Last updated 13:38, Thursday, 02 October 2008

ONE of the beauties of going to Spain is that everyone speaks English.

Every other bar is owned by some leathery ex-pat, and even the locals can usually habla inglesi better than the average English teenager.

So when Mrs Hextol and I went to the Costa del Sol for the first time the other week, we were more than a little surprised to find ourselves in an almost English-free zone.

Instead of the fractured English of Fawlty Towers’s Manuel, we were in a world of sibilant hisses and extravagant lisps, where even a request for a ham and cheese sandwich, complete with piggy grunting and elaborate cow milking mimes, was met with only eloquent shrugs and puzzled expressions.

The Spanish Costas have always had a reputation of being like Blackpool with sun, with kiss me quick hats, perhaps featuring a plump willy, or a stunningly life-like bathroom by-product, adorning every head.

We thought we had bridged the culture gap when we were invited to join in a game of bingo – but it was conducted at a vast rate of knots, entirely in Spanish, with the locals gleefully chanting the traditional Andalucian responses of “clicketty patos” and “Kelly’s ojo”.

Our struggle to master the quick-fire patter of the caller was not helped by the fact that we were not given the traditional pen or dabber with which to mark our cards, even had we been able.

Instead, we were furnished with a cocktail stick, with which we had to prog holes in the card.

The calling went on for quite some time, and for all we knew we may have had several lignes, and almost certainly a full casa, but the prize of a cuddly donkey went to an impressively coiffed and moustachioed senora who had probably had her card marked by Franco in the Spanish Civil War.

Any nation which thinks it’s fun to gang up on a bull and condemn it to the death of thousand cuts before a gawping crowd is never going to be top of the Rspca's Christmas card list.

However, our home for the week did manage to put on a unique display by our feathered friends.

I have been to many agricultural shows, and watched in awe as falcons have swooped from dizzy heights to snatch choice cuts of rabbit out of the air.

The Spanish do the same thing– but indoors!

Tautly trousered caballeros in the falconry equivalent of a suit of lights went from table to table bearing eagle owls and snowy owls, which allowed themselves to be stroked, before coating the dance floor with enough guano to fertilise a 40-acre field.

But that was only the starter – fierce raptors were then produced from their cat boxes, and flown from side to side, weaving between excitable waiters to get their reward of a scrap of meat.

The highlight of the show though was the only performing kookaburra I have ever seen.

The oversized Australian kingfisher not only flew from arm to arm amongst startled punters, but when the handler stuck a microphone under its beak, it emitted its trademark “laughing jackass” cackle on cue.

The other entertainment in Spain is best experienced by couples on wet days.

Just stand by a roadside, looking forlorn and dripping, and in a matter of moments a small car will screech up, containing two young people who will implore you to accept a scratch card.

One of you will win a bottle of champagne, while the other will surprisingly win the star prize – another holiday – which entails a trip to a large hotel to collect the loot.

Once there, you will be lavishly plied with strong drink and tit-bits, and shown round the property, before being subjected to a relentless hard sell exercise, aimed at persuading you to pay for all the holidays you will ever take for the rest of your life and beyond, right there and then.

The sales team, which include mumsy women and then a succession of smooth gents in stripy shirts, seem to think there is nothing untoward in demanding many thousands of pounds, without resort to legal advice – so they are fair game.

Hesitate just long enough for them to think you might be interested, and more food and drink magically appears.

Keep it going as long as it is still raining, before declaring you would rather eat Shadrach Dingle’s drawers than join their dubious scheme.