by Mary

Q: What kind of car does Mickey Mouse´s wife drive?
A: A Minnie van!

This Sunday, you shouldn´t expect to hear jokes like this one from comedian David O´Doherty. As in, the jokes he tells will actually make you laugh.

The Irish comedian (a one-time cyclist and one-time jazz musician) comes to Madrid´s Giggling Guiri Comedy Club this Sunday, promising to make you smile for only 14 euros.

O´Doherty prefers to sing his comedy aside simple keyboard tunes, similar to Flight of the Concords, Tenancious D (but tamer), or perhaps singer Ben Folds on his funnier days. O´Doherty´s stories revolve around subjects like missent text messages, bad first dates, tan lines and other awkward issues that face young people today. Typically, he´ll tap away at a little battery-operated keyboard and tell you about his embarrassing parents, his bikerides home and his failed lovelife experiences, taking tangents and asides to make his stories even more funny and slightly uncomfortable.

His humor is hard to describe; perhaps the keyboard element throws his comedy into a realm beyond words. O´Doherty has defined it as ¨very low energy musical whimsy,¨ which one might rephrase into monotone-jokes-told-to-keyboard-sounds. Or something like that.

Anyways, you should see him for yourself. If you´re into the hilariously humdrum (think The Office, or Curb Your Enthusiasm) humdrum yet hilarious entertainment, you´d definitely like the quiet, self-deprecating humor of David O´Doherty. I promise his jokes aren´t as lame as mine!

by Matt Johnson

The story begins at 2:15 on a Friday evening with me enjoying some cocktails at a friend’s Christmas party on the last weekend before break. While in the depths of what was most certainly a deep, intellectual conversation (screaming over the music), my phone rang.

“Charles!” I answered. “Ca va, mi ami?”

“Hi Matt. I think we’re downstairs from your party. Can you come get us? We’re in the metro, waiting.”

Puzzled as I was to why my roommate would wait inside the actual metro so late at night, I shrugged it off merely as another quirky Frenchism and hustled my way down. Being that the metro closes at 1:30 however, it came as no surprise when I soon found myself standing alone inside lavapies station – not a passenger, worker, or Frenchman in sight.

“Here, Frenchie, Frenchie, Frenchie,” I whistled, expecting Charles to hop out from around the corner. Yet irritatingly enough, the only response to my calls was an echoing of my voice throughout the eerily empty station. Assuming that Charles must have no doubt been mistaken with his English prepositions again, I figured he was probably just waiting outside somewhere, so I headed back towards the stairs.

Much to my horror though, I’d arrived at the exit just in time to watch in slow motion as the automatic gate click closed, blocking my only way out and shutting me inside, alone. So sensibly, I did the only thing one could do in such a situation: I grabbed the bars of the gate like a crazed inmate and from my underground prison, started yelling frantically at the passersby above, “Ayuda! Ayuda! AYUDA!” Though mostly ignored by the majority, I did at least manage to startle one couple into stopping. But instead of aiding in my escape, they just cocked their heads curiously like confused cocker spaniels, studying me as if I were an exotic beast in some bizarre zoo exhibit. “Oh look, honey – what a peculiar American! Notice how he shakes the bars and makes those grunting sounds. Do you have a quarter so we can throw him some peanuts?”

Realizing that this method was obviously doomed to fail, I stepped away from the gate, took a second to gather my thoughts, and moved on to plan B: find the other exit. Unfortunately, as I soon to discovered, the lavapies metro was made with only one entrance, so around every turned corner was a dead end. On the up side though, the lights were still on, I had the whole station to myself, and if worse came to worse, I figured I could just take a short jog down the tunnel to the next stop a kilometer away. Ridiculous, yes, but after several hours on the sauce, this is actually what I thought. Scary, I know.

