I'LL TAKE MAJAHONDAS

Madrid, Thursday 12th
I was gazing thoughtfully at the Madrid beige-belt, when our pilot came on the intercom. There was no doubt I was no longer in Ireland; today I had exchanged the rain-soaked green pastures of home, for forty shades of brown. The pilot was telling us we would be landing shortly - how shortly I did not know - but he had the untimely misfortune of informing us as the plane was dipping into huge infertile beige Madridian mountain; a mountain that looked for all the world like a godzilla turd. However I was anxious to get off as soon as possible as we had been late taking off. They had given us all sorts of standard tick-the-box excuses, but for all we knew it could have just been the pilot trying to dislodge a very difficult piece of snot. After I’d landed, and after I’d met my old pal Johnny Ramos, all I had to endure was a short trip to Johnny’s folks’ place in Majahondas, which Johnny playfully referred to as Manhattan (and just like Manhattan, it could be bought for a few dollars worth of trinkets, I thought). Johnny delighted in telling me along the way how many people had died on each road the previous weekend, which was not so much disturbing as it was splatter-pantsingly scary. Feck it, I thought, at least a mountain-crash would’ve been a scenic death…