Supermercados...

I might have mentioned here before my love for foreign supermarkets; I enjoy exploring the different sections and finding out what they do differently to British supermarkets. I can't get enough.

In Germany, the bakery has a much better selection, as indeed does the butchers. They are also very good at pickles and sauces. In Spain (much like Portugal), again, the bakery has a much better selection, as does the fresh fruit and veg - especially when it comes to the more exotic varieties.

Indeed, the Brits seem very bad when it comes to bread; we'll put up with any old thing. Sliced white being universally available, often at the cost of any other type of bread. Mothers' Pride was never anything to be proud of. Many Of our European neighbours don't understand why we don't buy our bread fresh every day like they do.

My favourite Spanish supermarket is Mercadona: a great range, a good service and all at a competitive price. It's a little bit off the beaten track here in Playa del Ingles. HiperDino, my least favourite, is on my way home from the beach and the ubiquitous Spar is everywhere.

Whenever I call in at HiperDino, I can never seem to find anything; the layout has no logic to it. You move from soap and shampoo into sliced cheeses and meats, turn a corner and you're met by nail clippers and hair bands.

I've been in the one at the Yumbo Centre three times this week and all at different times of the day and every time a woman has been mopping the floors. If you go anywhere near a mopped area that's not yet dry, she hisses at you and makes little tsk tsk noises. I was literally painted into a corner yesterday when I called in for a litre of milk.

This was made all the worse when I opened the carton at breakfast this morning to find that it's contents had curdled as, indeed, had any liking I may have still harboured about HiperDino. If they focused less on floor mopping and more on use by dates, I might have been able to enjoy my Weetabix this morning.

Half-heard and misheard...

It started on the beach this morning when a French guy pointed at the sun-lounger next to mine and asked me in French, "Is this free?" At least, that's what I thought he said. I nodded helpfully and said, "Yes". Indeed, at that time of the morning, most of them are free. With a gallic shrug, he walked off to find another some distance away.

I now realise that he must've asked if it was taken rather than free. My nodding and positive response only sent him away rather than the intended, "Be my guest." A shame really, as I would have been more than prepared to rub suntan lotion in his back.

A little later, two German goths passed. Yes, picture it: I'm on a gay beach in Maspalomas, it's 30C+ and two German goths pass. Admittedly, they weren't wearing full goth uniform; metal capped boots with a floor length black leather coat but they had a fair covering of tattoos, were pierced with a lot of silver wear, their hair was dyed jet black and their skin was alabaster white.

I knew they were German because as they passed in front of me, one made a remark to the other; I don't know what but it sounded very German. With that he pointed at me and both of them laughed. My instinct was to shout back, "Oh yeah, and what have you two come as...?" But given this morning's misinterpretation, I thought it better to stay silent.

Some lads from the South East of England (judging by their accents) sat on the sun-loungers in the row behind me. Their conversations revolved around how drunk they had got the night before, what each had got up to and how in their current hungover state they regretted their antics.

Again, I think that was the gist of it; sprinkled with a heavy dusting of youth slang, it was sometimes difficult to pick out the key phrases such as: "battered", "back to his hotel", "up the bum", "still hurts" and "what goes on on holiday, stays on holiday".

My bloody flip flop...

Another pleasant day spent on the gay beach on the fifth day of my holiday here in Maspalomas, Gran Canaria; the fifth day of unbroken sunny blue skies and the fifth day of temperatures above 30C. That might be hard for some of you to read back in dear old Blighty!

The only difference between the fifth day of my holiday and the previous four was that today the wind picked up a little, cooling us gay boys down and making for enormous fun in the waves - I'm sure you'd have been able to hear my squeals of fun back in Cardiff every time a wave hit me.

This afternoon I concentrated on tanning my white bits - I don't mean that euphemistically for my butt and wobbly bits, no, they've seen more sun than ever this week. I mean my sides or flanks; for some reason my flanks seem paler than the rest of me along with my upper outer arms.

