Puente La Reina

The other day on social media I commented that this was almost certainly my favourite location in all of Spain. (The pic is one I found on Instagram and is by Jfeliufotos.) 

I'm sticking by it, but V gave me a low-level ear-bashing, which included a range of alternative suggestions. 

Here they are, more of less in her order of preference. 

1. Segovia, Castilla
2. Garachico, Tenerife
3. Peñamellera, Asturias (also Cangas de Onís and Cudilleros...)
4. Cuenca, Cuenca
5. Covarrubias, Castilla
6. Lekeitio, Vizcaya
7. La Gomera, Islas Canarias
8. Timanfaya, Lanzarote
9. Puente Viesgo, Cantabria
10. Ronda, Andalucía

In the specific case of Puente La Reina, it's not just the bridge itself, but the mood of the town and the surrounding landscape of Navarra. Back in 2001 we picked up some embutidos and a great bottle of local vino tinto joven from a great local butcher's on the main street and then had a picnic in a field twenty minutes out of the town itself. 

This one of the Roman aqueduct in Segovia belongs to Soliverso on Instagram...

Good Boys (2019)

Some of the British critics turned their noses up at this one. Dr K didn't even see it, while Robbie Collin of the Telegraph thought the very idea of Superbad for the pre-teens was super bad. 

Yet the essence of his critique - that the twelve-year-olds speak as if they have been scripted by adults - is little more than a factual statement about the way this functions as comedy. The gag even features on the poster...

If it hadn't stepped so defly beyond the confines of strict realism, it wouldn't have worked. The Bean Bag Boys are glove puppets, and knowingly so. 

Overall, we thought it was both funny and delightful. It seems like a while since a decent Hollywood comedy came along or indeed a movie about student life in the US that feels fresh. 

I enjoyed all the stuff about first kissing parties, spinning bottles etc. It has to be said that the loss of innocence came a little later in my day. 

Moloter-ita

Earlier this week I was handling some official business and noticed that at a nearby desk an Italian man and his local translator were up to something similar. 

Except Italians can almost never deal with anything independently, can they? Collectively they are like a flesh and bone refutation of the philosophical transgression known as solipsism. 

Soon there were three more of them, chairs had been pulled up and the entrance to the office pretty much blocked. 

They were either all talking (and gesticulating) at once at either the official or the translator, standing up to have a loud conversations in Italian in the middle of the room, or to temporarily depart in peremptory fashion in order to make a mobile phone call just outside, also loudly. 

What a screeeeam...

Tonight marks the thirtieth anniversary of my first Halloween in Antigua.

Things were a bit more low-key in 1989. Hardly any large scale trick or treating for sure.

It was a bit of a novelty for me, as even in the late eighties Halloween was still not much of a thing back in Britain.

There was one big party in town, mostly locals, which we attended albeit briefly. The venue was a ruin. I can't remember exactly which one, but I have a feeling it was Santa Clara. 

'Ditch Means Ditch'

'Mayan Storm'

Having the Grenadier Guards run around in the forest hardly sounds like the most environmentally friendly thing Britain could do in Belize right now. And the codename..oh dear.

Back in the day 'special jungle training' included a stay on the appropriately-dubbed St George's Caye, an army-only atol which functioned as a sort of Camouflage Club 18-30, equipped with windsurfing kit and, well, so on. (I seem to remember pedalos, but I surely must have imagined them.)

A former colleague of mine — 'Colonel Bob' — famed in the tabloids for having more or less single handedly taken on the dastardly Serbs in '95 with his Cheshire regiment, confessed over a beer to me that he had once brought together a bunch of northern Belizean drug dealers and the Parachute Regiment in a target practice exercise that overwhelmingly favoured the men in maroon berets. 

As well as helping to rid this region of scumbags, Colonel Bob also played a significant and largely unsung role in helping London win its bid to host the Olympic Games of 2012. 

He is now a Conservative-Brexiteer member of this most awkward, yet soon-to-be-over of Parliaments. 

His most recent contribution to the debate before a December 12 election was finally settled, occurred on Monday: "As I understand it, the leader of the Liberal Democrats said that if we had a second referendum, she might not agree with its result. I wonder whether that is true."

