A month has now passed since Valencia celebrated the nerve-shattering, boom-erous, blast-erous, explosive, Feliz-fuelled, kaleidoscopic extravaganza that is ‘The Fallas Festival’.

After many years of anticipation, this year’s iteration was my first Fallas Festival, and I must admit that I was blown away in more ways than one.

Whatever one’s thoughts may be regarding this festival (is it a necessary festival of explosion, or an ecological disaster?) there can be no denying that this Jewel-in-the-Crown of Valencia’s events calendar is something outrageously special.

Las Fallas: Failures by name, but not by nature

For those unfamiliar with it, the Fallas festival is a crazy Spanish tradition, that centres around fireworks, pyrotechnics and gigantic bonfires. However, rather than lasting a mere weekend, this fire-filled cacophony of light and sound begins on March 1st and lasts… not for a single day… or a single week… but for nineteen consecutive days and nights until March 19th!

Each year, Valencia’s population swells by over 2 million, welcoming party-goers from all over Europe and the Americas. Party tents line the streets, where Falla Groups (special members-only societies) party hard. These parties often last until 4am, as the Falla groups celebrate the erection of gigantic (and highly artistic) sculptures, offer flowers, and adorn traditional clothing.

To be, or Ninot to be

Each Falla group is responsible for creating sculptures (known as ninots), which are entered into a city-wide competition. After a month of display, one single ‘winner’ is elected as the annual ‘premio’. This ‘winner,’ is permitted to be saved from an apocalyptic night of burnings, which signify the end of the festival.

The ‘winner’ dedicates a smaller ninot, which is inducted into the city’s Museo Fallero for posterity.

The festival is the culmination of a year of hard work for the Falla groups. The competition isn’t solely for the sculptures. Each group promotes a female member called a ‘Fallera Mayor,’ who is entered into what can only be described as a medieval beauty pageant.

An expensive do

Each bespoke silk dress can cost over €10,000.00, and the additional gold jewellery is equally expensive. Witnessing the detail and expense attached to this tradition, I felt a little glad I …only… have a son! (Although he can be expensive in other ways!)

These traditionally-styled, carefully-designed, painstakingly-sewn and embroidered costumes, be it for a woman, man, girl or boy, each represent a serious amount of hard work. They are, in themselves, works of art. In addition, the list of tasks required to bring festivities to fruition must be endless.

Just weeks since the final ninot was burned to ashes, the planning for Fallas 2027 has already begun. The Valencian Community’s dedication to this festival can only be described as impressive, given the amount of time and passion invested by those involved.

The Valencian perspective

Despite its ever-increasing popularity, there does appear to exist some mixed feelings amongst the local population in regard to hosting such a massive event on their doorsteps. This year, many of my neighbours staged a mass exodus; retreating to their country houses, rather than stay to witness the street battles of petardos (small fireworks, that children take great glee in throwing at you) and nightly firework displays. Moreover, those who are aligned with green political views, see the mere creation of so much smoke, anti-social sound and literal burning of money to be excessive.

What you need to consider

A gentle word of warning.

For anyone thinking of coming to see the event for their first time in 2027, BE PREPARED!

Expect relentless noise, parties, fireworks, and people having too much fun.

For those intending to attend next year’s festival, I would warn against booking accommodation close to the city centre. Equally, for those who may be easily spooked by the sound of random fireworks going off, the intensity of these bangers is immense. Though probably not measurable on the Richter Scale, they can and do, pack a massive vibratory aural punch, especially if you happen to be standing too close.

I write this from the viewpoint of somebody whose apartment is situated close to the epicentre of The Fallas. This gave me nineteen sleepless nights in which to form my opinions; good job I’m not getting up for work!

Negatives aside however, if (grenades) fireworks exploding morning till night sound fun; or finding yourself jammed into a twice-daily crowd of over 100,000 people viewing daytime firework tickles your fancy; then you, and your inner child, could be in for one hell of treat!

Feria de Andaluz

Moving on to the next festival…

For over a week now, as I’ve been on my daily run along the running track in the Turia, I’ve noticed the emergence of a large tented village in the centre of the riverbed. Situated near the Bridge of Flowers, it has been growing in size day by day. This is Valencia’s offering (albeit smaller than the Fallas) to the annual Andalucian Flamenco Fair.

