In 1969, as a nine year-old, the only real sign that we had gone on holiday to a fascist dictatorship was the policemen with machine guns walking up and down outside the hotel. The only other real sign was that Maria, my first true holiday love and our waitress at the Riviera Hotel Benidorm, would religiously count the number of chips each of us were given. Say what you will about Spanish fascism, it had the regularity and order of a well-run capitalist fast food outlet.
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