¡Buenos días Bitches!

As I stood in Madrid airport, by a boarding gate surrounded by a shrieking gaggle of Spaniards and Ecuadorians, hopelessly and ardently listening to each and every announcement in Spanish (it might as well have been gibberish for what it was worth), I was overcome with several inflections of interest.

Several of these were simple observations of the swirling crowd around me. My South American friends, seemingly took great aversion to doing exactly what they had been told and obeying simple laws of social etiquette. On being asked to approach the desk, seemingly Group 1 did so, only they didn’t – as the entire population of the airport stampeded frighteningly towards the rapidly balding man behind the desk who barked orders defensively, hiding behind a scary looking chica. This act was met with crowd indignation, for all of the South Americans to stay exactly where they stood, rooted like startled meerkats in the bush. The situation deteriorated before it improved and as a rough calculation, what should have lasted no longer than a generous 30 minutes, extended a painstaking hour.

Another aside (and this one sat with me most indecently) – everyone one wore glasses indoors, like a unanimous crowd of Stevie Wonders. Where is the sun you cretins? Take your shades off indoors you silly bastards, you’re not Usher.

My next Darwinian-esque observation was of great hilarity to myself and I chortled with quiet inanity, alone as I realised I could with a single glance, identify all my fellow British voyagers. I expect you’ll be thinking, accents or passports or fashion were the identifying items and perhaps you wouldn’t be incorrect – you simply can’t mistake the origin of a pair of M&S trousers in a middle aged man confidently wearing socks and sandals. That chap will be proudly British and committing of fashion faux pas’ till the day he dies in his British Home Store Y-fronts. This it wasn’t however.

What it was though, was our towering height. The average South American apparently only grows till something broaching the height of my waist, whereupon he abruptly gives up. I couldn’t for all the Incan gold, explain this phenomenon but I did momentarily feel like Godzilla. I was a literal instant from storming through the crowd screeching, tearing suitcases apart with my claws.

Anyway, I write this on a steel winged bird, 14 hours into a journey, somewhere above the blue abyss of the Atlantic en route to Ecuador. All of these idiots keep trying to speak to me in Spanish and although I am doing my best to gesticulate frantically about what exactly I am trying to say, I am pretty certain that one of the stewardesses thinks I’m a retard. She doesn’t have to speak that slowly and loudly. I’m not a pensioner, I just have no idea what the shit she is saying.

To close, all I can say is that twenty odd years of listening to West Coast American hip-hop has been linguistically pointless. I thought I would at least retain an ability to chat up some sexy mamasita in her padded leggings but even this has been far from the case. Screw you Cypress Hill. Screw you Fat Joe. Thanks for nothing you cholos.

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