Monkey Business

- ‘Yeah, well, I don’t remember any of it, right!’

John’s Fields-esque nose pulses with rage - or the second gin of the afternoon. Andreas’ eyebrows shoot up as he continues vainly rubbing a cloudy glass with a cloth of indeterminate origin. My lip twitches in a half-smirk of complicity.

- ‘Not the monkey impression? Winning the Grand National? The strip-‘

- ‘None of it! I told you!’ John is looking quite irate now.

I consider whether to continue baiting him in the hope of something cataclysmic happening to that boozer’s nose. It’s kinder to steer clear of the show by the hypnotist in the Venta. Although I guess it’ll be the source of gossip for months here at Montevista.

Montevista is that peculiarly Spanish thing: ‘Alegal’ ; not illegal, not legal. An urbanisation of 30 or 40 houses, all built around 40 years ago in the first flush of the snowbirds’ enthusiasm for Southern Spain. I have seen the original, fantastically utopian plans; promoters’ pie-in-the-sky for gullible Scandinavians and Germans. There’s a German or two left now and one die-hard Dane, all wrinkled like raisins by the sun. For the rest, apart from five Spanish families, it’s the flotsam and jetsam of Blair’s Britain. You could say his legacy is here: retirees eking out their hard-earned, non-gold-plated pensions; failures finding survival just as hard in the south – finally realising a low cost of living means low wages; and me – ex-military burn-out, here for life in the slow lane.

- ‘Another gin, John?’ He nods, his jaw still set at the non-memory of making a fool of himself.

- ‘A red wine for me, Andreas’ I say in Spanish.

He answers in English, of course, out of habit. The Venta - the only amenity in those pipe-dream plans actually built - stands on the roadside on the main drag between two small towns,half a kilometre from the main road between the inland towns and Marbella. A goldmine, you might think. Except that, in recent weeks, the toilets fell down, the septic tank leaks and, well, Andreas is not here to make money. He and I discuss burn-out from time to time.

I drop 4 euros on the counter top. They rattle satisfyingly on the copper. Andreas decides against the five-second pour for John’s gin and pours until the coins come to rest. John gets a 7 second gin. Maybe I’ll talk to him about the monkey impression after all.