My very first memory of Belize — crossing the bridge over the Rio Hondo on the first of April, 1988, includes a vision of its custodians, airborne forces whose appearance made me think (and this is probably a generational thing) of...

Contagions

Back in our London heyday, we were regular attendees at the September 15 parties thrown by the Embassy of Guatemala jointly with the delegations of the other Central American nations in the UK capital. 

These bashes were always memorable. OK, they featured an open bar, so some ended up being a bit more memorable than others. 

One that still stands out in the mind took place at Crosby Hall, a stone’s throw away from my father’s old bachelor pad in Cheyne Walk. Thanks in no small part to the Great Fire of 1666, this property is possibly the most important surviving structure of Medieval London. Yet the extraordinary thing is that it somehow (mostly) survived the conflagration and was later moved in its entirely to its current Chelsea location beside Albert Bridge in 1910. 

Whilst still part of the original mansion of Sir John Crosby in Bishopsgate, it featured as a location in Shakeapeare’s Richard III. 

This was surely our most indelible Independence Day fiesta, not just for the venue (and the fact that they even invited the Panamanians), but for the moment when the consul asked us to take under our wing a young Guatemalan called Ana who had been dispatched across the pond to London by her wealthy beau, somewhat obviously as a tactic for removing her from his own ambit. 

A few days after the party we discovered that the counsul had also entrusted Ana into the care of the local station of Opus Dei and that it was going to be very difficult for us to assist the unfortunate girl without also feeling a bit intruded upon by said organisation. Our new friend eventually found her way back here, and I have always wondered what became of her. 

These annual festivities also permitted us to rub shoulders with British citizens that had, one way or another, been doing business in Central America. Tales of corruption, extortion, even amenazas de muerte did, I believe, turn me off the idea of ever having my own business interests here, and for good. 

And yet, I have now come to realise that no matter now much you might try to keep your head down, these contagions will eventually come looking for you in Guatemala. 

(PS: We've been squabbling a little bit this week over the year this party took place. Was it '93 or '94? Then we remembered we were married in '93 and that the tramites were handled by a new, male, consul called Danilo. So, the Crosby Hall event had to have been held the previous year when Magda was still basically in charge. The sudden change of diplomatic personnel in Fawcett Street was afterwards prompted by the expulsion of Serrano Elias). 

English Dreams

Meek explains convincingly that English nationalism is grounded in two quite fundamental mythic narratives - the slaying of the dragon by St George (an event) and Robin Hood (a process). 

The mythic status of the NHS results from it being both the modern institutional embodiment of the Sherwood Forest redistributive project and possessing a very strong connection to the last major (pre-Brexit) enactment of the dragon slaying: the defeat of Nazi Germany. 

The dragon is of course a metaphor for any tyrannical foreign otherness that threatens the community. Since the end of WWII the European Union has gradually come to assume elements of this role in the English psyche. 

This explains why liberal-remainer ideologues have a problem getting any message across beyond the practical difficulties posed by a dead dragon in this instance. 

They have their own myths, not without serious contradictions, but these don’t make such an easy fit with the two above-mentioned national tales. 

Feeling the Sicherheit?

This piece of campaign messaging by the (governing) Swiss People's Party is one of the most blatant pieces of political xenophobia I have ever come across.

(Sicherheit means security and/or certainty.) 

Kill Chain (2019)

Nicolas Cage has become a true specialist at making movies entertaining for all the wrong reasons. He's an actor for whom the question 'what was he thinking when he read the script?' has become almost completely redundant. 

This (very) sub-Tarantino tale about a collection of gangsters, hookers, hitmen (and women) and other ne're-do-wells floating in and around a run-down hotel in Bogotá, connected in ways that become coherent in an increasingly incoherent manner, did not get made because anyone enjoyed a read through of the script. 

At times it sounds like they are all reciting Internet memes at each other. One three-way scene in a police van features a few lines in Spanish seemingly only in order to enhance the stuttering incomprehensibility of it all. 

The high point (as such) comes when Cage's hotel owner come soul-scared assassin briefly shifts, not so effortlessly, from his default of wounded quiescence into a full emote. 

The Laundromat (2019)

A fairly typical Netflix Original offering in as much that it has been granted a far superior cast and director than the material appears to deserve. (See also Velvet Buzzsaw.) 