A personal admission…

Having previously been a complete philistine, up until attending last year’s fair, I had completely failed to appreciate what Flamenco dance was all about. Yes, I know, slap me with a wet lettuce why don’t you? It’s a disgrace, isn’t it?

Unlike most other genres of dance, Flamenco initially appeared far too aggressive for my liking. With its angry-looking staccato moves, it seemed to be more akin to a bullfighter taunting a frenzied bull, rather than being an actual dance. Moreover, the typical Spanish machoism associated was off-putting to say the least.

Don’t roll your eyes and start tutting like that — this isn’t a David Swift’s moany special, I promise!

But, not for the first time in my life, I seemed to have got it all wrong.

Learning the beauty in Flamenco

On the first Sunday afternoon of last year’s fair, I wandered along out of curiosity to see what was going on. The place was crowded. The vibe was carnival bright, teeming with colour, and laughter. From family elders, down through the generation line to the tiniest of children, folk were congregated around oodles of food-filled tables both outside, and inside the passion-filled marquees.

Dance troupes permeated the entire fairground from end to end; each group dancing in tempo with their own particular local region’s brand of Flamenco music.

Never cross an Andalusian Abuela

On the main stage, a purple and black costumed dance troupe had begun to perform. I moved in closer to get a good view. An elderly lady poked me in the back and muttered something in Spanish (which admittedly I didn’t understand) then hobbled off again to return to her table where around thirty costume-clad participants sat and dined. As I turned around to see this lady re-taking her seat, I received the ‘hey, move aside stranger — you’re blocking our line of vision’ look from several of the other seated elders. I’m not a meany. I did the right thing. I moved aside out of their line of view then carried on viewing the dancers on stage.

Moments later, I watched a very similar thing happen to a lady who’d been standing a couple of metres away from me. She also got the poke in the back, this time from someone from a different family’s table. I glanced at her and we shared a wry smile before she too, shuffled along.

Meanwhile, on stage, the twirling and extravagant hand gesturing had intensified, as too had the sense of drama. I was close enough to observe the dancers’ facial expressions. Multi-percussive vibrations raised the tension higher and higher. Swishing and swirling their way through tightly-choreographed pathways, the dancers stepped up a gear. The lead female stamped her foot down with an emphatic, commanding force that signalled the entire troupe to instantly freeze-frame. Her purple-sequined outfit shimmered reflectively in the warm breeze as she, stood statuesquely amid the front row of dancers. They stared down toward us mortals down below in the audience.

The lead dancer herself chose to lock eyes with me. Her passion-filled, panting stare pierced my own stare for several seconds. I felt she was operating from a higher state of consciousness. It was as though she had become a portal through which the entire history of the Flamenco tradition could be viewed. In that moment I came to an abrupt realisation.

Yes folks, I’ll admit it … (sorry about the forthcoming use of a cliché) in that moment I had an epiphany! Maybe not quite in the Stephen Dedalus, James Joycean sense, but nevertheless, it was a definite epiphanic moment. I came to realise there was a lot more being acted out on that stage than a mere dance. This was an emotive presentation of love, anger, longing, lost love, new love, rurality, sexuality and much more rolled into one. And I do have to admit, that for a brief moment I could feel my eyes welling up.

Hmm! I could, of course, have just been dehydrated.

Moments later… a click of the fingers and the trance ended, the flow resumed with ever-mounting energy and prowess and normality was resumed. I strolled away feeling like a true convert. Since that day, I have converted to become a huge fan of Flamenco. I cannot recall their names, but I’ve seen several performances around the city, my favourite being one I came across one Sunday lunchtime at Fábrica de Hielo close to the beach at Malvarrosa. It’s my dream to see it live and direct in Sevilla!

I was hoping to publish this item several days ago, but, having decided to write a quick poem to add, it has taken me until today to finish it. I hope you enjoy it. Ciao for now!

Poem: The Awakening in the Garden

(A Tribute to the Andalusian Fair, Valencia 2025)

I’d walked into The Turia with clouded eyes,

Past the orange trees, under pale blue skies.

