Benidorm: moderately poor translation as a selling point redux

I remember being rather disappointed when, aged 6, one of my first friends in England, the son of refugees from the new Islamism in South Asia, now the old Islamism in Tower Hamlets and Luton and Blackburn, explained to me that there were indeed streets and libraries in Pakistan. I have no idea what happened to BM, but I hope that he too, in this Starbucks world, would appreciate the sense of place and distance created by “THE 8:30 TILL 13:30 H.” in the gallery over at El Confidencial.

If the Espanish are mistranslating in order to give us stupid monkeys something to talk about, then I wonder whether we Anglocabrones aren’t also acting up for the Occidentalist, sensation-seeking locals:

The first thing an Englishman does on arriving in Benidorm is take off his shirt. Bumping into passersby with naked torsos, reddened by radiation, is commonplace. It doesn’t make any difference how close the street is to the beach: taking their shirts off is a symbol of the temporary liberation which they have decided to undergo in a paradise in which the sun shines almost daily, and where one can watch Liverpool or Manchester United on a giant screen, seated on a terrace and with a pint of beer at a price of 1.5 euros.

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