And so I lay there on my side listening to my Northern Soul All Nighter album on my iPhone whilst thinking what on earth would form the subject matter of my blog tonight. By 15:00 I was getting very hot and so decided to walk back through the dunes to Playa del Ingles, while I gave tonight's blog a little more thought.

I don't think I'd been walking more than 5 minutes when I stubbed my toe on something in the path. I looked down and saw a broken green bottle strewn across the path. I glanced at my toe and there was cut just starting to ooze blood; lots of it. This quickly soaked into my flip flop turning the front of it into browny red mess. This then got caked in hot sand.

There wasn't much to do, other than forge on and complete the 2km trek through the dunes back to the nearest hotel. From there I knew I'd be able to get a cab. Toward the end of my bloody yomp, I bumped into a Dutch guy, Bas, who was on the beach earlier with his boyfriend. His friendly face and pleasant conversation provided a welcome distraction from my injury; I'm always a sucker for a nice smile!

Update on the gashed toe and bloody flip flop: after a trip to the local farmacia I have cleaned the wound by cutting off the flap of skin that fell victim to the green glass bottle, cleaned the gash using cotton buds and salt water, sprayed the area with an antiseptic solution, stuck it with a clear plaster and, most importantly of all, managed to wash away most of the gunk absorbed by my bloody flip flop.

Like the Stepford Wives, only gay, bearded and on steroids...

I met a guy from London on the beach today. We seemed to get along and made one another laugh. We were lying next to each other and just got talking, the way you do... I think there's a lot to be said for that gay humour, sensibility, outlook... Or should I say, weltanshauung, as a nod in the direction of the gay male German majority on the beach.

It didn't take long for the guy from London (Andy) and I to get talking to the Germans next to us; all of them wearing up to the minute fashion swimwear - and some of them changing trunks to go for a swim and changing again when they returned. It was like a fashion show. They were a nice group of guys and seemed friendly enough.

It was the Germans' last day and their tans bragged of a full 10 day break. As is the way with so many German gay men, the look is everything; the swimwear, the months spent in the gym sculpting those muscles, the shaved heads, the aviator style sunglasses and the stubbly beard.

Passport control at Las Palmas airport must be so confused when the gay boys arrive; it's the look that so may gay men aspire toward; like the Stepford Wives, only gay, bearded and on steroids. Try as I sometimes might, I don't think I look like a gay Stepford Wife yet...?

Sur la plage...

After slathering myself in SPF30, I caught the bus to Faro de Maspolomas this morning and then walked back to the gay beach in the 30C+ heat. It seemed very quiet there and then I realised that it was only just after 10:30. The gays had hardly woken. When they did, it didn´t take long for things to get started and soon the boys arrived.

AussieBum swimwear is in this season, so it seems, with every home essential on the beach sporting a pair (and some of them boys sport them very well). I say, "every home essential" but not quite; I stuck to my Andrew Christians, cos I´m a class act, see...!

I fell asleep on the beach, probably because it was so warm with just a hint of a breeze to soothe me. Or maybe it was the amount of vodka I managed to put away last night? Anyway, I woke up to the beginning of a burn and so went for a swim in the sea to cool me down.

At about 15:00 I decided to start the 4km trek home. It was quite subtle at first but very soon I started to ache - with every step taken I stiffened up more and more. My legs, my arms, my kneck, even my butt. By the time I reached my room all I could manage was to collapse on the sofa. Here I slept until 17:30.

Feeling a little revived, I decided to go for a run. Big mistake; after about 500m I was aching and panting and sweating profusely. This was one of the hardest runs I have ever done. Every joint and muscle were seizing up. It felt like flu. Is this what sun stroke feels like?

Back in my room now, having hurled myself in the hotel pool as soon as I returned to bring my temperature down. There´s nothing a cooling splash followed by an ice cold San Miguel can´t cure. All the same, an easy one tonight, methinks.