Anyway, so regardless of this unwarranted look-on-bright-side attitude, I was, if anything, bored. All I had for company now was a half empty pack of Marlboro Lights, a cell phone with no minutes, and a waning buzz. It was in this moment that another thought popped into my head: having the station to myself had started conjuring up scenes from Home Alone, and I wondered for a split second what type of shenanigans I could get up to in the three and a half hours until it reopened. This is my house – I have to protect it! But this epiphany passed as soon as it came, and it was quickly obvious that no matter how optimistic I wanted to be, there was really nothing fun or exciting about spending the night inside the metro.

Heart beating once again with nervous adrenaline, it occurred to me that if the gate shut on a timer, maybe the lights would turn off, too. There was no doubt in my mind – it was time to pull myself together and find my way to freedom. So, with all other plans exhausted and no alternate answers in the idea box, I started sprinting around the station in search of an emergency exit. This was, after all, an emergency. Luckily for me, it didn’t take more than a couple solid metro laps before happening upon a set of double doors with a green sign reading: salida de emergencia. And then, thanking the lord with silent gratitude that the Spanish had actually prepared for such a situation, I braced myself for the sounding alarm, and busted through.

Met once more with still silence, I took a deep breath, let the cool air of what appeared to be a mineshaft-type corridor freshen my senses, and followed the hallway to its end. Or rather, to its dead end, I should say. Keeping within the spirit of my exponentially growing misfortunes, this miracle exit – this oasis in my desert of an abandoned metro station – was punctuated with a perfectly normal set of stairs – running straight into the ceiling!

As I stood stroking my chin in awe of this architectural cluster-fuck, I couldn’t help but laugh. We’d always joked that there are no rules or reasoning in this country, and this seemed to be Spain’s jeering way of joking back. I couldn’t really help from feeling like Ed Norton in Fight Club – hitting bottom. His name is Robert Paulson. His name is Robert Paulson…

Anyway, when I finally snapped out of this daydream/nightmare, I came to find that while my mind was wandering, my body had been leaning on a lever – quite a large lever, conveniently enough – with another sign that read: Tirar para abrir la puerta. And without blinking, I was on that lever with all my weight, giggling with involuntary childish glee as I watched the ceiling creak open; a great yawning metal mouth in .

Wasting little time in premature celebration, I waited until the crack was just wide enough to squeeze through, and, crouched on all fours, I crawled out into the night like a countertop cockroach and punched the free air with a fistful of victorious triumph. A group of terrified Spaniards were lucky enough to witness this event as well, and while they stood staring in shock, I brushed myself off, let out a heavy sigh of relief, gave them a half-smile and shrug, and blurted out the only word appropriate enough to summarize my thoughts on this ordeal: “Joder!”

Well, I thought, with a wipe of the hands, my mouth suddenly watering for whiskey, now where’d that damn Frenchman run off to?

by Helen Macrae

My friends, winter is well and truly upon us. You might ask what prompted me to arrive at this groundbreaking and outrageous conclusion. Was it the drop in temperature and resulting scrabble in the back of the wardrobe for those long-forgotten mittens and scarf? The trees in the Retiro shrugging off their leaves and stretching out their branches like bony fingers clutching at the sky? Or perhaps the giveaway was when all that snow unexpectedly fell from the heavens on Friday and turned the city into a winter wonderland? No, it’s because the other day I spotted my first child clad in top-to-toe beige.   

I arrived in Madrid last January with my good friend H, and we were immediately struck by the amount of beige we saw on a daily basis. It was everywhere: on the streets, in our classes, on the Metro, in the bars. There were beige coats, beige trousers, beige handbags, beige hats, beige shoes…there were even beige dogs. We devised a mindless but rather entertaining game where the first person to spot something beige and shout “beige!” got a point, but we stopped when we realised the Spanish word is rather similar (errr… it’s “beige” in case you didn’t know already).