To me, it was all noise, just a frantic display,

A storm of shadows that would be in my way.

I’d missed the point, I’d missed the art,

The secret language of the human heart.

Then the guitar sighed, a low wooden hum,

And the world grew still, as I became numb.

In front of the stage by the bright fair tent,

I came to learn what sorrow meant.

Thwack! The heel struck the hollow board,

Cutting the air like a sharpened sword.

¡Tacón! ¡Golpe! A rhythmic fire,

Climbing the scales of a wild desire.

The dancer stood, a statue of lace,

With a thunderous pride etched into her face.

No longer a blur or a confusing sound,

But a lightning bolt rooting me to the ground.

The palmas clapped, my heartbeat in sync,

Bringing me right to the dizzying brink.

The singer’s cry, a jagged, raw gale,

The saddened words of a sombre tale

The swirl of the mantón, a soft silkened swing,

The snap of the fingers, the pluck of a string.

In that dusty swirl, the truth became clear:

There’s no room for doubt, and no room for fear.

It’s the soul in a fever, the blood in a song,

The place where the broken hearts all belong.

I’d arrived a stranger to such rhythms and pace,

But I’d left with a knowing smile on my face.

The Turia flows on, and I’ve changed my view

The spirit of Flamenco has now claimed me too.

David Swift — April 2026

PS … by the way, as I write, the Andalusian Flamenco Fair for 2026 is actually about to begin and will be around for a couple more weeks should anyone fancy going along. Adios!

Honk! If You Love the NHS

Speaking of surviving nineteen days of eardrum-shattering fireworks… if my attempts at dodging petardos (or trying to replicate that intense Flamenco stomp) had resulted in a broken wrist rather than just a ringing in my ears, I’d undoubtedly be gathering fresh material for a sequel to my latest book!

If you enjoyed this grumpy-old-bloke rant and have a taste for sharp-elbowed comedy, you will absolutely love my new satirical novel, Honk! If You Love the NHS. It takes a gloriously chaotic, affectionate, and hilarious look at the very institution tasked with patching us up when we inevitably trip over our own feet (or get deafened by Valencian pyrotechnics). Grab your copy today!

(Before my hearing fully recovers and I catch you reading something else!)

About the Author

David Swift is a UK based author and educator hailing from Yorkshire. His varied working-life has taken him into such diverse arenas as the building trade, the ambulance service and horseracing. Since gaining his BA Hons Degree in English from Leeds University, David’s main focus has been his writing, which he manages to combine with a busy life of travel and teaching. Apart from enjoying the exhilaration of surfing the waves, both in the UK and Spain, David is also a massive fan of live music.

Festivals, Festes, Ferias, and Fiestas was originally published in David Swift Author on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A short story about a birthday night incident, a little too much to drink, and those pesky LED headlights that seem to be all the rage!

Welcome back folks.

A quick fact before I begin: I don’t like celebrating my own birthday. The older I become, the more I prefer to let it slide by with minimum fuss. Unfortunately, no amount of cake and candles will change the way I feel.

Yesterday, however, was actually my birthday. And despite what I’ve just stated, for some reason, I decided to relent and accept my son’s offer to take me out for a ‘celebratory’ night out. So, my son and I set off in search of live music.

Tactical Naps and Midnight Grooves

We ended up at the Black Note Club, one of the better live music venues in Valencia. Whilst I love living in Spain, my internal body clock continues to be stubbornly British. Hence, a venue that operates an eleven o’clock opening policy rubs against my natural instincts.

In the UK, 11PM would usually be the time many places would be flashing the house lights, or sweeping the floor or stacking chairs in order to guilt-trip punters out of the door. Usually this would be done, in order for the staff to conduct their own post-work night out.

To cater for these odd hours of opening, and embrace the Spanish ‘siesta’, I had to take tactical afternoon nap to prepare me for a very late night. It turned out that staying up past my bedtime would prove to be well worth it.

The band we went to watch was called Sool Funky Mode, and they were brilliant. They hammered out some top-tier funky covers, including a couple of my all time favourites by Sade (Smooth Operator) and Jamiroquai (Alright). It was a full house and the vibe could only be described as cool. Everyone got in the groove. Low down and dirty solos had the room boogie-ing to the max. Admittedly, my knees felt creaky as they locked into the driving bassline groove. This was an early warning, that come mañana, there would be a price to pay; but after my first couple of Cavas (Spain’s amazingly cheap alternative to Champagne), what did I care?

