Politics, Dust and Sand

I nicked a copy of The Mirror from a customer who had nipped out to buy some fags and found out that there have been some elections in England. It was an early edition without all the results, but it looked like my good friend Tony Blair has had a bit of a kick in the Cheries... I rang Number Ten from the bar phone to ask him if the rumours were true but they told me to piss off and bother Cameroon. Why they would want me to ring a small Indian country I don't know. Anyway - it was engaged.

We have building work going on here in the town and there is a lot of dust in the air. I don't know what they are doing but I know that it's getting up my nose. The dust is bad enough, but the tourists keep bringing it in on their clothes. It gets everywhere, and it's so bad some days that I've got to cover the slops bucket so it doesn't settle on the beer. It's sand we really hate. The holi-wallys bring it in in spadeloads in their shoes, and Marl gets real pigged off. She can't understand why tourists have so much sand on them. She gets the brush out and really lets them know about it. It scares me how much sand we have in Spain. Apparently the Moors brought it with them when they moved to Granada - from the beeb I suppose - but how they got it all here beats me. Maybe they had it in their shoes, just like our tourists today...