Benidorm

It may be a massive eyesore, but spread those tourists out horizontally - the way they have done in Marbella or , further down, the coast from Benidorm in Torrevieja and numerous other spots - and they go on for ever. If Benidorm, with its twenty-four square miles and 12.3 kilometres of coastline really does account for 5 per cent of foreign holidaymakers (38.000 hotel rooms of some 700.000) in Spain, then, in theory, the rest could be plonked on an island the size of, say, Ibiza. Alternatively, more of them could still be shovelled into little Benidorm - where buildings land is by no means all used up.
Benidorm's beach is still beautiful. But now you have ti hire a top-floor suite at the Bali if you want to appreciate just how majestic those twin curves of gold are. Most visitors are left to glimpse it through a thickt of buildings. The beach is cleaned every night by machines which churn up and filter the sand. This system is now used all over Spain. A reecnt newspaper report tells how a woman who fell asleep on a beach was swallowed up by one of the machines. A sign in one, older, beachside hotel overshadowed by the Bali, reminded me thet Benidorm's reputation for the cheap and shoddy would never quite go. ?Clients are reminded that reception has a special thinner available to help you remove grease or tat from your feet', it read.
From the book "Ghosts of Spain" by Giles Tremlett.

The edge of a barber's Razor

It is shortly before 7.00 a.m. on a cool Madrid spring morning. The traffic is still just a purr, though it will soon be a rumble and some time after that, the usual riot of horns, ambulance sirens and roaring motorbike exhausts. This should be a small moment of peace in what must be one of Europe's noisiest cities. a helicopter, however, has spent the past fifteen minutes poised noisily at roof-top level just a block down our street. The wide-open well of our six-storey apartment block is acting as a sound box that amplifies the relentless chugging and clattering. Sleep in our top floor apartmenmt seems, under this circumstances, impossible. I lie in bed worrying about whether the helicopter - which does this every few weeks - will wake the children. It is not as thogu they went to bed early, even thogh they have school today. One of them, a seven-year-old, got out of bed to take a phone call at 10 p.m. last night. It was another seven-year-old, excitedly inviting him to a birthday party at the weekend. Madrid boasts that it is a party town, a city that never sleeps. But does this really have to aplly to the under eights?
From the book "Ghosts of Spain" by Giles Tremlett

Day nine

'I can assure you, Jason, that we are all actors in life, presenting ourselves as we wish others to see us. That is why those of us who actually are actors, like myself, understand our world and the people in it more fully than ordinary people do. W know the tricks , we read the signs. we recognize that we live in a world full of performers. some of us are subtle, some are hams, but every one of us is acting. Seeing through your performance, Jazz, is my bread and butter.'
Jazz didn't reply for a moment. 'That's bollocks,' he said finally, which was sadly well below his usual natural wit.
David smiled.
Then Kelly leaned forward and whispered something in David's ear. It was hard to catch, but there was no doubt about what she said. What Kelly said to David was 'I know you.'
Then she leaned back against the side of the tub and looked straight into David's eyes.
David returned her stare, his superior smirk undaunted. he seemed unruffled.
He was about to be ruffled. Very.
For Kelly leaned forward once more and whispered something into David's ear.

Day five

Dervla pushed the bar of soap under her T-shirt and washed her armpits. She was just beginning to get used to showering in her underwear, it had felt very uncomfortable on the first morning and rather silly, like being on a school trip and insisting on undressing under the covers. The alternative, however , meant exposing herself her naked body full frontal to the viewing millions, and Dervla had absolutely no intention of doing that. She had watched enough reality TV to know what the producers liked most and took great care as she lathered under her arms. It would be extremely easy to inadvertenly pull up her vest and expose her breasts and she knew that behind the two way mirrors in the shower cubicle wall a live cameraman was watching, waiting for her to do just that. One flash would be all that was required and her tits would be hanging around somewhere on the Internet till the en of the time.
From the book 'Dead famous' by Ben Elton

 
 
 
 

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