As the year marched on and winter turned into spring and then summer, the beige started to disappear. Until now I had thought it was because I was becoming assimilated into Spanish culture and had stopped noticing it. But it seems I was mistaken and there is, in fact, a direct correlation between the outside temperature and the percentage of people wearing beige. Perhaps someone should do a study on it and work out a formula or something. Of course, people do wear plenty of other colours and I know I shouldn’t generalise, but if you come to the city in winter I assure you you’ll notice the pervasiveness of this colour and its variants (cream = “summer beige”, gold = “weekend beige”). For some Madrileños, it seems that beige is not just a colour, it’s a way of life.

At this point I must put my hands up and admit that I haven’t embraced the beige yet. I don’t own anything beige-coloured as I don’t think it suits me, plus I actually find the word offensive: a good example of onomatopoeia where it sounds just as dull as the actual colour. But perhaps it’s just a matter if time. Maybe after a few years of living here I’ll know I’m properly Hispanified when I can eat pipas, make a drink last all night and skip down the street in winter dressed from head to toe in beige.

by Tim Anderson

Christmas Day,

Nothing like spending time around the family, but if it’s your girlfriend’s family and she happens to be Spanish, it’s something you’re unlikely to forget. Grandmothers regaling you with stories past, parents shouting out trying to keep everything together and little cousins running around the house asking quizzical questions on life and trying to get attention from everyone.

Well, at least, that’s what I was imagining they were saying. I didn’t really understand much more than the welcome, the rest a stream of words that seem to have fallen from a great height at great speed, hitting my ears with a similar level of comprehension to that I get from listening to recorded deep sea whale conversations.

From the moment we walk through the door, the barely 5 foot grandmother who is at the same level as my rib cage, looks up and, in voice that has seen many cañas and cigarettes, starts commenting to the others about my appearance. I smile hopeful that what she said was intended to be funny. I even chuckle along with the other voices in the house. Why am I laughing at all? I have no idea what she said about me. Maybe,  ”He has more hair in his nose than a gorilla on its back”, hahahaha. I -just- don’t -know…

So I sit waiting, a small glass of wine in my hand, that seems to be especially the right dimensions for a 4  foot grandma, and practice my smiling. The food arrives and it’s the perfect excuse to fill my mouth with something that won’t allow me to speak for the foreseeable future.

The conversation rages like a storm in the tropical wet season. Just when one person seems to be talking at the fastest rate possible, another steps in to better them, taking the tempo to something that sounds like fast forwarding through a tape on my old stereo. It has quasi-dimensions and I won’t be surprised if they’re  taken into some kind of warp speed black hole, sucked into the centre of the table with the rest of the paella.

I keep focused on my third helping, careful not to make eye contact with the others at the table, if only I could reach the stuffed calamares, I am sure I could get to the end of the dinner. I swallow my last drop of deep Rioja, or is that the Ribera de Duero? Good wine makers these Spanish; a real soother in these situations, when my heart stops….. Did I really hear my name then? Please no…. Pleeease!!  Everything is silent. I imagine for a second that maybe the black hole really existed and wonder how I can get down it quick smart. I slowly raise my gaze. Sixteen eyes glare back at me, awaiting a response. The quizzical buddha looks ready to strike, the parents sit patiently with a smile. I can see them thinking, “She told us he spoke Spanish reeeally well“. The small children, who still manage to speak better Spanish than me, even though they have only been on the planet in the time since my last haircut, stare wildeyed at me, wondering why I don’t respond.

My girlfriend looks sympathetically at me, and then repeats the question in my current 101 Spanish….. slowly….. I still don’t get it. I am dreaming I had another glass of red ready but I don’t. I’m stuck. “Si”, I squirm. Laughter all around.  A great clap on the back from my girlfriend’s brother who I am liking even more now. The conversation is diverted. It once again gathers momentum as if it had just stopped to get fuel and continue on.

My glass gets freshly topped allowing me to slide back into the observers whole, happy to see the Christmas family in full bloom. The Spanish are never short of conversation, I observe. The farewells are next and I mistakenly think that this means we are going. An hour later and after some more coffee I rise from my seat, widen my smile to show how much fun I had, and down the rest of my wine. I don’t remember how many that was. The closeness of the Spanish family is something to admire and love about them, they really make an effort with each other.

