Finding it is a bit like going to a rave. First, you need to know a local hombre to get the number. On tinkling, you are directed to another telephone box to wait for a call. Then, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, a taxi appears to pick you up from Alicante town centre and you are driven 20 minutes up the coast, blindfolded.
This sort of experience excites the hell out of me and has my salivary glands pissing like a Dutch dyke.
Sometimes the seedy looking places turn out to be greatest. When walking along a Spanish seafront a good tip is to choose the place that has the most punters irrespective of decor or appearance. Xe Que Bó, Alicante Marina is just one of those places. It looks tackier than a Leeds nightclub carpet, but the food is fab.
There is no hiding place for the rich these days. All the summer High Society events are being gatecrashed by chavs. Royal Ascot this year even tried to enforce a new dress code that ladies must (amongst other things) wear knickers, and not on display.
We are supposed to be heading fast into the biggest recession since the 1920’s and yet I see no evidence of spending slowing. As every generation passes, it becomes more affordable to travel to, and participate in, the rich playgrounds of Europe. You don’t need a yacht to blend in at Puerto Banús, but if you haven’t got one, it helps if you have several tattoos and can chunder at top volume into the early hours, or simply pass out, drunk, on the front of some expensive clothes shop at 4am.
The world famous prostitutes of Puerto Banús draw similar class lines, with prices pitched accordingly, although at both price points there seems to be a massive over-supply problem that is being addressed by aggressive marketing tactics. A Brazilian, and by this I mean a woman from Brazil, approached me, “You is beautiful” she whispered in my ear. You are beautiful I corrected. “Oh thank you!” No, not at all what I meant, sorry, goodbye…
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