?’
Mind you, we’d have had a rapid bucketful of gold if they gave out awards for misleading commentaries.
Even highly-respected experts like cycling’s Hugh Porter and Chris Boardman showed themselves up.
No, guys, you can’t blame lack of information for assuring us that the British road race team were too clever for the rest and would usher Mark Cavendish to victory in Saturday’s big road race. (Gosh, it seems so long ago now!)
The Brits were too wise and experienced to let any of those foreign whippersnappers take advantage, they asserted. Unfortunately, they forgot to tell the might of Kyrgyzstan and Colombia - and their guys coasted to gold and silver while Cavendish and Co continued to meander along at the head of the peloton. (I think that’s cycling parlance for the massed ranks of no-hopers)..
By the time the women’s road race came on 24 hours later, I expected to see Messrs Porter and Boardman banished to the bike shed, where they couldn’t do our fingernails any more harm.
But for all their shortcomings, they do at least have a shedload of bicycle knowledge.
That’s more than can be said for the poor lost hacks who try to convince us they actually understand the technical intricacies of alien sports like handball and beach volleyball.
I can reveal that the latter is played somewhere near the sea and that the women’s version is colloquially known to male enthusiasts as ‘Corrlookaturr’.
I also suspect the rules state that participants must have auditioned unsuccessfully for Baywatch.
Personally, I’d rather stick to the two-and-a-half twisting fronts across the side - because our male gymnasts got a team medal for doing it.
Which is more than most of our other hopefuls managed over the first few days.
Right, that’s my Olympic grump over. I’m off to catch up the with the Queen - perhaps I’ll find her in the Smile End Road.

WHEN CHEERS TURN TO BOOZE: So Bradley Wiggins got ‘blind drunk’ after his golden road-race ride on Wednesday. Well, what a surprise.
Old Rideburns had just said ‘on yer bike’ to the world’s best cyclists for the second time in little more than a week. And since he is neither tee-total nor a practising Muslim, it was eminently predictable how Brad the Lad and his pals would celebrate that historic Tour de France/ Olympic double.
I’d have been more interested to know how the amazing Helen Glover and Heather Stanning celebrated winning Britain’s first EVER women’s rowing gold.
Because the cash-strapped PE teacher and her Army captain colleague don’t even have a sponsor to finance a binge.
The big question was what colour the ‘wasted’ Wiggo resembled yesterday morning (Thursday). Yellow, perhaps?
I’m just glad I didn’t see him up the creek without a saddle.

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) August 3, 2012

A buddy for Buddy. The miracle baby and the man who gave him life

BABY DOLL: Buddy and me in December

I’ve become a sentimental old Buddy, sorry biddy,  as I head towards my dotage – but my ‘miracle’ grandson’s battle for survival even had the tough guys weeping..
I’ve not written about little Buddy for some time now but so many people have asked me for an update on the One-Kilo Kid that another bout of nepotism is well overdue.
It’s now seven months since Buddy John Harry Holmes was delivered by emergency Caesarean 12 weeks ahead of schedule.

EVERYONE'S BUDDY: Our happy chappie

He had no heartbeat and weighed just over two pounds. And for the first few days, no one knew if he would survive.
When his mother, my daughter Hayley found she was expecting, everyone assumed all would go well. OK, she was 41 and it was 12 years since her second daughter, Daisy, was born.
But all progressed normally right up to the 28th week. Then, 197 days into Hayley’s third pregnancy, came a remarkable – and frightening – development triggered by the smallest hint that something was wrong.
The embryo child all but stopped booting hell out of her body from the inside. She sensed that something was amiss, and although her midwife was not unduly concerned, the worried couple wanted to be sure. A surreal scenario followed, with Hayley and Steve acting purely on intuition and booking  a  private consultation with sonographer Richard Warriner.
Richard sent them immediately to hospital for an urgent scan, which revealed that the waters around the baby had all but dried up.
In this sea of nothingness, the tot was in imminent danger of suffocating – and an urgent Caesarean section saw him plucked, lifeless, from Hayley’s body with the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around his neck.
He had no heartbeat and was not breathing. For fully three minutes, doctors and nurses united in a battle to give life to the tiny foetus. For Hayley and Steve, those three minutes translated into a lifetime of lifelessness.