Stephen Soderbergh is at the helm, guiding appearances by, amongst others, Meryl Streep, Antonio Banderas, Gary Oldman, Sharon Stone (OMG!), Matthias Schoenaerts and Jeffrey Wright. The presence of Will Forte, Melissa Rauch and David Schwimmer generates an unwarranted expectation of comic relief.

It's one of those movies, increasingly popular after 2008, where a slightly misadvised attempt has been made to dramatise a non-fiction work about high finance and the bad behaviour of the world's elites, in this instance Jake Bernstein's account of the Panama Papers scandal, entitled Secrecy World. 

Banderas and Oldman play the titular partners of Panama law firm Mossack Fonseca, at one time the world's largest provider of offshore financial services, at least until somebody leaked a cache of its sensitive client documents dating from 1970-2015. 

Here they also function as a sort of chorus, strolling through its loose collection of cameos and other mini-narratives, attempting to make complex financial arrangements that much more accessible with pithy observations. Oldman's accent is part Jürgen Klinsman, part Werner Herzog. 

Important moments in the story are set in China, Nevis and, of course, Panama. Yet the production never left the confines of the USA, which results in some painfully stereotypical renditions of the supposed locations. 

I found the representation of affluent Africans just as uncomfortable as the stark alternative of starving Africans would have been, especially as the scenes involving them have all too obviously been constructed solely for the purpose of explaining how bearer shares work. Overall the tone is both moralistic and didactic. Jocular too, though not to the point of actually funny. 

Meryl Streep's character serves to ground this exposé in the everyday calculations of 'the meek', before leading us in stages towards the more rarefied realities of the shell companies of Panama and the 'politburo' of the People's Republic. 

But here's the thing. Accidental death is quite commonplace in Guatemala. I'm onto my second hand when it comes to using fingers to count the individuals of my acquaintance here who have departed this way. Yet 'ordinary Joes' in Central America have almost no expectation of a seven figure USD payout — with the resulting opportunity to afford a luxury Vegas apartment — following a fatal accident in which no one is obviously to blame. 

There are some assumptions in this film that perhaps reveal the corruption in American culture to be more systemic than this finger-pointing at unprincipled foreign lawyers and their elite clientele would otherwise allow for. 

Oxbridge Archetypes

In Cambridge nostalgia terms, Rees-Mogg inevitably reminds me of individuals I tended to come across at the Union, while Bercow more closely resembles the highest pay grade occupant of the Plodge (Porters' Lodge). 

In spite of the colourful ties, it's hard not to imagine in the bowler hat. 

Watching BBC Parliament this morning I've been daydreaming about being stuck in a lift with the pair of them.

Aurora de Antaño

This looks like the Ladybird Book version of Aurora. 

Yet I do remember this layout. Final, rather offhand, checks occurred roughly 5m beyond where they do now and non-passengers were able to congregate in the anterior space...which they did, in numbers. 

Nowadays one turns either right (or more likely) left after security and immigration. 

Back then, the only way was forward. 

In September '89 I remember sitting in this very space and fantasising about disappearing for good. There was far less of a grid to fall off at that time. 

'Targeted Assistance'

What this means for my sister-in-law, who works for USAID in the capital, remains to be seen. 

Her funds only recently appeared to have been redirected towards Venezuela. 

Here in Guatemala the 'targeting' would at first glance appear to be excluding those most in need of developmental assistance. On the plus side perhaps, they posted an 'employment opportunities' notice to their Facebook page this week. 

Sweetheart (2019)

Truly awful. The whole sorry exercise little more than an excuse for everyone involved to have a protracted holiday on a beautiful island near Fiji. 

Sweetheart is a sort of Predator with coconuts, yet the gurgling, reptilian, night-hunting creature here has no explanation whatsoever. Even Nessie has more of a backstory. 

The first half is basically silent and we found ourselves wishing the second half had been as well, such is the quality of the dialogue. 

In the end a reminder that I really have to read Robinson Crusoe. 

Judgment Day for Vivar

In the past I have been something of an apologist for Dr Vivar.

It was after all he who brought cobbled streets to El Panorama and many other improvements to perhaps more deserving communities around the periphery. 

I also felt at the time that his sudden demise could at least in part be explained by his having fallen foul of a far more heinous gang of crooks then in central government. 