A Mediterranean Midnight Stroll

Around 3AM, after the band had finished their last number, my son and I decided to call it a night. As it was such a balmy April night/morning, we decided to walk home. We were in high spirits, meandering along the wide pavement in a happy, slightly tipsy stupor. Valencia is one of those Mediterranean cities that never sleeps; at every street corner we passed couples and groups living out similar storylines to our own, giggling, singing, and having an all-round great time.

Then, it happened…

Enter the Champagne Supernova

A car turned the corner. This was no ordinary car. This vehicle was equipped with modern LED headlights. The kind that can only be described as a pair of collapsed suns. It was like staring directly into a supernova. I was not entirely sure if it was a modest family hatchback, or an alien mothership coming down to beam us up.

Completely dazzled and blinded (by the lights, revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night — sorry, where was I?), I lost my sense of depth of perception. My foot slipped off the kerb in the most ungraceful way. I was sent tumbling, taking my son down with me in a tangled heap of limbs and laughter.

Great. A senior moment, to welcome in yet another year on this planet.

Now, I really do not want to sound like a ‘grumpy old bloke’ writing an angry letter to the local council… and I am all for road safety, but I ask you this: Do modern car headlights really need to be so dazzling?

Sitting there on the pavement at half four in the morning, waiting for my retinas to heal and the white floaty things to diasappear from behind my eyes, I thought ‘This has to stop!’ Something needs to be done about these lazer-like headlights. And it was around this point that the creative juices began to flow…

The following day, after jotting down a few ideas and wrestling with rhyming couplets, I finally put together another poem. I’ve since polished it as best as I can, and I’m going to make it my poem of the week. (However, published in an isolated form, it may attract raised eyebrows)

This one is dedicated to drivers of those modern, retina-scorching, LED-lit German vehicles, such as the one that caused my undignified, yet hilarious tumble.

The Poem: Blinded by the Light

The night had turned to morning, and the air was tasting sweet,

As my son and I meandered, along soft lit Spanish streets.

We’d danced to funky music, we’d boogied through the night,

And in those special moments, everything seemed alright.

But… as we turned a corner, a monster did appear,

Its x-ray main beam weapons, did smite us with such fear.

Memories of the dancefloor, danced into the night,

As this German-built aggressor, skewered us with its light.

I don’t say ‘light’, as a normal softish glow,

That would lead a helpless driver, to where he needs to go.

No, this one was different, with its unearthly blue-white light,

For this one had the power, to make 4:00 AM seem bright!

Its rays hit my eye-balls with such a surgical zing,

I could no longer see the pavement; my ears began to ring.

My retinas they did sizzle, my brain began to roast,

I felt like I’d been smoked n kippered, then spread on crisp, burnt toast.

I wobbled, I stumbled, my feet lost their grip,

Our marvellous night, collapsed with a trip.

We fell into a heap, first laughter, then shock,

The light was Heavy Metal, but we were Country Rock.

The driver of this tank, sat smugly in his seat,

Blinding us two locals, from his corner of the street.

Which idiotic fool, I cried, thought this was so grand?

To let such dazzling searchlights, invade our precious land?

Who licensed these torch-like bandits on wheels,

To disregard how the common man feels?

Fuelled by fossils, or so-called electric green machines,

Always preferred by the selfish, ignorant, and mean.

They sit in their tanks, weighing three tons at the least,

While I’m lying on the floor like some light-blinded beast.

Ven der Leyen got her wish at last, I’ve surrendered to her laws,

Whilst she laughs with all her cronies, I’m stuck here on all fours.

So, the moral is this:

If you should go walking, when the music is all done,

Through Valencia’s lovely streets, with your kind and wonderful son.

Don’t look at the traffic! For that may force you into a bind,

Or else have you zapped by LEDs, dumbstruck, drunk and blind!

Honk! If You Love the NHS

Speaking of taking a tumble in the early hours… if my kerb-crawling acrobatics had resulted in a broken wrist rather than just a bruised ego, I’d undoubtedly be gathering fresh material for a sequel to my latest book!

