Moving to Spain: A pleasure or a penance?

Life in Spain is fun for some...but it's hard work for others

In the misery of a cold, wet Manchester day, my daughter Lisa left a depressing message on Facebook.

''What are we doing in this bloody miserable country?'' she asked despairingly. ''Can someone give me reasons not to move abroad, please.''

Family, friends and making a living were the most popular responses received by Lisa and when you have two sons still at school, that is a BIG, BIG consideration.

My local community here in Spain recently said a tearful farewell to an English family as they headed back to the UK after seven happy years on the Costa Blanca.

The main reason they returned to their roots is that their 15-year-old daughter had been pining for an English education and had understandably found it difficult to build a social life in the ageing expat community.

Yet even though Mum and Dad struggled to make a living while they were here, they loved the Spanish lifestyle so much that I reckon they'll be back once junior has passed her A-levels - and leave her to her own devices at university.

When it comes down to choosing theoretically between living in Britain or Spain, I reckon most Brits would choose the sunshine option. Until they consider the thorny question of employment, that is.

To me, Spain wins on virtually every front - but unless you have your own means or a decent pension, then my advice is to tread very carefully because there's precious little work available in these crisis-wrecked times. Even for Spanish people.

As for missing family and friends, no problem there. They can always come out to visit. After all, it probably takes longer to drive from north London to Birmingham than to fly from Gatwick to Alicante or Malaga.

Personally I reckon the best thing about modern-day Britain is that it's 1,500 miles away. But that comes from someone who is fortunate enough to have sufficient savings to keep going without having to work.

So where does Spain have the edge on Britain as a place to live - and vice versa? There are, of course, two sides to every story. Or in some cases any number of sides, as I discovered when I asked other exiles for their thoughts via forum comments.

To my surprise, the UK won 'Britain is best' votes in areas like the job market, midsummer weather (in other words, Spain is too hot in July and August), home healthcare, keeping homes warm in winter, tap-water quality, utility company choice and service, natural scenery, faster legal processes, broadband speed, TV, Sunday opening. And of course shopping.

Britain also scored for reliability, particularly when it comes to things like power cuts, which are part of Spanish life. I'm still cursing the electricity company for costing me a freezer-load of food back in 2008, when my kitchen was flooded following a power cut while I was away.

Not to mention the time they cut me off without warning because my bank was not holding sufficient funds to pay my direct debit to them. But that's another story (which you will find elsewhere on this blog if you dig deep enough!)

I can also confirm from personal experience that the service in UK banks and stores is vastly superior to the couldn't-care-less attitude of many clerks and shop assistants out here.

As one person put it: ''I hate waiting in a queue for an hour at a bank because the cashier is chatting to every Pablo, Pedro and Jose about their *abuelos/hermanos/gato/perro etc. Then it gets to your turn and. . . SIESTA TIME. Cashier is now shut!''

Whereas British business outlets invariably put the customer first, prepare for a long wait in Spain if the clerk or shop assistant's mobile rings while you're being served. Because the chances of the caller being told curtly ''I'll ring you back'' is virtually nil.

My local vet is a lovely young man who is unusually good at multi-tasking but suffers from acute 'mobile attached to the ear' syndrome. When I took one of my cats to his surgery for a checkover, his phone rang just as he called me into the treatment room.

''Un momento,'' he said, taking the call from a pal. During the next 15 minutes, chatting throughout to his mate, he checked the cat, treated her, put her back into the cat box, ushered me out into the reception area and then signed some papers for a delivery man who walked in as I waited to discuss the bill. Ultimately, seeing my face growing increasingly crimson, he mouthed the words ''14 euros'', took my 20 euro note, rang it up on the till, gave me change and whispered a swift ''hasta luego''.

As I closed the door of the surgery behind me, Julien was ushering in the next patient and its owner…still talking on the mobile that may one day need removing surgically from his ear. Because not everyone is going to be as patient as I was.