I suppose I have always wanted there to be a clear distinction between offering jobs for the boys at favourable rates and the sort of systematic despoiling of the public coffers that we witnessed under Pérez Molina and co. 

As a former student of the medieval and early modern economies, I am of course aware that low level venality is not fundamentally incompatible with more general improvements across the relevant societies.

Yet the fact that Vivar jumped across from UNE to PP shows that the line I would draw is surely more mobile than I’ve ever been willing to admit. 

The list of municipal reprobates convicted yesterday along with our ex-mayor and his wife includes some that are on their way to the bote for the daily grind associated with the role of cómplice. 

That my wife has a long-standing relationship with two of the sisters of Susana has, frankly, provided us with insufficient protection against occasionally spiky encounters with some of her more opportunistic employees over the past four years. 

Yet the fact that she is also a close friend, from childhood, of the incoming (actually returning) alcalde, offers serious grounds for optimism in 2020. 

We're not thinking of exploiting privileged access. That would be hypocritical, to say the least. Just about feeling a good deal more shielded against the sort of nonsense that we have witnessed during the incumbent’s regime. 

Victor Hugo also has a solid reputation for getting stuff done. The highway passing through our village to El Calvario was his doing, and it remains one of the higher quality and longer-lasting asphalt roads in the municipality. 

The fate of Vivar's underlings has demonstrated rather clearly that one has to look at corruption 'in the round' and not just the specific actions of the head honcho. There are no doubt a few more ratas in the nido. A visit from the exterminator is overdue. 

Anna (2019)

If you didn't know that this deliciously eurotrashy movie was un film de Luc Besson, you'd probably guess within the first ten minutes or so. I did. 

It belongs to that evergreen espionage-thriller sub-genre we can refer to as 'The Russian Assassin Babe'. Viewers of Killing Eve will inevitably be drawing some negative comparisons, for Oksana and Anna are like borscht and tears. 

The whole thing resembles a 90's straight-to-VHS escapade, except it has proper thesps like Helen Mirren in it, and it has been set in a version of the 90s that never was, with tech from the latter part of the decade, whilst the USSR is still apparently very much up and running. 

There's an almost farcical scene in a Paris park at the end, which has echoes of the 'EEEEEEVeryone’ moment in Leon, that was at once peak Luc Besson and peak Gary Oldman. 

1066 and all that...

In this instance, there was actually a sort of ‘second referendum’, as many of the defeated Anglo-Saxons set off for Byzantium, where they soon formed the core of the Emperor’s Varangian Guard...and were duly slaughtered once again by Norman invaders.

The analogy doesn't quite capture the lose-lose nature of the current tussle. 

Logjammy

Notice how the artificial deadline, the stated purpose of which was to blackmail our EU partners into a better deal, may now actually be used to blackmail Parliament into accepting it. 

Yet, unless said body has a collective 'ahhh, fuck it' moment on Saturday, Boris's tweak of Theresa's deal  — largely the addition of the word 'great',  spoken with the the sort of enthusiasm his predecesssor could never muster  — is unlikely to be voted through within the existing timeframe. 

Some of Parliament's logjammy characteristics are more fixed than others:

• The DUP (“They’re waiting for us to blink, but we’ve cut our eyelids off”) will not vote for trade arrangements that leave Northern Ireland at what they perceive to be a relative disadvantage
• The SNP, Plaid Cymru and the Lib Dems will not vote for Brexit in any form
• The Labour Party doesn't want to take any noticeable stance before an election they'd rather fight on social justice issues.

In practice Labour's official position may turn out to be an attempt to square the circle by agreeing to the deal on condition of a second referendum. 

It's hard to see how they'd consent to give the Tories their election before the Brexit wave form has collapsed.  But in the background blame game the spotlight this weekend will be shining uncomfortably brightly on Jeremy Corbyn.

Boris is going to have to bring almost all his own rebels back on board while teasing a significant number away from a weakened Corbyn. He may end up with the votes he needs to prevent the second plebiscite, but fall short of getting his deal passed. 

At which point the EU 27 may have a collective "Ahhh, fuck it" moment. 

Keep your kitties indoors...

Puerto San José today, looking like a publicity still for Crawl.