Tuesday, February 5, 2008

I scream, You scream, We all SCREAM for Ice Cream


So, I have just discovered a time machine. In an instant you can go from 1980's Thatcherite Britain, to, well, 1960's Thatcherite Britain. Marvel at how HP brown sauce became the 'CONDIMENT OF THE RECESSION' and the inspired bigoted attitude that saw Margret Thatcher become the 'MOST FEARED MAN IN EUROPE. Thanks to this Time Travelling
extravaganza, you can parade around the set of 'HOWARD'S WAY'. Except it's not Howards Way. And it's not a time machine.


No siree, in fact.. It's Gibraltar


I was last week 'treated' to a sensational visit to the Rock by a good friend of mine who lives a number of miles away, in reality (Malaga). Expecting monkeys riding unicycles and Sean Connery hanging from Nicolas cages testicles, it quickly became apparent that this 'Rock' had all the appeal of a 17 year old piece of Bray souvenir candy. As soon as I stepped over the border (which was literally a huge runway) from the palm treed and cultured La Linea in Spain, I found myself in an episode of Minder.The sunshine and tanned breasts that heaved around the Costa Del Sol was quickly replaced by Fish and Chip toned stomachs and an overhanging grey cloud that faintly whispered 'MINERS STRIKE'. Accents changed from lisping Spanish to the kind of British Dialect that has been missing since 1960's soccer commentaries. Red buses, Red phone boxes and Red necks all jostled along a street that looked like a recently atom bombed Blackburn. The cloud, which lingered above Gibraltar like a visiting Paedophile, seemed only to cover the rock itself and cause unusually inbred shadows of the natives. I was referred to as a Paddy on one of my first visits to a pub, a place that had Formica tables, fruit machines and sloppy sticky bitter in abundance. Yep, there was plenty of 'bitter'.


The first stop on our tour was the elegant 'SHELL GARAGE'. This, as well as offering tasty diesel and petrol, was also the venue for the infamous shooting dead of three IRA members as they jovially enjoyed an ice cream. Perhaps mistaking a CHOC ICE for a loaded bazooka and a Mr Freeze for a 250lb car bomb, the SAS blew the three of them away before any of them could say 'SUPER SPLIT'. The is no plaque to this unarmed dead, but there is a real bargain to be had on Anti-Freeze.


On Winston Churchill avenue, the litter ruled the roost and cross eyed natives sped along in their souped up sports cars, as we made our way to Casemates, the areas main Square. Boasting all the class of a drunk hooker at a funeral, this square was equal parts Lovejoy and equal parts Mountjoy. Filled to the brim with yobos, piss and pre-teens in crotchless outfits, it honestly made Temple Bar look like the hanging gardens of Babylon.


The people I spoke to, were all nice enough. Sure, they all looked like they'd been sired by a horse, and there eyes were unusually close together, but on the whole they were fine. The only thing is, they seemed to be living in this forgotten era. A time when British Colonys actually had a purpose. The area was a strategic port with honest military advantages. Now it's a very hollowed out rock with very little soul, a big fuck off grey cloud and 99 pence Unleaded.


Anyone for an Iceberger?

2 comments:

Rusticissimus maximus said...

Pretty much sums up the place as I remember it. Except with more monkey shit...and the expense, oh lordy the expense!

Kelly said...

So, did you enjoy it?