A QUESTION OF HONESTY AS

VIKRAM VIRUS NETS A LOSER

If, like me, you know precious little about the internal workings of a computer, then I guess you'll have been ripped off by a computer repair 'expert' at least once. No matter which country you live in.

Unless, that is, you have a trusted friend who understands all the technical stuff and can bail you out when your laptop or desktop is sinking under a sea of problems.

I've seen TV programmes exposing computer sharks in the UK. And whilst I've yet to be convinced either way as far as Spain is concerned, I have now experienced first-hand the ''tell 'em anything and they'll believe it'' mentality of some self-styled 'experts' in the UK.

I spent Christmas and the New Year in Manchester and when my Dell desktop computer over there suddenly refused to connect to the internet, I tried everything I knew to solve the problem. Like swearing at it - and rebooting. Well, that's about all I can do when something goes wrong.

Someone once told me that rebooting solves everything. And he was a computer expert - or professed to be. Pillock!

Anyway, computer matters being all Geek to me, I decided to ask around at a couple of the local specialist shops in the suburb where my UK home is. There was no way I was going to lug the machine to their premises, so I made a couple of notes and also armed myself with the message that kept appearing on the screen.

The proxy server is refusing connections.
Firefox is configured to use a proxy server that is refusing connections.
o Check the proxy settings to make sure that they are correct.
o Contact your network administrator to make sure the proxy server is working.

At the first computer shop I went to - a relatively new, well-fitted establishment - I showed the screen message to a smartly-dressed Asian gentleman and asked him if he knew what it meant and how much it would cost to get me back on line.

''Your computer has a virus,'' he told me authoritatively. ''We will need to remove it, which will involve cleaning the files off your computer so it will be more or less as it was when you bought it. This will cost you £40.

''If you would like the files restoring as they are now, this will be an additional £15. We will need to have the computer for about 24 hours.''

I mentally dubbed him Vikram Virus and told him I would return with the computer. Intending to obtain at least one more estimate before committing myself, I headed for another, smaller computer repair shop in a less salubrious area.

''There's a problem with the settings. I can fix it for £20,'' asserted the youthful manager.

''No virus?'' I queried.

''No, it's the settings and I can sort it out in about half an hour if you bring me the computer tower.''

No virus, no need to remove and replace files - and £20 compared to £55 to get me back on line. That will do for me, I thought - and headed home  to collect the computer tower vowing never to go near Vikram Virus's place again.

When I arrived, my young lodger Anthony had just come home from work. Remembering that he worked in IT, I thought I'd sound him out in the hope he might know what was causing the problem.

Anthony, for some reason I can't get on the internet,'' I confided, producing the proxy message from my handbag and plonking it in front of his face.  'Do you have any idea what this means?''

I expected a furrowed brow and a vacant  ''Sorry, I don't know'' but got the opposite.

''Don't worry, it's nothing major,'' he insisted. I can sort it out - it's a minor thing with the settings.''

With that he sat down at the computer, called up something or other, tapped a few keys - and bingo, we were back online.

The whole job took little more than 60 seconds - and he refused point blank to take any payment.

From £55, to £20 to a freebie. And they used to say you couldn't trust car repair shops!

OK, so I should have asked Anthony in the first place - but he wasn't around at the time I lost my internet connection and I am not the most patient of people.

The big question the whole experience throws up for computer-illiterate people like me  is, 'When something goes wrong and you consult one of these  'experts', how can you be sure you are given the correct  diagnosis? And even more so, charged an amount in keeping with the work that's been done?'

Anyway, I've now got Anthony earmarked to service my car, though I have no idea whether he knows anything about motor mechanics.

But he's honest and he's cheap - which is more than can be said for Vikram Virus.

IT'S A MOG'S LIFE WHEN YOU CAN'T

TAKE A BREAK WITHOUT WORRYING

More humorous thoughts on the habits of our pets – including a plug for a special wee cat

At the risk of being dog-tagged for life as a mutt-hater, I’m sticking to my view that cats make better pets than their canine cousins. With one exception.

