zones2and3.com

Chronicle of a near-death foretold

By El Cid
"Watch that boy in the pool!", were the last words my father-in-law shouted in the background as she spoke to her mum on the phone, before we went on holiday.
And my sole beef with the last book I had read -- Freakonomics -- was its assertion that a child in gun-crazy America was more likely to drown in a pool than die in a firearm incident.
So it was horribly ironic that my youngest -- a 2-1/2 year old boy -- should almost cop it before my very eyes only days later.
It's an experience I would not wish on anyone, let alone a parent.
In fact, it feels a little wrong to want to write about, but I also feel it is my duty to recount what happened because it could so easily happen to you.
I've seen a drowned man before, when I was little, in Spain -- a powerfully built German who used to swim from beach to beach every day but who one day got caught up in a deadly undercurrent that had his name on it -- the pale blue lips and pallid face.
I remember it well.
But this was a lot worse, not just because of the familiarity of the victim but because of his age.
Maybe I'm dwelling on it in a sadomasochistic way, but it was straight out of the most horrible horror movie.
It reminded me of Omen II, when a young boy fell through the ice and was swept along under the translucent sheen, too fast for anyone to save and yet all to clear for all to see.
Thankfully, there was a happy ending this time, and the little big man is back to his cheery self, but I'm still a bit affected by it.
Four of us were in the pool -- mum, dad and his two elder siblings -- unsuccessfully trying to create a human tower.
We were unsuccessful but determined and having a right laugh. You all know what I'm talking about. You've all been there.
We were noisy and enjoying ourselves.
Manolo watched from the sidelines.
Or so we thought, because as I rose for the umpteenth time from under the water with my wife on my shoulders, she suddenly asked: "Where's Manolo?"
I looked around and he wasn't there -- at least he wasn't where he had been when I last looked which was I-dunno-how-many minutes ago.
I swept the pool and there was a tuft of blond hair just above the water. MANOLO!!!!!!!
I threw the missus off -- she shouted the same thing a split-second after I had and I remember hoping that I hadn't thrown her against the wall -- and I swam to the boy.
He was completely limp as I pulled him out and his belly was badly distended with what one presumed was pool water. I genuinely feared the worse.
But suddenly a look in his eye gave me hope -- he was zombie-like and very unwell but he was definitely still alive.
I gave him to the missus who seemed positive if extremely worried.
I was in pieces.
She put him on her shoulder and out it came in three, huge separate voms: loads and loads of water, with a hint of pink.
It was going our way but he was still zombie-like.
I rang a couple of friends who were doctors.
I tried the one who worked in casualty first.
No answer.
I tried the other one. Bingo!
Could he speak? My wife nodded that he had groaned.
A good sign. It meant something or other wasn't blocked, my Doctor mate said.
Had he been unconscious at any time? I didn't know. My wife said no.
But he was still very zombie-like I said. Maybe he had water in the lungs I said.
It's possible, but it doesn't sound as bad as it could have been, he reassured me. Either way you need to go to hospital and get him X-rayed.
OK Doc. Much appreciated. Thanks.
I felt a teeny bit better. My mum who had been watching the telly inside was also there. So my grip slipped on the lid I had on the emotions erupting inside. I burst into tears.
My kids had never seen their dad cry before. I didn't imagine it was a pretty or even appropriate sight. So I went into the house to compose myself. Five minutes later we were in the car on the way to hospital.
Six hours later we were back with a rather more cheeky chappy.
It only takes 30 seconds to drown, according to the Freaknomics book I had read.