LIFESAVER: Richard with Buddy

As the seconds ticked away, they named the baby Buddy, desperate that he should have a proper identity, even if he was never to draw breath.
Then, his tiny body invaded by a host of canulas, tubes and ventilators, a   miracle occurred. The mite’s heart began to beat.
Buddy was alive…if not kicking. All 992 grammes of him (that’s a tad under 2lb 2oz). For 24 hours, his under-developed lungs were helped by a ventilator. Then another miracle; he started breathing by himself. Amazingly, doctors told the relieved parents that had Hayley not gone to Richard, the baby would have died inside her within two hours.
Last week, seven months after that fateful day and armed with a bottle of the finest malt whisky and a box of expensive chocolates, Hayley and Steve took Buddy to meet the man who saved his life.
Richard held the  bubbly 18lb bundle of happiness in his arms and Steve told him: ‘If you ever doubt the value of the work you do,  just remember our Buddy. He’s the living proof.’’
At that moment, through the inevitable flood of tears , a pact was sealed. Richard became a family Buddy for life.

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) July 20, 2012

Why I am not the Murraying kind...

MUCH as I would like to see a Brit win the Wimbledon men’s singles title, the Murray misery mob are not my type of heroes.

 Yes, despite the fact I live in Spain, I was delighted when Rafa Nadal's exit opened the way for the Scottish sourpuss to go all way. And I  felt for beaten Andy as he choked out that emotional Centre Court apology for losing last Sunday’s final. 

But I switched to Federer’s side after it  became apparent that the Murray entourage was shrouded in a grey cloud of depression. Even after he had won the first set. 

Judy Murray...po-faced intensity

Ever-dour Andy presumably  inherited his semi-permanent sulk from his mum Judy, whose po-faced intensity frightened the life out of me every time the cameras focused on the old battle-axe .

And even Posh Spice’s pouted posturing was a more attractive alternative to the Scots racketeer’s expressionless girlfriend Kim Sears. To top it all we had to endure the mask-like mush of Ivan Lendl, the most miserable Grand Slam champion of all time, glaring across the court .

It was inevitable, then, that a big black cloud would bring the roof down on the Scottish sourpuss’s day. With the rain came the sun...in the form of the ever-pleasant Roger Federer and the irresistible tennis that permanently keeps the Swiss Master ahead of Murray in the world rankings.

Touching as the sour Scot’s on-court concession speech was, I found myself immersed in the smiles and waves of the Federer family. They may hail from another country but I felt as if I belonged in their world rather than Murray’s.

Give me the beaming faces of the Duchess of Cambridge and her sister Pippa savouring the action any day.

Or better still, the unbridled joy of Yorkshireman Jonny Marray (almost a Murray!) at becoming men’s doubles champion. 

The 31-year-old Yorkshireman did what Murray didn’t  – and you can be sure he’d also have compensated with  a big smile even if he had  lost.