Having said that, I have walked out of a Spanish shop more than once because a staff member has put a phone call or private chat of serving me. Unbelievably, it is often the boss who snubs you - the person with most to gain or lose. Such economic suicide is rare in the UK but so typical of the 'mañana mañana' Spanish mentality.

Having said all that - and factored in the menace of the myriad mosquitoes of midsummer - Spain scores highly on so many fronts that it really is no contest which country has the most going for it. Particularly if you are looking to retire out here and able to live off your pension and savings.

Obviously the sunshine and healthy air tops the lot. But then there are other aspects like the quality of life, cheap eating out (if you avoid the tourist rip-off joints), inexpensive housing, the third lowest crime rate in Europe (though you could fool me with all the handbag snatching and pickpocketing that goes on in the Costas), the fiestas, the family-orientated culture, the gentler pace of life and the golden beaches.

Oh, and I almost forgot the pharmacies, which sell prescription drugs without a prescription - something I have personally found very useful. (And no, I am not a junkie!)

Spain also got the thumbs-up for superior public transport and less-congested roads. But sadly there was no mention whatsoever of motorbikes.

Why motorbikes? Well, my Lisa's fella Rob is a motorcycle training instructor and if they ever did come out here with the kids (I wish!), he'd be looking to open a training centre wherever they decided to settle.

Much as I would love to see them on my doorstep, I haven't the faintest idea how he'd do that. Come to think of it, I don't even know the Spanish word for motorcycle. 

Football beware! Rugby's rising sons have sparked a sporting revolution

IT is arguably the biggest giant-killing act in sporting history – but Japan's Rugby's World Cup slaying of mighty South Africa was more than that. It was the ultimate game-changer, a result that introduced the public to global sport's Brand of the Rising Sons.

While football remains the most popular ball game on the planet, the emergence of Japan as a major rugby union force signals a huge breakthrough for the oval-ball code.

Yes, the Beautiful Game is being threatened by Beauty and the East.

Forget the 45-10 hammering the Oriental upstarts took from Scotland in Gloucester on Wednesday. The bigger, fresher Tartan troops were always favourites against a team weary from their history-making exertions four days earlier.

Full of  Eastern Promisee: Japan's Rugby World Cup heroes celebrate victory against South Africa

It was the South Africa result that put down the marker for the future of the game at world level.

In the words of Japan coach Eddie Jones, the man who steered Australia to the 2003 World Cup Final, “With an Asian team beating a top-tier country, that really makes it a global sport.”

Football remains No.1 with the public thanks largely to a complex coaching net that has elevated the top 50 or so nations to a level where their international teams are all capable of beating each other. The scene is changing, however, amid the chaos of Sepp Blatter's corrupt crew and FIFA's continuing refusal to adopt new technology that rugby, tennis and cricket have been utilising for a decade.

Rugby has long held the moral high ground when it comes to respect for officialdom and use of technology to ensure that try-scoring and disciplinary decisions are always correct. Professional leagues thrive in all the major rugby nations, with sponsors queuing up and the lure of big money attracting the world's best players. And crowds at top rugby Premiership games in England attract crowds of Manchester United and Arsenal proportions.

Until last weekend, the main thing holding a genuine popularity challenge to football back was the absence of a meaningful rugby presence beyond the traditional hotbeds of the British Isles, France, Australasia, South Africa, Argentina and, to a lesser degree, Italy.

The qualification process for RWC 2015 involved no fewer than 83 nations, the majority of them rugby's equivalent to European football's newest whipping boys, Gibraltar.

Gibraltar beating England in the World Cup finals? Pure fantasy, of course. Yet that is what Japan effectively achieved by beating the Boks with a bit-part team made up of physical midgets and journeymen pros from overseas who qualify for Empire status on residential grounds.

In fairness, Japan's rugby minnows weren't exactly devoid of professional assistance. The game has long been hugely popular in the Land of the Rising Sun, and a coaching team led by former Wallabies chief Jones and ex-England captain Steve Borthwick knew exactly what was required to make the team genuinely competitive.

