This article is from the source 'guardian' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.

You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2015/mar/31/the-last-brits-standing-filipa-jodelka

The article has changed 2 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.

Version 0 Version 1
Costa Del Sol: The Last Brits Standing - the end of an expat dream? Costa del Sol: Last Brits Standing - the end of an expat dream?
(10 days later)
“Gawd, I miss England,” says Dave “Big Dave” York as he relaxes poolside, “But this is so much better.” One-off documentary Costa Del Sol: The Last Brits Standing takes a look at an intriguing cross section of expats in the Spanish Costa del Sol. From vintage footage of ladies with an Olive-from-On-The-Buses air about them inelegantly riding donkeys and close-ups of Union Jack swimming trunks, through to the tribe of twats who now descend on the place, liberated from whatever keeps them in check at home and puke-rutting all over the national reputation, a sense of rise and fall is nicely illustrated. “Gawd, I miss England,” says Dave “Big Dave” York as he relaxes poolside, “But this is so much better.” One-off documentary Costa del Sol: Last Brits Standing takes a look at an intriguing cross section of expats in the Spanish Costa del Sol. From vintage footage of ladies with an Olive-from-On-The-Buses air about them inelegantly riding donkeys and close-ups of Union Jack swimming trunks, through to the tribe of twats who now descend on the place, liberated from whatever keeps them in check at home and puke-rutting all over the national reputation, a sense of rise and fall is nicely illustrated.
In the intercontinental exchange of the package-holiday age, I can’t help but feeling that Spain got a raw deal. Thanks to the global economic crisis, there is, though, some respite for those who have to suffer our countrymen. The recession has kept tourists away. Bronte, a 21-year-old English barmaid who serves them little plastic shot glasses of off-brand sambuca, shows us how. Twenty-Four-Hour Square, a once-happening nightlife spot no longer lives up to its name. Half the bars are closed and abandoned. The remainder look, how you say, mucho ropey. Bronte, though, along with the six flatmates she’s crammed into a one-bedroom apartment with, is admirably upbeat. “We just fall where we end up,” she explains about the sleeping arrangements, pointing at one shared bed, a sofa, a dubious-looking leatherette beanbag and a pile of clothes.In the intercontinental exchange of the package-holiday age, I can’t help but feeling that Spain got a raw deal. Thanks to the global economic crisis, there is, though, some respite for those who have to suffer our countrymen. The recession has kept tourists away. Bronte, a 21-year-old English barmaid who serves them little plastic shot glasses of off-brand sambuca, shows us how. Twenty-Four-Hour Square, a once-happening nightlife spot no longer lives up to its name. Half the bars are closed and abandoned. The remainder look, how you say, mucho ropey. Bronte, though, along with the six flatmates she’s crammed into a one-bedroom apartment with, is admirably upbeat. “We just fall where we end up,” she explains about the sleeping arrangements, pointing at one shared bed, a sofa, a dubious-looking leatherette beanbag and a pile of clothes.
In 24-Hour Square, the locals look on disapprovingly. Brits, they grumble, behave badly, don’t integrate and are “notorious slags”. On the other hand, the Brits struggle to see themselves as immigrants. “They look at us like we’re their Polish,” says Dave, a man who has variously been a prize fighter, plasterer, bailiff and debt collector (“Same as bailiff but one was legal, the other one wasn’t”). “There isn’t a Spaniard who’d spend all day and all night here for what I earn,” he claims from his pub kitchen, where he serves hungry Brits roasts that prickle tears of national pride: charred Yorkshires, pallid spuds and a slice of bread and butter on the side, all gobbled down under the 40C Spanish sunshine.In 24-Hour Square, the locals look on disapprovingly. Brits, they grumble, behave badly, don’t integrate and are “notorious slags”. On the other hand, the Brits struggle to see themselves as immigrants. “They look at us like we’re their Polish,” says Dave, a man who has variously been a prize fighter, plasterer, bailiff and debt collector (“Same as bailiff but one was legal, the other one wasn’t”). “There isn’t a Spaniard who’d spend all day and all night here for what I earn,” he claims from his pub kitchen, where he serves hungry Brits roasts that prickle tears of national pride: charred Yorkshires, pallid spuds and a slice of bread and butter on the side, all gobbled down under the 40C Spanish sunshine.
Whatever the reasons Bronte and her pals were drawn to Spain (“Coventry’s a shithole”), Dave has very practical ones. He’s making the most of his time before he has to return to England to serve a prison sentence. Frankly, as a south Londoner of questionable morality myself, I had problems watching Big Dave grimly wrestling with an industrial-sized tin of mushy peas. This is not the future I’ve been sold. Dave does at least, in a beautifully poetic kind of way, symbolise the boom and bust of the flash, empty swagger of the Costa, now a bit shit and with its best days behind it.Whatever the reasons Bronte and her pals were drawn to Spain (“Coventry’s a shithole”), Dave has very practical ones. He’s making the most of his time before he has to return to England to serve a prison sentence. Frankly, as a south Londoner of questionable morality myself, I had problems watching Big Dave grimly wrestling with an industrial-sized tin of mushy peas. This is not the future I’ve been sold. Dave does at least, in a beautifully poetic kind of way, symbolise the boom and bust of the flash, empty swagger of the Costa, now a bit shit and with its best days behind it.
That old glamour does remain in at least one shady crevice of the town. Sixty-six-year-old Colin is a man with pizazz. After losing the fortune he built up in Britain – business scheme something air miles something something – Colin had to think on his feet, and now teaches jive dance to some of Spain’s estimated 300,000 British OAPs. Of all the expats covered in the documentary, Colin seems to be doing the best, but even his natural showmanship can’t hide a low-level sense of unease.That old glamour does remain in at least one shady crevice of the town. Sixty-six-year-old Colin is a man with pizazz. After losing the fortune he built up in Britain – business scheme something air miles something something – Colin had to think on his feet, and now teaches jive dance to some of Spain’s estimated 300,000 British OAPs. Of all the expats covered in the documentary, Colin seems to be doing the best, but even his natural showmanship can’t hide a low-level sense of unease.
Somehow, some way, parts of the Costa del Sol have been subsumed by Britishness, and it’s fascinating to see the people who’ve chosen to exile themselves, whether through boredom, vitamin D deficiency or the pesky British judicial system. All, to my eyes, are quietly adrift. Meanwhile, in the back of a cab, it’s time for Bronte, weeping and hungover in the arms of her friend, to return home to England. “I think these girls have been up all night partying, they stink of booze,” their cabbie tells the cameraman, before offering a worrying insight to the national character. “So many Brits can’t stop crying after a night out,” he says. La gente está muy loco.Somehow, some way, parts of the Costa del Sol have been subsumed by Britishness, and it’s fascinating to see the people who’ve chosen to exile themselves, whether through boredom, vitamin D deficiency or the pesky British judicial system. All, to my eyes, are quietly adrift. Meanwhile, in the back of a cab, it’s time for Bronte, weeping and hungover in the arms of her friend, to return home to England. “I think these girls have been up all night partying, they stink of booze,” their cabbie tells the cameraman, before offering a worrying insight to the national character. “So many Brits can’t stop crying after a night out,” he says. La gente está muy loco.