If you enjoyed this grumpy-old-bloke rant and have a taste for sharp-elbowed comedy, you will absolutely love my new satirical novel, Honk! If You Love the NHS. It takes a gloriously chaotic, affectionate, and hilarious look at the very institution tasked with patching us up when we inevitably trip over our own feet (or get blinded by German engineering). Grab your copy today!

(Before my retinas fully heal and I catch you reading something else!)

About the Author

David Swift is a UK based author and educator hailing from Yorkshire. His varied working-life has taken him into such diverse arenas as the building trade, the ambulance service and horseracing. Since gaining his BA Hons Degree in English from Leeds University, David’s main focus has been his writing, which he manages to combine with a busy life of travel and teaching. Apart from enjoying the exhilaration of surfing the waves, both in the UK and Spain, David is also a massive fan of live music.

Confessions of a Reluctant Birthday Boy | A short story and poem by David Swift, Author was originally published in David Swift Author on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What if the UK government fixed the NHS by treating the public like livestock? Discover my new satirical novel.

Hello again, me here.

I’ve been instructed, by my delightful (?) publisher, Singman, to tell you about my new novel, Honk! If You Love the NHS, and why you should read it.

So here goes….

Firstly, I’d like to point out that in the UK, the junior doctors (or Resident, as they like to be called nowadays) are currently on strike in the actual, real world (thank you Sir Keir). You might think that I’ve orchestrated this for the free marketing. I didn’t. Although if I had those kind of powers, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here writing a blurb.

‍
Anyway…

Honk! If You Love the NHS asks a simple question: What if the UK government, in its fully competent state, proposed to fix an overwhelmed National Health Service by… treating the British public like livestock? (I’m an extremely serious writer; I’ll have you know).

Enter Dougie Warren, a Yorkshireman and slaughterhouse worker just trying to get by, and Boris, his wildly incompetent trainee. Throw into the mix a coordinated national strike by unionised (and surprisingly sympathetic) butchers, and you get contemporary Britain unravelling in a deliciously grotesque style.

The Quorn Ultimatum (Other meat substitutes accepted)

When meat production halts, die-hard carnivores are faced with the ultimate horror of… Quorn sausages! And, even worse, coming to realise that they actually love the alternative lifestyle. Alongside this sizzling narrative, readers are ‘thrown into the frying pan’ and have their principles tested when… the bacon finally runs out.

I don’t like to brag; I’m Yorkshire born and bred and, as Yorkshire people, we already have a highly developed sense of our own importance. However, I am genuinely proud of this one (the book, not my hilarious puns found in the previous paragraph). Having been an ambulance driver previously (just one of my many past occupations), the problems within the National Health Service aka NHS are an ongoing issue that I care about.

T‍he sales pitch

I’ve been given to understand, by my highly esteemed publisher, that Honk! If You Love the NHS is an unnervingly familiar, satirical novel. Some may say it may even endear itself to those with Private Eye-leaning tendencies (and possibly even wearers of tin-foil hats, but we won’t go there).

‍
So who are we to argue?

Read it NOW, before the government gets its own way and actually implements this plot for real!
(Or even worse… you read that I have mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the night).

‍

I’ll leave you with an excerpt to whet your appetite…

“ Next, Matilda placed down How to Save the Environment. Boris caressed the spine lovingly. ‘This little beauty perfectly demonstrates how one can mask a highly lucrative money-making scheme, under the guise of a Low Emission Zone. Genius!’

As he stroked the front cover of How to become a Surgeon, he remarked on the resonant similarities between a butcher and a surgeon.

Matilda smiled politely as she handed over the last booklet, titled: How to influence Political Change. ‘Ah,’ Boris grinned. ‘I haven’t finished reading that one either. I’ll give you my opinion once I’ve learned all there is to know about corruption and the Masonic arts.’ “

Honk! If You Love the NHS by David Swift is available for purchase, or rent, from the following vendors in both printed and digital fromats.