I look forward to taking my girlfriend home with me next year, although another round of this sort of celebration would be good as well.

by Charlotte Smith

I’ve just finished reading the memoirs of Jean-Dominique Bauby, – The Diving Bell And The Butterfly, and I find myself not just incredibly moved and amused by his stories but strangely understanding of his incredible life change.

Borne out of very different circumstances Monsieur Bauby and I have thoughts and feelings in common. Both the author and I have a serious problem with communication.
For those of you who don’t know this book, you do now.
Jean-Dominique Bauby was the former editor of French Elle who suffered a massive stroke in 1995 that left him completely paralyzed a victim of ‘locked-in syndrome’- words that feel uncomfortably familiar to me.

At the age of 43, Bauby was imprisoned in his own body and left to communicate only with the use of his left eye and so he endeavoured to write his memoirs. He died just two days after their publication in 1996.
Now, I’m not suggesting that my situation is anywhere near as dramatic or difficult as the writers but I can certainly relate to the oppression and isolation that comes with a lack of access to those people around you and an inability to express yourself to the outside world.

The authors’ method of communication was arguably more limited than mine. For Bauby the alphabet was a series of eye winks which corresponded to the relevant letters, scribbled down by Baubys’ visitors to form the words, or at least fragments, of more or less intelligible sentences that the writer wished he could just say.
The process is not without fault as he explained…….”That is at least the theory, in reality all does not go well for some visitors”.
For very different reasons I can relate, I wish I could just say too – when acquaintances, and less often friends, (for obvious reasons) try to converse with me in Spanish I get different reactions, the more anal types try to finish my sentences and correct my constant grammatical errors while the less conscious (lazy) ones never correct anything I say leaving me to talk lots of rubbish until I finally exhaust myself, trip up on my words yet again and fall flat on my face.

And then there are of course those that just ignore me, they have conversations around me but not with me, even if I smile my really friendly smile and say, “¡Hola!”
These otherwise normal sociable moments can drop me in to a silent world which sometimes feels more oppressive and stressful than I could ever have imagined.

Monsieur Bauby you are my friend.

In the same way that the writer describes his very own cinema world I find myself imagining all sorts of weird and wonderful things in company having given up on my over interested expression that leaves me feeling compromised and vacant. Sunday lunch with my boyfriends’ family is a perfect example of this – I long for the day that I can have an effortless conversation with my boyfriends’ mother about nothing in particular; I daydream about us laughing out-loud together like I have with other in-laws before.

In my own diving bell I’m not sure if I’m really me anymore? I probably am? I think I used to be funny? Maybe I’m still funny?
Like Mr Bauby says, “Quite apart from the practical drawbacks, this inability to communicate is somewhat wearing”.

Not long ago I was asking for directions to the number 25 bus stop at Plaza Castilla, on my third attempt, and 20 minutes later, I finally managed to extract and translate enough information to get me where I needed to go. I boarded the bus, paid the relaxed driver, sat down, breathed properly and felt relieved and instantly proud of my own efforts.

It’s ironic how the pleasure/pain ratio usually manages to balance itself and sometimes tips in my favour freeing me like a butterfly for long enough to give me a taste for a life which is always challenging but more than that , it’s liberating. Jean D Bauby had the tenacity and humour to lift his own bell jar with a flicker of his eyelid which paved the way to a brilliant set of memoirs that freed him before his untimely death.

These days I can have lunch with my boyfriends’ family, yes, all 10 of them, without sweating my way through the first course, I can engage in small conversations with everyone, in particular my boyfriends’ mother, who I laughed out-loud with last Sunday. We were having lunch.

Will prank calls ever go out of fashion?

