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Sunday Morning Mutterings – Wake me up when September ends



When I used to review restaurants for a lifestyle magazine, one of the main problems I encountered was that, as the publications were free and therefore the advertising paid your wages, you were unable to go full A.A. Gill and trash an establishment, even if the food was both unspeakable and inedible.




It was after one particularly ghastly gastronomic experience (the Carpaccio had mould on in and I chipped a tooth on the rum baba) that I had enough and decided that, rather than continue to write bland descriptions; I would devise a code, so that the observant reader would heed my warnings. Thus ‘the dessert will live long in the memory” and “the starter really had the table talking” were short hand for awful food, “popular with locals” meant that there was a bunch of alcoholics at the bar and “child friendly” denoted feral bunches of skinhead children tearing uncontrollably around the premises. The worst compliment, however was that the evening was “memorable”. Usually because it was the worse meal I had ever experienced.



Safe to say then, that summer 2020 will live long in the memory as “memorable”. It was, if you like, a non-event. Once the lockdown in Spain had been lifted but the British government decided to impose quarantine restrictions on most of Europe – apart from the countries that Boris Johnson’s father was visiting, obviously – the lucrative summer months on the coast were doomed.



That’s not to say that there were no tourists however. It’s safe to say that summer 2020 was the summer of French and Dutch ‘nationals’ – i.e. second generation Maghreb – decided that Marbella was the place to be. You couldn’t drive on the coast road without being tailgated, cut up or undertaken by a twenty something in a German registered supercar blasting out Algerian rap. I’m not sure what the requirements are in Marseilles for passing your driving test, but would appear that a thorough knowledge of PlayStation driving games is one of them.



Then there were the fires. I’m not going to pontificate or speculate on the causes of the blazes that gutted the Sisu Boutique Hotel, devastated Laguna Village and briefly broke out on the roof of the Playa Padre beach club. My ‘errant seagull with a careless cigarette’ theory was swiftly discredited, but was mind boggling to discover the number of forensic and insurance claim experts that suddenly sprung up on Social Media. My particular favourite, apart from the wealthy yoga mums that keep telling me to “WAKE UP”, (I’m awake you Gwyneth Paltrow channeling bimbo. The three café solos before 8am ensure that) was the troll who decided to write ‘Fake News’ on my feed when I reported on the Laguna fire. But of course. The fire was obviously staged in Photoshop by mask wearing illuminati members and the MSM on their way to another blood sacrifice ritual with Obama. Remember. Michelle Obama stayed in a hotel and visited a beach club a mere five minutes drive from Laguna Village a decade ago. Coincidence? I think not…



As I said before – 2020 was a “memorable” summer…

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