It's fitting that Blair supports Newcastle

By El Cid
This Labour government is increasingly taking on the air of a Newcastle United under Graham Souness -- shorn of attacking ideas, reliant on deadwood, and with a disgruntled dressing room and despairing fanbase.
So much promise, so much waste, so much at stake.
The only difference is that while Souness has long gone, Blair is still there, clinging on not for the wider good but for his own personal gain.
If only we had a Freddy Shepherd to carry out the people's will by giving Blair his P45 and encouraging him to trundle off to Tuscany for a few Chiantis and a bit of reminiscing with his pal Berlusconi.
What a difference from the early days when New Labour first got into power.
Back then it was like watching Arsenal under Arsene Wenger; out with dour Old Labour, which had grinded out results but failed to impress enough to win back-to-back elections, and in with a more cavalier and slick operation.
Labour still had the look of a heavyweight, despite some spin fatigue,  even after election win number 2 -- a team with pedigree, like Man U under Sir Alex or Liverpool under Rafa Benitez.
Let's hope we end up with more than just a Glenn Roeder when the 'men in grey suits' finally pluck up the courage to oust Teflon Tony.
Let's hope also that Alan "Gordon Brown" Shearer is up to the task of management.
But if New Labour midway through a third term is like Newcastle under Souness, then the Tories under David Cameron are like Spurs under Martin Jol -- on the cusp of a breakthrough, perhaps, but ultimately shite limited.
Still, with all that foreign money lining Tory coffers the scary thought is that they could yet evolve into a Chelsea -- they do play in blue after all.
Which brings me to the Libs -- a favourite with most neutrals and arguably the West Ham of British politics.
They might be in the running for the odd cup, but when it comes to the Premier League -- no effing chance.

If Carlsberg did 40th birthdays...

By El Cid
When we finally touched down at Reus airport it was on the back of a boozy evening at Windsor Racecourse and three hours sleep.
We should have been knackered -- and we were -- but the excitement of a looming Champions League semi-final saw us through.
By the time D came down from Barcelona to pick us up, we were chattering schoolboys reminiscing over the faded football glories of the past -- both as players on the fields of Hackney Marshes and as followers of the great yet underachieving Arsenal. Oh for a football, we thought, as we basked in the sunshine.
Sly Robbie, Monty and me. "There's no Plan B" was our motto for the day.
A dip, a siesta, and a paella later and we were there -- in Villareal.
What a buzz!
I'm probably biased, but only the Spanish in my experience know how to make these things a real family occasion.
There were old ladies and kids everywhere, and of course lagered-up Gooners.
A surreal contrast, an accident waiting to happen, you might think.
But it worked.
Everyone was mellow and friendly.
I even came across a few old faces, including Flanners, with whom I'd done my first communion. Naturally, I obliged with a few interviews for the local TV: "Venimos a hundir el submarino amarillo. Va ser como la aventura del Poseidon!" I grinned.
What a buzz!
Pretty soon, we all had a ticket.
Somehow King Vom of Valencia had got his hands on 5 little beauties because he knew the child minder of one of Villarreal's football players.
God works in mysterious ways, and with a bit of human inspiration thrown in, it got even better. For once inside the ground Tommy J spoke to the local plod who promptly agreed to squeeze us into the Arsenal end. Result!
The very best, though, was saved till last. You all know the score: "LEHMAN! LEHMAN! LEHMAN! LEHMAN! LEHMAN!"
I've never sang as loudly or for as long in my life.
The fact we played pants and rode our luck, is another story.
But what a way to celebrate your 40th birthday. I'm still buzzing!

Lost In Translation
I'll leave you with a little look at the dangers of literal translation and why it is skilled work that should really be left to the experts.
Having previously giggled when an English Gooner on a Villareal chat room introduced himself as "un ventilador del Arsenal" ("Ventilador" is an electric fan), I was treated to the two-bob rag that was Villareal's official programme for the match.
Thing is, it could be worth a fortune on eBay as it's a right collectors' item.
All the pictures are badly pixilated and the English.. well, here's an example:

When the city was founded in 1274, few rest of historico interest of times were preserved previous. Between most important, the network of irrigation channels of the Roman time (century III), that it begins in the environs of the Hermitage of the Virgin of Grace, From half-full the Eighties, the city has grown of considerable form in commercial and industrial zones, communication avenues, educative services, cultural, sport, welfare and sanitary, and it has attended an overflowing city-planning development that, next to the successive attacks of immigration.