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) July 6, 2012

Checking in with Ryanair: One in the 'I' from Michael O'Leary

RIGHT, I admit it. I’m paranoid about Ryanair. And it’s not fair on my pet cheapskate airline...or on me.
My tongue-in-cheek account of my flight to Manchester two weeks ago was, I now confess, a little over the top. I even blamed them for the ‘lobal’ warfare  between my handbag strap and left earring at the security desk before I had even set eyes on anyone from Ryanair.
And the paranoia resurfaced  last Thursday when I spent at least an hour  trying in vain to check in for my return flight to Alicante.  The check-in section simply would not accept my reservation details...and my warped mind decided there was only one possible reason. They had turfed me off the flight because of all the negative coverage  I’ve been giving  Ryanair in The Courier.
Either that or they had hatched a plan  to charge me an extra  60 euros at the airport because I hadn’t checked in online.
Yes, this was Michael O’Leary versus  Donna the Old Deary – and the Irishman had decided there was only going to be one winner.
You’ll gather from that last sentence that at this point I was also suffering from delusions of grandeur. Yes, Michael O’Leary  actually had someone as insignificant as me in his firing line.
And he was now taking the Michael –  for deliberately mixing him up with the other silver-tongued O’Leary  who used to present the X Factor.
 My reservation details  listed the booking reference as QY312V – two letters, followed by three numbers and another letter. Quite simple and clearly noted at the time on my mobile phone calendar.
However, every time I attempted to ‘manage my booking’ in order to check in, I got a message saying the details did not match their own...and that I should re-enter them correctly.
On Friday morning, the problem persisted, so I took a deep breath and called Ryanair on their unexpectedly cheap reservations line. Within two minutes I was actually talking to a human voice with a body attached to it. A male one.
I had expected to be hanging on for 20 minutes and probably to run out of patience before I got through and slam the receiver down. But this was NOT the sort of treatment I had expected. I hadn’t even had time to work myself up into a very minor frenzy, never mind get angry.
 The operator wasn’t interested in my name. He just asked me for my reservation reference . “I have it down as QY312V,’’ I said. “Q - Y - three - one - two - V.’’
‘’I tink you may find that is incorrect,’’’ came the reply. (No, he wasn’t Irish, I accidentally left the H out of think and don’t have time to go back). “It actually says  QY3I2V, that’s Q - Y - three -the letter  I - two - V.’’
I can see Dermot, sorry Michael O’Leary laughing at my stupidity. That’s one in the ‘I’ for me, he’ll be saying. What else can we do to annoy her?’’
Annoy her,    paranoia... help, I need to see a psychiatrist!

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) June 1st, 2012

'Maybe life’s not so bad here with my mates after all. I mean, I’m never on my own and they let me bark as loud as I like...'

I visited two Spanish-run animal rescue centres in Alicante over the weekend – and was left wondering how I would feel if I was an abandoned dog.
OK, the one thing I would want most is love…which I suppose provides the strongest case for ‘get me out of here.’ Escaping with my eardrums intact would also be pretty high on the list after sampling the cacophony that emanated from the heavily populated cages every time life on two feet came within 20 metres.
But would a well-fed existence in a safe, secure environment with a load of barking mad friends not be better than the alternative so many dogs face? And not only in Spain.
I’m talking about the millions of mutts who are left alone for hours every day, often tethered, while their owners head off to the office or factory...

BIG BROTHER, BIG STAR? THE REALITY OF CELEBRITY

ASK any youngster what they most want most when they grow up and there’s a good chance the words ‘’to be famous’’ will be near the top of the list. 
And sadly, reality TV rubbish like ‘Big Brother’ has made that dream easier to achieve than ever before.  The problem is that talent and fame no longer go together. These days it’s a case of the bigger and louder the idiot, the better the chance of hitting the headlines.
Only in the world of 21st century television can moronic lunatics locked away in bizarre goldfish bowl become the idols of millions of brain-dead couch potatoes. And for what? Being able to say the F-word more times than anyone else?  I despair.
There used to be a time when fame was a natural development for those blessed with a special talent. 
Were you not remarkably gifted, your only chance of achieving celebrity status would be to take the notoriety route. And anonymity has always been a much better option than spending a lifetime in prison.