Well, my mate who phoned the police and said he was Osama Bin Laden thinks so- he’s still in Guantánamo Bay…

Anyway, here’s one I stumbled upon on the site the Spanish call ‘jew toof’:

by Matt Johnson

Three weeks a go, in a land far, far way…one man set out on a perilous quest across an unknown land. His mission: lederhosen. What follows is a tale of mystery, suspense, and debauchery. All ye decent souls be warned…

So, where did we leave off? Let’s recap. Munich. Oktoberfest. Beer. Friendly Germans. Bribery. Tents. Adventure. Awesome. Okay, that should wrap it up. We had just finagled our way in to a tent via some good old fashioned bribery, and were now comfortably seated in what can only be described as the Mecca of beerdom on Earth.

As the first round of beers were being thrown down the hatch however, I began to notice that something was wrong. There was an element missing from the equation like a giant hole in my heart. I felt it from the tips of my toes to the pit of my stomach: lederhosen. Before leaving Madrid, I’d managed to blab to everyone who would listen that I was going to buy a pair of these sweet Bavarian suspender-shorts. There was no way I could return to my fellow madrileños, head hanging in shame, in not-so-typically me-type fashion, empty handed in the lederhosen department. The epiphany faded quickly though, and after snapping back into reality I immediately vocalized this concern to my compañeros at the table.

“I really have to go get some lederhosen, guys.”

“Dude we just got in to the tent. You can’t go right now.”

“Yeah but you don’t understand,” I replied, through sips of the golden goodness. “I told everyone I know that I’m getting lederhosen while I’m here.”

“So? Just get some tomorrow before you leave.”

“I can’t. My flight leaves at 11, and I have to leave the hotel by nine. There’s no way I’ll find a store open that early on a Sunday morning.”

“Okay, well get a pair tonight after we leave the tent.”

“Do you honestly think that we’ll be able to do anything by the time we leave this tent? It’s only 2:30 right now – PM. We still have at least twelve hours of drinking left. Let’s get serious.”

“Good point,” they agreed. “Alright, so we’ll get you a pair tomorrow before we leave and send them over to you in Spain.”

“Sorry guys, but I don’t exactly know what size lederhosen I wear. I have to do this. There’s no way I’m coming all the way here without getting a pair. I’ve been planning on this for years… plus I have a reputation to uphold, and Halloween’s right around the corner to boot. I’m gonna be the only fucking dude in Madrid with an authentic pair of those bad boys. Opportunity only knocks once or something like that – I can’t pass up a chance like this!”

“How are you going to get back in the tent? How are you going to find us? None of our phones are working. Where are you going to go to buy them? How are you going to get there? What if they don’t let you back in the tent? How are you going to maintain your buzz?” And on and on they went with the nagging.

“Honestly guys, act like you know me,” I defended defiantly, rising from the table. “I already told you. I know how this works. If worse comes to worse I’ll just bribe my way back into the tent. It’s not going to be a problem. And forget it if you think you’re going to stop me. Try if you dare, but nothing can stand in the way of the lederhosen at this point. I’ll catch you fellas on the flipside, and next time you see me, I’ll be the proud wearer of some brand new lederhosen. Wish me luck!”

There really was just no stopping the lederhosen. They had been eating away at my mind like an unstoppable rebel force – I had to get them. But even still, there were so many obstacles left to overcome – my friends actually did have a valid point: where do I go? How am I supposed to find a lederhosen store? How will I get there? What if I can’t get back in the tent? How will I keep my buzz? The questions kept coming, the answers laid just over the horizon, and the lederhosen were just beyond a fingertip’s touch. So with a spring in my step and a plan in my mind, I was out the door and on my way.

Now back out into the German sunshine, I made a beeline for the park entrance to search for a vacant taxi, and soon found myself in the back seat of my first ever Mercedes Benz cab ride. Yep, I buy my lederhosen in style (actually all the cabs I saw there were either Benzes or Beamers – doesn’t that blow your mind?).
Anyway, before I knew it I was on a crowded, closed off street in the heart of Munich’s shopping district, and just thirty minutes after my departure from the tent, I was standing at the pearly gates of lederhosen heaven. You could smell the suede from the street. Hundreds of those goofy suspender suits of all colors and styles were stacked from floor to ceiling. There were lederhosen in the windows; lederhosen on the mannequins; lederhosen on the hangers, the racks, the shelves; even lederhosen on the German C&A’s employees. It was like Scrooge McDuck diving into his pool of gold.