Way back at RWC 1991, I remember Japan's charismatic manager Shiggy Kono lamenting after a World Cup defeat at Murrayfield at the physical limitations of his players. “Our backs are as good and as quick as any other nation,'' said the man who claimed to be his country's only failed kamikaze pilot. “The problem is finding Japanese players who are physically as big and tall as those in the leading rugby nations.''

London-educated Kono, who died in 2007, reckoned he was such a bad pilot that his wartime kamikaze unit bosses refused to send him on a mission. A mission where survival would have been as likely as the Japanese rugby team beating the 1995 and 2007 world champions.

Even with the absorption of foreign-born forwards, Japan's tallest player at the World Cup is a mere 6ft 4in – that's four or five inches shorter than the average Bok, Kiwi or English second-row giant.

Japan can still qualify for the quarter-finals for the first time despite the defeat by Scotland - but even if they miss out, no-one can take from them the fact they achieved the unachievable.

The little big men have also lifted the game of rugby into a new era of global competition.

PS to England as they prepare for Saturday's Twickenham showdown with 2011 semi-finalists Wales. Beware of wounded Dragons...they are likely to catch fire and reduce you to cinders.

St George is still recovering from the burns inflicted by Wales in the 2013 Six Nations championship. In case anyone has forgotten, the written-off Taffs thrashed England by a record 30-3 margin and went on to lift the European crown for the fourth time in eight years.

Saturday's confrontation has a familiar look about it. England start hot favourites with Wales decimated by injuries to key playmakers Lee Halfpenny, Rhys Webb and long-term casualty Jonathan Davies.

The game will be a doddle for Stuart Lancaster's sweet chariot, predict the fans in the white shirts and rose-coloured spectacles.

Bu will it – particularly following the loss of England's midfield try machine Jonathan Joseph?

Wales, for all their injuries, feel they can exploit a juggled English back line which includes relatively untried rugby league convert Sam Burgess replacing Joseph. With Lancaster also handing George Ford's No.10 jersey to Owen Farrell, the Welsh will feel they can exploit what they see as England's soft midfield under-belly.

Have Farrell, Burgess and St George gut what it takes to slay the Dragon? Tune in to ITV at 9pm Spanish time on Saturday to find out.

Going great shakes: The wheel deal that put my Parkinson's pain to flight

THE girl at the Easyjet bag-drop desk was anything but helpful.
My boarding pass stated specifically that I should go  there to organise the ‘special requirements’ I had requested online when I booked my flight from Alicante to Manchester.  But the bag-drop girl was having none of it. “You are in the wrong place,’’ she insisted, pointing to an office window where several people were busy haranguing the lone occupant.
I duly joined the queue and waited a few minutes, during which time the line reduced by a whole person.
Becoming increasingly anxious, I looked at my boarding pass again. It clearly stated I should go to the bag drop, so I wandered back to the Easyjet desk and joined the queue of people waiting to check in. By now I was becoming a little agitated. Here I was, in an extremely embarrassing position, seeking wheelchair assistance for the first time in my life. I felt so guilty, but equally relieved that I did not have to join the logjam of passengers funnelling  through the crowded security checks.
It was a busy Friday evening and it crossed my mind that I should forget the wheelchair and make my way to security with my hand luggage as I had always done during the five years or so I had been living in Spain.
Then I recalled all the hassle of having to unzip my bag and remove my ancient laptop for separate checking, Not to mention shuffling and shaking along the line as young, chicos and chicas tut-tutted at this old dear with Parkinson’s Disease who blocked their rush to the duty-free shops.
The bag-drop girl I had spoken to earlier spotted me in the check-in queue. Shaking her head at my defiance of her instructions, she left her desk and strode over. “Madam, you cannot get special assistance here. This is the bag-drop queue. I told you must go to the office I pointed out to you earlier.’’
I could feel myself falling apart and the girl sensed it too. Suddenly I felt her mood change from irritation to sympathy and realised she was not the impatient misery I had first taken her for.
She ushered me back towards the wheelchair office where, as luck would have it, the queue had vanished.
The next 10 minutes were an emotional time as I came to terms with old age. My frailty in such a trivial situation confirmed to me that senility and ill-health really were catching up with me and that my independence was under threat.
Over the previous few months I had been finding it increasingly difficult to handle the rigours of air travel. I didn't actually FEEL old at 69, but even without the limitations of Parkinson’s and angina, I was finding it a real struggle to carry hand luggage onto a  plane - and  certainly could not lift it into overhead racks. The problem increased  dramatically when one threw in the limitations of a dicky heart and hands that shook like a 9.7 scale earthquake.
My ever-weakening emotions welled over into tears as I realised that the problems would only increase as I wing my way towards the  final horizon.
Most of my flights these days are to visit my family in Manchester,  where I had been finding the long walk to passport control impossible without resorting to my emergency angina-relief spray. Now, for the first time,  I could forget about becoming a damsel in distress.
Ten minutes later I was being wheeled through a quiet area of the security department to the department gate, feeling cool and relaxed for the first time in a generation.
It didn't bother me that I was destined to be the last person off the plane in Manchester.
It is nearly two years since that dramatic day I first took advantage of what I now call the the 'squeals on wheels service' I've flown from Spain to the UK at least a dozen times since then and found every airline equally friendly and helpful when it comes to doddery old codgers like me.
With my increasing health problems, stress is the last thing I want. I'd like to shake the hand of every airport assistant and cabin crew member who has helped me - but my Parkinson's has now reached the stage where I'd probably miss!
Well, at least I've still got my sense of humour. Even if it does invariably mean being the very last passenger off the plane.
   