Tom and Linda as I remember them in 1962

It mystifies me why today’s ‘celebrities’ are worshipped like gods. Particularly those who have achieved that celebrity via the reality TV route.  Perhaps it is the fact that the average person’s 15 minutes of fame amounts to the time they were pulled from the sea by a lifeguard at Clacton after swallowing a lump of seaweed in two feet of water.
Anyone who actually KNOWS a celebrity (a real one, not a Big Brother berk) will be aware that they are as human as the rest of us. They eat, sleep, breathe, laugh, cry, have families, age…and ultimately they die.  Just like the rest of us. 
Unless they are themselves the children of celebrities, they also begin life as nobodies. They go to school, they grow up…and NOBODY ever asks for their autograph. During my youth, I knew at least two nobodies who later became somebodies in a big way. Today their names are instantly recognisable but when I was 19, they were simply men trying to build careers in their chosen professions. Both were ambitious, so was I. But while I went on to be relatively successful as a writer and editor, these two guys reached for the stars….and grabbed them with both hands.
The guys I am talking about are Sir Tom Jones and the BBC’s John Humphrys. Tom – then plain Tommy Woodward – would wander into the Pontypridd Observer office almost daily to tell me about his latest attempt to break into the big time. His work ethic regarding anything but singing was, shall we say, questionable. 
But he clearly had talent … and was happy to provide me with some decent stories about his latest vocal exploits for my weekly pop column.
He had lots of rough edges as a person – but with a voice like his, it was only a matter of time before his career took off and my personal name-dropping list got its first illustrious entry.
 Humph (who in those days spelt his name ‘Humphries’) was a classmate at the National Council for the Training of Journalists day release course in Cardiff each Friday. 
Then working as a reporter for the Western Mail, John was a quiet, even shy guy…the last person you would pick out as a future BBC foreign correspondent, news presenter and Mastermind chairman.
But like TJ, he clearly had a special talent which the BBC soon recognised.
The rise and rise of both sons of Wales taught me one huge lesson which today’s hero worshippers simply cannot identify with
For all the glitz and glamour, celebrities are just ordinary people.

Defiant Spanish reducing no-smoking laws to ashes

THERE are growing signs that Spain’s long-overdue legislation to curb the fag brigade is going up in smoke. 
 I suspected at the time the anti-smoking laws were tightened in January 2011 that tobacco-obsessed Spaniards would not observe it.
And I’ve also been horrified recently that some Brits seem happy to risk a fine of up to €600,000 (as well as a horrendous death) by either smoking illegally themselves – or, in the case of some bar and business owners,  allowing people to light up in enclosed bars, restaurants and even offices.
Clearly these people are playing with fire - both literally and metaphorically. They don’t seem to realise it only takes one puffed-off colleague or customer to turn them in...and they could be relieved of every cent they own. At least, that’s what the law says.
Realistically, we all know that the Spanish police and bureaucrats are about as straight as Julian Clary and Alan Carr pairing up with the Kray twins on Strictly Kill Dancing. And since the protectors of the state smoke just as heavily as its citizens, the words ‘nudge nudge, wink wink, puff puff’ come to mind.
Last weekend, a friend and I sat in the glass-fronted dining area of an upmarket, sea-front restaurant (I’m not saying where) and ordered a late lunch.  Since the pullback roof was closed, we naturally we assumed the area was non-smoking. Until, that is, we noticed ashtrays on the tables.
To add fire to the fuel, three members of a loud, ignorant  group of Spaniards proceeded to manipulate a suspicious-looking substance into a trio of pathetically thin roll-ups and to set them alight.
Within seconds, my pal and I were being passively poisoned via noise and nostrils combined.
“How come you allow smoking?’’ I asked a waiter. ‘’The room is closed in.’’
‘‘It is permitted for people to smoke,’’ he countered, pointing to a tiny gap between the slats of the removable roof. (Well, he indicated a gap – though I couldn’t actually see it). “We have ventilation and air conditioning, so it is not a problem.’’
Now, either I have got it all wrong, or the law brought in on January 2, 2011, banned smoking in enclosed public  places. In bars and restaurants the exception was to be establishments with a maximum of two walls or without a roof.
Since diners in this particular restaurant are visible to every passer-by, I can only assume that the police choose to ignore a seemingly blatant flouting of the law. Or maybe there’s some obscure small print which frees the restaurant management of compliance?
There is, of course, another possibility…but I wouldn’t dream of suggesting anyone in Spain is corrupt.
Non-observance of the law is even worse in some places. A few days ago, for instance, a non-smoking friend went into a  local Spanish bar for an early-morning coffee and was greeted by the sight of two Guardia Civil officers smoking away next to people eating breakfast.
“It goes on all the time,’’ my pal assured me, adding: “Personally, I wish smoking was allowed in set smoking areas in bars but not in restaurants or eating areas.’’
Sounds to me like they don’t need a law for that...they’ve designated the smoking bit already.
So much for the Spanish - what about the Brits who tell the legislators to go to blazes? The people who would not dare to defy the law in the UK, but seem to think it’s OK to bend the rules in Spain?
One publican admitted to me that when it’s cold, he takes a chance in the evenings by allowing smoking in the closed-in extension to his bar near Torrevieja.
“I know I’m taking a risk,’’ he said. “But my customers want to smoke and I don’t want to send them out into the road.’’
On the contrary, I could give him 600,000 reasons why he SHOULD send them out into the road.
I’m even more amazed by the smoker who lights up regularly in the open-plan office in which he works, just yards from his non-smoking boss and the entrance door.
Since smoke rises, the fumes drift to the office upstairs, not that the fumador is bothered. His defiance, despite the fact that the office’s few other addicts go outside to indulge their habit, astounds me as much as the fact that no one has made an issue of it. At least, not yet.
I just hope the person concerned sees the light before the law moves in. Or, worst-case scenario, a misplaced dog-end sets fire to the building and his boss suffers a fate worse than debt.

