Remonstration, repletion, resolution, revolution.

Like a mosquito at a nudist beach, I don’t know where to start.

Well, it has been a while hasn’t it. I know you’re all begging, nay, panting for more. So here it is. Read away you filthy dogs.

Highlights of this full and replete month include: another conquered cinematic experience at the local cinema in the form of ‘La Brújula Dorada’ (The Golden Compass for you non-speakers); a three-day weekend frippery to Valencia with our Bath University friend Rob, who is currently at Zaragoza; struggling to purchase interesting festive gifts; some very tough University assignments, mostly hailing from the Prehistory quarter – a five-page museum report (carried out in Valencia), a three-page book review, a joint project on Palaeolithic tool industry and reports on articles we have read; and of course Christmas and New Year.

Other bulging, button-popping escapades now follow.

People

Italians. Now, I love the Italians as much as the next person, but, like every nation, there are some character traits that make you grind your teeth and go ‘oh, piss off back to your own country will you!’…in your head.

I like to cook. It all started when I would peer up over the counter whilst my mother prepared the evening’s meal. I found it wondrous how these smells, these meals, all came from various, seemingly random, raw products. A strange reddy pink slab of something that sizzled and fried, a deft grind of some black and white powders, a messy heap of herbivorous tables, a slosh of some red liquid called Why?ne, a taste, a ‘hmm…’ more crimson liqueur, then some magic. It was fascinating. I still do find the end product of a meal something special. The debate over the top-cooking nation of the world is a hotly fought one. The big names are probably France, Japan, India and Italy, among others – every one of them proud of their dishes. Each cook thinking he is top dog, head chef. There are none more so confident in their skills, among the nations I have met here anyway, than the Italians. Don’t get me wrong; these loud, brash, affectionate, often daft people can cook. However an ability to boil pasta and add sauce, or make a pizza well, does not give one the position to comment and criticise the cooking of other peoples. Imogen, bless her, lives with an Italian, and her pastas are constantly knocked down and insulted. She cooked us a pasta bake, which was very pleasant but was snubbed by the highly fervent protests of the Italian camp. The Italians then showed their prowess and cooked a tomato prawn pasta. It comprised pasta, onion, garlic, tomatoes and prawns. An idiot with no fingers, poor vision and a propensity for throwing pans could have cooked it too. The prawns were nice, but after the pasta was eaten, there was a large pool of tomatoey water left in the bowls, which was frankly disagreeable. Amateurs.

Another amusing incident I feel is definitely worth mentioning involved one of the, I believe five point eight million, rose selling men in the barrio. These chaps go round selling roses constantly throughout the night. You can be sat in a bar for a good few hours and be visited upwards of six times. After a while you get a bit bored of just ignoring them, and, when you are surrounded by a gaggle of girls (yes the use of the goose collective is apt), it is harder to get them to bugger off. So this man comes up to me and goes ‘rose for your ladies?’ or something and I say, obviously, ‘no gracias’. This isn’t good enough for Pablo or Don Juan or whoever he is, ‘where you from?’ The make or break question. ‘Russia’ I say. Now what are the chances of a rose seller in the middle of Alicante speaking Russian? Not high, but I found the only one. So he starts chirping away in Russian with a Spanish accent. I play along, and, feeling a bit bad for the trouble I’m causing him, come up with a back-story to cover my own internal embarrassment! Nowadays this guy thinks my mum, from England, went to St. Petersburg one day twenty years ago, and met my Dad. I was born in Russia itself and we moved back to England when I was a few years old. Oh, and my Dad is a Russian called Sergei…or was that my alias? Safe to say, the pickle I got myself into was the size of a Guinness World Record marrow.

Places

Valencia – As already stated, Hollie and I went to Valencia for a long weekend with another Bath student, Rob. The weather was completely lovely, although being December there was still a nip in the air. We saw most of the sights we needed to see in our short time there, and I was even allowed a couple of hours to visit the prehistory museum by myself – for the report I had to do. It was also fantastic to see Rob again after so many months, and we all quickly reverted to our old ways as if we hadn’t been separated.

Christmas and New Year – The former was spent with the family back home in chilly Maidenhead. I say chilly, I felt like I was auditioning for a role in Ice Age 3: Lack Of Proper Attire. We had the usual massive turkey feast, which served (along with hundreds of other niceties) as great post-Christmas leftover lunches. New Year was spent with my old chums. We (five guys and two girlfriends) first went to the house of our friend Jimmy C and had some lunch, talked, played games – including Taboo. Then some dinner; a fish pie and a beef casserole! Then a train to London; followed by eye-wateringly obese, bloated crowds trying to find a place to stand; fireworks obscured by smoke on Waterloo bridge; waiting for about two hours to get a small train with a few thousand other people (there were 750,000 in London and I think they all wanted on our train).

Cue the worst and best train journey back; people literally squashed together – I couldn’t free my hands from my sides and my friend Jimmy had one arm stuck up in the air, so to tell the time I had to bite his sleeve and pull it down in order to reveal the clock face.

Cue sweating profusely from every person, waiting for the bloody train to move. Cue tensions escalating as more and more people struggle to get on, with ‘get outs’ being yelled from within the belly of the fetid beast.

Cue a drunken, aggressive, thug-like Slavic man yelling at everyone trying to advance in vain at those sober and yelling back ‘oh shut the f*** up will you!’

Cue said waste of atoms pulling the emergency stop lever after only one stop.

Cue a scared looking rail man struggling to get in and find out the problem, with shouts of ‘It’s the drunk guy!’, ‘open the doors!’ and ‘get him out!’.

Cue the trainman saying ‘you want him off, you bloody get him off’.

Cue arriving at Clapham junction, and a few people including me, getting this guy flung out of the train.

Cue said embarrassment of humanity shouting jubilantly ‘yeah, let’s go’ in thick drunken Slavic accent.

Cue the rest of us running back on the train and leaving him to the security men.

Cue claps and laughter for the rest of the hour and half journey, with people being congratulated and wished ‘Happy New Year!’ as they got off at their stops.

Consider that unique experience cued.

Well, that was a bit intense wasn’t it! All good fun though eh?

Things

Erasmus Christmas party – This was ‘organised’ by some department who appeared to be drunk and sharing a fifteenth of a brain cell at a time. There are hundreds of Erasmus students at Alicante and they were all invited to a party in a conference room far too small for the number of people that actually exist. The idea was to have an international feel, so there would be some drinks and nibbles from different countries – it materialised that there was really only food from Spain and Germany, but it was all eaten before we got there about 45minutes late. The room was boiling and packed and it seemed only the English really saw how rubbish it was – maybe that shows some cultural difference. The Italians, Germans and astonishingly loud Americans seemed to be lapping it up like a cats with hot milk. We were sorely disappointed and left thinking, ‘wow…that was so bad!’ However, we think it was the first time they did it, so next year I’m sure you’ll have a better time.

Lastly, being British and all, I thought I’d just mention the weather. Over in England right now there are temperatures below zero turning the country frosty and cold. Over here I’m wearing my t-shirts and sunglasses and, although the nights are chilly, enjoying the warm daily, sun-fuelled heat.

My Mum hates me because of it. I fear disownment.