Over to you, Big G: The world's only solution to terror

I got into conversation with a couple of uninvited callers the other day…about the end of the world.

Yes, they were Jehovah's Witnesses and no, I didn't send them packing. Although I am not a Christian, I have never been one of those ‘We are not interested – clear off’ types.
Indeed, I have the greatest admiration for these invariably humble, gentle people, whose courage is remarkable in the face of  unnecessary antagonism from so many people who resent their intrusion.

It’s all very well to turn them away politely but firmly, but verbal aggression and rudeness is totally out of order.
I’d also like to clear up one or two misconceptions about Jehovah’s Witnesses. First of all, they are neither crazy nor any more deluded than followers of any other religious order. Indeed, to me their message rings truer than most.
The mess that mankind has got the world into needs sorting urgently, and no-one on Earth seems capable of resolving the conflict with the crazed extremists who use Muslim fundamentalism as a licence to terrorise the West. How ironic that our very existence is in danger of being wiped out by deluded lunatics in the name of religion. Deluded lunatics who form part of the only life form capable of premeditated evil.

So who better to handle it than the Great Redeemer...Big G himself? And the sooner the better.

I would never have the courage or dedication to become a Jehovah Witness. But I do wish I could truly BELIEVE because the certainty of redemption immediately takes all the fear out of dying
‘‘I bet you get a lot more abuse than friendliness when you knock on doors,’’ I said to my visitors. ‘‘You are so brave to carry on despite all the resentment.’’
‘‘The strength to go on doesn’t come from us but from Jehovah,’’ they replied.
I come from Jewish roots, but as a lifelong agnostic, I have spent my entire life wondering what existence is all about.
There has to be more to it than eating, drinking and making a nuisance of ourselves.
Jehovah Witness literature often portrays their idea of the Paradise awaiting believers.
We see images of Mum, Dad and smiling kids strolling and playing in a sunny Garden of Eden, their pets – including lions and tigers – sitting obediently at their feet.
My personal consolation is that I am already living in that Paradise here on Earth. Every day is a holiday as I sit in my sunny garden here on the Costa Blanca, full of glorious floral colour, with one purring moggy on my lap and another at my side.
In this life, that’s as good as it gets. Please God I've got more of it to come in the next world without the threat of terror. - or the scourge of Parkinson's Disease, angina and chronic arthritis.
Yes, I've got a life to die for. As for the future happiness of my children and grandchildren, over to you, BIg G.