Published in The Courier (www.thecourier.es) March 30, 2012

Every day is a holiday.... living the dream

I’VE been singing a little catchphrase each morning these past 12 months or so. It emerges roughly five minutes after I  ease my aching bones out of bed, wondering what new pains I’ve inherited for this particular day, and hobble creakily into the bathroom.

A cursory squint into the mirror tells me I don’t wish to see my sagging face, so cleaning my teeth is invariably a blind date with the toothbrush.

It’s little consolation that I still have my own gnashers (which remain attached to my jawbone, believe it or not)  because they are as grey as a typical English summer sky.

Every day's a holiday: A long lunch break in Benidorm

A few years back, I invested the best part of £1,000 in a vain bid to make them gleam like they did 50 years ago. Talk about being taken to the cleaners!

As I rummage around for the eight pills I’m supposed to take first thing, my head fills with the mass of work ahead of me for the next 12 hours. 

Writing, editing, designing, talking to readers, replying to emails…life is certainly not a doddle at The Courier.

Then it happens. I start singing. Well, I am Welsh, so it’s allowed. And it’s loud as well.

The bit that might throw you is the words to my little ditty ..because work doesn’t come into it. The tune varies from Land of My Fathers to the Marseillaise and McNamara’s Band. But the sentiments are always the same.

EVERY DAY’S A HOLIDAY IN OUR HOUSE…no matter how hard I have to work. Because while those around me stress at not being able to make ends meet, or contemplate another boring day doing nothing but getting sunburnt, I am living a dream.

For decades we would spend our family holidays in Spain, Italy or somewhere equally compulsive in the Mediterranean – 14 days relaxing (kids permitting), with the Fleet Street rat race as distant as the remotest star in the next galaxy.

Winter or summer, we would wake up to glorious sunshine beaming into our hotel room and savour that unique atmosphere every holidaymaker wants to last or ever.

You know, the feeling that every day is a holiday…

Of course, it would end with that horrible, sweltering morning when you struggled onto that sweaty return bus to the airport before herding the whole noisy, moaning entourage back onto a Freddie Laker DC10 for the return flight to Hades.

Four hours and 40 heart attacks later, you were back in blighty, shivering your way down the aircraft steps onto the runway – and hoping an out of control airport bus would flatten your ever-moaning four-year-old, the uncrowned Princess of Wails.

Every coming day would again be a penance as the unyielding rain pattered down your neck. But there was at least the thought of next year’s holiday in the sun to keep the spirits up. Even if it was 50 weeks away.

Meanwhile, it was back to the rat race, the traffic jams, the pollution and the damp greyness of England’s clean and pheasant land. Not to mention the mother-in-law, those neighbours from hell and the ongoing war with the binmen.

Oh, there was also the obligatory annual drought, which simply could not be avoided. I mean, 200 years is far too brief a period for the bureaucrats to devise a cunning plan to harness all that rain and winter flooding for an entire year.

Clearly the poor reservoirs have irreparable leaks, because the problem is not drying up. (Well, it IS drying up but the problem is still there, if you get my drift – or rather my attempt to drift, cos there ain’t no water to drift on).

One of the perks of retirement, providing you have some sort of private pension to supplement the state one), is that you can afford to make that holiday in the sun permanent.

OK, it’s not as straightforward as that – I mean, the logistics of embarking on a 24/7 sojourn to the tropics are not simple for a dodderer (no Ken, not you).

