By Giles Brown
It’s been an interesting couple of weeks since my last column. Once again I managed to upset a number of cyclists who, after reading the reaction to my witterings, obviously regard me as one of Satan’s minor demons. Or the Marbella version of Jeremy Clarkson. I’m not sure which is worse, to be honest.
Just for the record, I haven’t really replaced the rear seats with industrial hand sanitiser and am not merrily water cannoning bike riders as I pass. In the same way that I did not attach a snowplough to the front of the 4×4 and two massive lobster pots to the rear to scoop them up and then deposit them at the bottom of the Istan road. Or borrow Mad Max’s Holden V8 to terrorise them on my drive down to the studio.
The order by the Junta de Andalucia about the wearing of masks also managed to stoke up a mixed bag of reactions. Once again, social media was awash with various theories about why we have to wear them, ranging from the stoical to the more ‘alternative’ – including that it was an exercise in mind control, the thin end of the New World Order and that the shadowy figures of the Illuminati were about to take over. Or something like that.
Judging from the complete muck up that a number of governments seem to be making of the state of affairs at the moment, I toyed with the idea that maybe being ruled by a bunch of 12 foot tall subterranean lizard overlords with a connection to Prince Phillip might be worth a try. Although I decided not to post that.
To top it all off, I went down with my usual summer cold. The 24-hour lurgy was gone as soon as it had arrived, but the house guest decided I was obviously suffering from a combination of COVID, Ebola and the Black Death.
She took to wearing a mask around the casita and covertly spraying me with an essential oil spray every time I stumbled into the kitchen from my sickbed.
And yes, I can hear the Lycra-clad legions laughing at the karma of it all from here!