With each tick of the clock however, I was losing valuable drinking time, so I made a mad dash through the isles, slinging lederhosen, socks, and shirts of various colours and sizes over my shoulder as I went. There was one minor problem though: lederhosen are fucking expensive! The pair that I eventually picked out was among the cheapest in the store, ringing in at a pricy 99 Euro (shirt and socks, not included). Ouch – my wallet hurts. So I did the only sensible thing I could think of: my parents gave me a credit card “for emergency situations only,” and seeing as this certainly was a dilemma of epic proportions, I whipped out the plastic. A hundred forty Euros and one Superman-like wardrobe change later, and I was parading around the Bavarian streets in my fancy new lederhosen, blending in with the locals. Hey, when in Rome, right?

by Helen Macrae

Summer is most definitely, sweatily, meltingly here, and no doubt you’re trying to make the most of the hot weather. Here’s another handy hint to save you money, so you can spend your funds on more important summer essentials like ice lollies, cold beer and deoderant.

Get your parents over

Well, you’ve been in debt to the Bank of Mum & Dad since you were born so you might as well borrow a little bit more now. Invite them over to Madrid for a relaxing holiday, and while they’re out seeing the sites they can pay for you too. And treat you to dinner afterwards at one of those fancy-looking restaurants you’ve never been able to afford. And then maybe a few expensive cocktails after that.

Some of you might feel bad sponging off the wonderful beings who brought you into this world, but really, you can’t ignore those fantastic interest rates and indefinite repayment periods. Plus they get to see their beloved son/daughter and you get to see the city for free. Everyone’s a winner!   

by Helen Macrae

This week’s fun money-saving activity involves a visit to one of Spain’s most important institutions.

El Corte Inglés

There are literally hundreds of these horribly confusing department stores dotted around Madrid, so just take your pick of which one you fancy getting lost in for an afternoon. On the plus side, their size means you can find pretty much anything and everything you might need in there, just be sure you go to the right store in the first place (unlike yours truly who went up a whole eight floors looking for a pair of speakers, only be told that the electronic goods were in the shop next door. Obviously).

Since you’re broke and shoplifting is naughty, you’ll have to content yourself with freebie activities, such as trying on all the make-up, testing out the perfumes and stuffing yourself with any free food samples. If you want a challenge, try and crack a smile from one of the po-faced shop assistants. If you want a bigger challenge, try and find the way out afterwards.

by Helen Macrae

This week’s tips on how to enjoy the city without breaking the bank are all sunshine-related. Although the weather has been less than great recently, this is Spain after all, and I’m therefore certain (in my appointed role as the eternal optimist) that things will brighten up soon. And if they don’t then I would like a refund please.

Sunbathe

Ok so all the beauty magazines bang on about fake tan being the only way to go these days, but who doesn’t enjoy soaking up a few UV rays now and again? Plus, everyone knows you need a bit of sunshine to get your Vitamin D intake and stop you getting rickets. Or something. Anyway, just remember to slap on some sunscreen and choose your spot carefully, for example on some nice lush grass in the one the city parks. Lying in the middle of a busy footpath in the style of our local tramp Tetrabrik Dave is probably not advised.

Sunset

Watch the sun go down on a balmy summer’s evening. One of my favourite spots is overlooking the palace by the Templo de Debod – best views in the city.

Sunrise

You probably aren’t going to sacrifice your lie-in so you can watch the sun come up, so the ideal time is probably after a night out on the town, which of course has been financed by your new ridiculously wealthy girl/boyfriend (please see previous tip “Become a kept man/woman”). Best spot is probably somewhere within crawling distance of whichever nightclub you stumble out of.