It doesn’t work out for everyone, but when I start writing lists of pros and cons for living in Spain and the UK respectively, I struggle to come up with a single entry on the Brit list.

So it was predictable that when I bought my home in the Costa Blanca six years ago, it felt like I had died and gone to Heaven.

All I needed was some meaningful stimulation to keep my brain active. It was a long time coming but thankfully it was duly delivered last year…by Courier.

Now I’m happily working myself to death in the perfect environment, and whilst I’d love to see more of my kids and grandkids back in Manchester, I have the consolation here of a wonderful circle of likeminded friends.

Ah well, on with the hols.

Published in The Courier 9/3/2012 (www.thecourier.es) 

The Porn Ultimatum? No son, this movie stars the ideal Holmes

NO ONE has said anything yet, but my limited knowledge of Information Technology dropped me in it big time last week.  I managed to inform  the world that my daughter Hayley’s partner Steve Holmes (that’s them pictured) is a famous porn actor!

My daughter Hayley with her partner Steve Holmes 

It all stemmed from the article in The Courier recently (www.thecourier.es) about my baby grandson Buddy coming out of hospital after his first few traumatic weeks of life. I still can’t read the piece without getting weepy, soppy old thing that I am. And I wrote the damn stuff myself!

I figured that if those words reduce me to tears, they  might also touch the hearts of grannies  all over the world. So I decided to add  it to  the  blog sites I set up when I was a lady of leisure back in 2010 BC (Before Courier, that is).

I  called up www.grumpyoldgran.com  - a Wordpress site which I actually paid to set up but rarely look at these days – and published  the story, complete  with the headline  ‘Buddy Golly! The miracle baby with no heartbeat goes home’.

So far, so good.  Under the article on the Grumpy website, a list of ‘Recommended Links’ enabled me to direct readers to Wikipedia’s take on ‘Caesarean Section’,  ‘Umbilical Cord’ , Intensive Care’ and other specific subjects mentioned in the article.

Rather than wade through all the links, I clicked ‘Apply all’ and thought no more of it...until  I checked the site a couple of days later.

The  name ‘Steve Holmes’ in the article was hyperlinked. Curious, I clicked on the link and, horror of horrors, was greeted  by the full Wiki lowdown on …’’Steve Holmes , Pornographic Actor’’.

The name may be the same, but our Steve is no dirty movie man. He’s a respectable dad, as our Buddy would confirm if he could talk.

But, having arrived premature three months early, he's not due to be porn until March 6th.

Buddy Golly...happy day as my miracle grandson goes home

Buddy leaves hospital...all 2 kilos of him

BUDDY John Harry Holmes entered this world silently on December 14, 2011 - and it was three minutes before he drew his first breath.

My daughter Hayley’s third child arrived 12 weeks early and weighed less than a kilo. For those first terrifying moments of his life, he also had no heartbeat. How times change!


On Wednesday this week, the little mite left hospital with his mum and dad, the intrusive array of tubes that had decorated and invaded his little body for weeks all long gone.

For the first week of his life, it was touch-and-go for Buddy. Dragged out of Hayley’s womb by Caesarean section, he survived because of her intuition that something was amiss with the 28-week embryo.

A scan revealed that the waters surrounding Buddy had all leaked away - and medics ordered an immediate emergency delivery.

Hayley and her partner Steve Holmes learned later that the baby would have died within two hours had he been left in the womb.

As it was, he survived not only those first breathless, heart-stopping moments, but also being half-strangled by his umbilical cord.

For a week, he remained in an incubator in Intensive Care, listed as ‘critical’.

Then the miracle of life kicked in big time. And when he left hospital this week, Buddy’s birthweight had more than doubled to 4lb 7oz.


So tiny...that's Buddy, not dad Steve


In seven weeks, the wizened mini-alien had transitioned into a chubby little boy - albeit still only the size of a man’s shoe.

Hayley and Steve had named him seconds after he was born, fearing he would not survive.

Instead, he has become a picture of health, so pardon this column’s nepotism as the family drink a toast to the little one’s future.

Mine’s a Bud, by the way.