Ibiza History Culture

Established 1982
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Sober Life
by Sinclair Newton



Sober Life

As I was saying, we’re on our way.

By many trains and the inevitable ferry for the best bit over the Med at the end, of course. What a lovely bit of sea that is, all full of fish and spider crabs.

It sounds like a long way round to me, but if Rick won’t fly then there’s no other way.

This morning I went into the Co-op travel shop and asked for a thousand Euros. Forgive me if I’ve got this wrong, but if they’re worth about 64p each, shouldn’t a thousand of them cost about six hundred and forty pounds in old English money?

Well I realise you have to pay some commission, but the bright-eyed little girl said she wanted £750.

I wouldn’t mind half so much, but it took me ages to find that pound sign on the new Apple keyboard anyway and it was only because of Michael who shall be nameless that I knew it still existed.

I protested, rather loudly as it turned out, and the manager came out from wherever it is that travel shop managers hide themselves. We have no such trouble at the Ibiza History Culture headquarters in Sant Antoni where the manager is called Pep Jordi and is a fabulous fellow and I’m really looking forward to seeing him again next week unless he’s off on one of his foreign adventures, which seems to be the perk of being an affable travel agent.

Anyway this chap tapped away on a computer and came up with a figure of £666.66p.

As they’ll tell you at Café del Mar, where I shall be ensconced next week, I’m not one to quibble over the odd few Euros, or even Pesetas if they’ve got any left, but I didn’t think that was right either. I won’t tell you what I said as I left, but I will leave it to your imagination and I will seek out a similar Spanish expletive next week as the sun goes down over my large espresso.

And finally, because I’m sure you are getting bored by now, I went to the good old Post Office and they gave me the lolly for £657.29p. It still doesn’t seem right to me, but I’ll check it out in Barcelona on Tuesday or Wednesday or whenever it is I’ll be there, trains willing.

My Mum was telling me tonight that she went to pay her fortnightly newspaper bill which is £2.20p a week and the little Asian girl had to key it into the shop’s till so she could work out it was £4.40p. What have we come to? I’ll let you know next week when I’ve spent a week figuring out the cost of a night on the Costa.

I must add a special word of thanks to somebody called Denys who emailed me this week to say there’s a lovely train from Malaga to Madrid that will get me there soundlessly and efficiently, pointing out that the different train tracks probably stopped Hitler from invading more of Europe than he managed when I was a dream in my mother’s eye. Or something. I think that’s what she meant, but on the other hand I don’t know if she has a friend who won’t get on a plane and has had to put up with all this sort of mullarkey.

I thought you might like this recipe for roasting a chicken, which my formation-swimming ex-mother in law just sent me:


One big chicken
1 cup of melted butter
1 cup of stuffing
1 cup of uncooked popcorn
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Brush chicken well with melted butter and salt and pepper. Fill cavity with stuffing and popcorn. Place in baking pan with the neck end toward the back of the oven. Listen for popping sounds. When the chicken's ass blows the oven door open and the chicken flies across the room, it’s done.

Sinclair Newton