Dogs keep you fitter - and the bigger the better. In fact, if you can afford to buy and feed a Pyrenean mountain dog, he’ll be happy to drag you on a double marathon ‘walkies’ over the nearest 10,000-foot peak.

Before I came to Spain, my house in Manchester was at one time like a Home for Lost Pussies. So many waifs and strays came and went that I swear our friendly little dog Carrie thought she was a moggy herself.

She was certainly pretty adept at squeezing herself through the cat-flap as a quick means of exit, even if the poor mongrel never quite mastered the art of getting back in unassisted.

Because so much commitment is involved, I’ve not owned a dog since Carrie died aged 15 of a heart condition. However, my love affair with cats purrs along today at my villa near Guardamar, where I feed five ‘regular’ visitors. Two of them regard my lap as home. The others come for food, hang around for perhaps an hour, and then disappear into the night or day as the case may be.

The sad thing about our community of just 41 villas is that only mine has a regular feline presence. This means that when I go away – like my current visit to see my family in the UK – I face a ‘Cat 22’ situation. Do I ask neighbours to feed them and hope the moggies don’t miss me too much? Or do I send them to a cattery when the freedom of the campo is the only life they have ever known?

There was, of course, the option of taking them to England with me. But apart from the expense and inconvenience, not to mention the turmoil for the cats, all of them have a major communication problem. They can only miaow and purr in Spanish. (That's one of them, Molly, pictured. Poor thing can't even pronounce her name').

Last time I left a willing neighbour to feed them in my absence, the then community president and committee sanctioned a ridiculous resolution ordering residents NOT to feed animals outdoors. As one might expect of non-pet people, they thought that leaving Brekkies out would encourage a plague of rats to scamper into their beds. I wish!

My neighbour, unwilling to go against community rules, promptly stopped feeding the moggies, and by the time I returned, at least one had had enough of waiting for the grub that didn’t arrive. I never saw her again.

The reality is that where there are cats, there are unlikely to be rats. In fact, any roaming rodent that wanders into the vicinity of Tiddles’ mouth is likely to become rat-atouille in an instant.

In my last article on dogs and cats, I gave readers chapter and verse on doggy poo and the filthy creatures who deposit and leave it as the staple diet for the soles of our shoes.

I just wish someone would invent incontinence pants for out-of-control growlers (that’s roughly 93 per cent of all dogs, by my reckoning) and with it redefine the expression ‘’doggy-bag’’.

I must emphasise here that a ‘’catty bag’’ is not the feline equivalent of a doggy bag, but a label one might put on a spiteful female of the human variety. I’m told that efforts were once made to breed a cross between a cat and a dog known as a ‘’catty bitch’’ but the animal was so venomous that scientists abandoned the project.

More seriously, cats are considerably less trouble than dogs. To start with, they never need a bath (just try giving them one and you may well get your head ripped off). They spend half their lives washing their body, legs and tail with their own saliva – and the other half trying to paw it all onto the top of their head - the one place their tongue can’t reach.

While Tiddles always washes herself, all Fido much prefers to wash YOUR face, hands, feet with a giant moist tongue that is as soft as a cat’s is rough.

Keeping Fido himself clean is a major operation. The best bet is probably to plonk him in the bath under a warm shower, though that is a bit of a gamble in itself. He’ll either love it or make a dash for safety, leaving the entire house three inches deep in water on his romp to the open front door – and then to the nearest garden wall for a mega-sniff of his pals’ doggy wee.

Unlike Fido and his mates, cats will also control their motions almost indefinitely. If there is ANY way Tiddles can avoid messing in the house, she will. I had one amazing female cat that, having sussed out the sewage system and knowing she’d fall off the seat if she tried to use the loo, always urinated in the bath. And right over the plughole, too.

That’s what I call a well-drained pet (God, the puns get even worse!)

Every moggy will head instinctively for the great outdoors when nature calls. Tiddles’ biggest failure here is that she tends not to look while she is burying her poo. She prefers to whirl round and round kicking soil, gravel and defecation into the air.

The end product is often a mound of soil topped by a modicum of No.2 – perfect for Fido to stick his nose in next time he comes back from soiling the neighbourhood streets.

Yet overall, and despite my own bias, it seems that animal lovers in general prefer dogs – but only just. A survey of 3,000 people in the UK found that 31% cent of households owned dogs and 26% cats.

All I can say is that if people are happy combining walkies with cleaning up their dogs’ runnies, that is their business. Personally, I’d rather settle down with my cats and watch my favourite film.

It’s called the Mog-nificent Seven.

PAYING THE PRICE OF LIGHTING

UP ON THE COSTA FORTUNE

D-Day has come and gone – but how much better off is Spain now that bars and restaurants will no longer be polluted by smoke? Assuming that Spanish tobacco addicts choose to honour the new legislation, that is.

I’m in the UK at present, but I gather from friends and Spanish internet forums that the general public seem to be accepting the changes reasonably amicably.

Breaching the new law will initially cost smokers a 30-euro fine, but bar owners face a 600-euro penalty for a first offence, soaring to a potential 100,000 euros if they repeatedly ignore the legislation.

Smokers caught several times could also face a six-figure fine. But if my good friend Graham Lilley’s Day One experience counts for anything, few expats will risk the wrath of the enforcement boys.

Graham, who runs the popular Ricardo’s bar in El Raso, near Guardamar, told me: ”I didn’t need to remind my customers. They all came in telling me smoking is no longer legal and insisting they sit outside!”

Graham, (pictured), reluctantly decided against a smoking ban inside Ricardo’s last year because he feared he would lose more customers than they gained. Now he says: ”I’m happy the decision has been taken out of my hands but I hope it’s not the thin end of the wedge. No flambe dishes, no smoked salmon – and what about the mosquito candles?!”

Meanwhile, some Spanish bar proprietors seemed to be testing the water to see if the government really mean business. A friend in the Costa Del Sol reported hours after the new legislation took effect: ” I just went past our local bar in Benalmadena and only two men were sitting in there. One was smoking, as was the barman/owner with him!’’

That’s 630 euros the government missed out on for starters – unless the police walked in afterwards and chose not to join the fumadores.

A Javier-based member of one expat forum reported: ‘’ Not an ashtray in sight in our local. Lots of smokers enjoying the sun outside, though. I guess the real test will come when it rains…’’

Another revealed: ”Driving back from Torremolinos this morning my wife and I popped into a bar/cafe in Velez Malaga. Signs everywhere – Prohibido Fumar. A young guy came in and lit up. The staff told him to go outside!’’

And from the colder northern climes of Bilbao came the revelation: ‘”The major bars on the street where I live have put a table outside with an ashtray. People seem to be respecting the law up here, which I’m thankful for.

‘’There’s a LOT of anger – we were giving the smokers in the family a hard time yesterday at the family dinner and an uncle was saying he’ll no longer go to the bar. However, I doubt this because the daily coffee is a good excuse to leave the house.

‘’People will stay home more? This week, sure, people are going to be stubborn. Next week too. Week three? People will miss their coffee. Week four… we’ll see.’’

Personally, I’m beginning to wonder whether there will in fact be ANY real change. Unlike Britain, the winter weather in Spain does not freeze everyone virtually to death so it won’t involve any great hardship for smokers to indulge their unsociable habit outside on a partly-covered terrace.

And once the temperature warms up, it will be back to the old routine. Everyone will make for the terrace, the smokers will light up – and sanctimonious battle-axes like me, too hot to go inside and avoid the fumes, will carry on moaning.

PS. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the cool reaction of smokers to the flak I’ve been flinging at them this past couple of days. I fully expected an angry backlash over all the mickey-taking, particularly my recommendation that they try the balcony option (click here). All I can think is that perhaps the new anti-smoking laws in Spain fitted in nicely with everyone’s New Year’s Resolution.