Amazon UK

Amazon . COM

Kobo & Kobo

Bookshop.org

Fable

Everand

Casa del Libro

Smashwords

Ingram (direct from the printing press)

Apple Books

Publisher Website

Singman Publishing

Honk! If You Love the NHS: A Dark British Satire by David Swift was originally published in David Swift Author on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Welcome to my first ever article. I’m not sure how this is meant to be written but, here goes!

I’ll start by making a simple confession: I’m not a big fan of endlessly wet days and depressingly grey skies. So, this year, instead of enduring yet another long winter in England, I have decided to spend most of my time in Spain. Valencia, to be precise.
‍
And yes, you could be forgiven for muttering under your breath: ‘Cor! What a jammy little git!’ And yes, I wouldn’t blame you for doing so. But we only live once, don’t we?

THE STORY STARTS HERE

‍Right… now I’ve fessed-up, I can invite you to picture the scene …

It was three days ago. I was sat in the Turia gardens in Valencia. For those who haven’t visited, it is a riverbed that the local council turned into a beautiful park some years ago for the use of the residents.

Anyway, I was sipping my ice-cold beer whilst reflecting upon the ease in which I seemed to have slipped into the Spanish lifestyle. I was thinking how grateful I am to have the freedom to flit back and forth between Yorkshire and Spain. So, there I was, feeling chuffed with myself, when… suddenly, out of nowhere, they appeared. A flock of them!

I say, ‘A flock.’ I’m not quite sure what the collective noun for a group of corporate employees is. A ‘synergy’ of managers? An ‘action-item’ of executives? Whatever they were, they were marching towards the Caixa Forum building with the unmistakable look of people about to embark upon a mandatory team-building exercise.

THE HACKLES ON MY NECK

From attending similar events throughout my teaching career, I felt I could make a qualified guess as to what they were in for. Within minutes, they’d be asked to: ‘Turn to the person on your left and find out three things you don’t already know about them.’

Next, they’d probably be tasked with building a bridge out of dry spaghetti and marshmallows. Or maybe, attempting to catch Dave from Accounts in a trust fall as he stumbles and rips his favourite corduroy trousers.

But it wasn’t their forced cheerfulness that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. No. It was actually what they were wearing around their necks that did it…

LANYARDS!

(SPOKEN WITH AS MUCH MOCK-DISGUST AS YOU CAN MUSTER, PLEASE!)

LANYARDS!‍

That corporate dog collar. That woven nylon strip of oppression. You know the exact type… complete with the little plastic safety-break clip at the back, just in case you lean too close to the office shredder and accidentally file yourself under ‘D’ for Deceased.

While it may appear to be a staple fashion item for some, I always found them to be such an unnecessary nuisance; especially when leading physical activities such as outdoor pursuits or sporting events. We all knew who everyone was; yet, staff were still expected to spend their working days tagged like prize cattle at a slightly depressing agricultural show.

BLUE-SKY THINKING

Anyway, as I watched this group shuffle off to do some ‘blue-sky thinking’ indoors I contemplated the actual blue sky above. A wave of profound, magnificent relief washed over me. I took another long sip of my ice-cold beer and smiled to myself.

There and then, I pulled out my pad and pen from my rucksack and began scribbling notes.

The sheer contrast between my sunny sense of freedom and the flock’s leashed existence had got my creative juices flowing.

We all knew who everyone was; yet, staff were still expected to spend their working days tagged like prize cattle at a slightly depressing agricultural show.‍

So, here is my first week’s poetic offering. It’s a somewhat cynical view of a particular aspect of the working days I have left behind; and, a quiet toast to the freedom of the present. Salut!
‍

The Corporate Collar

I remember the days of the verbal exchange,
When asking a name wasn’t considered deranged.
You’d use your mouth … that fleshy, pink hole,
To establish rapport … to reach someone’s soul.
But now folk are all branded, like cattle in a pen,
The woven nylon leash of the modern-day men.
A plastic-wrapped pendulum, swinging low,
Telling the world what they already know.

“Hi, I’m Dave,” says the tag on his chest,
Strapped to a man, who is feeling depressed
Death of the Introduction … marks the end of the chat,
A corporate collar for a white-collared brat.
It’s Woke-ism wrapped in a safety-break clip,
In case one feels tempted to give it a rip.
A Thatcherised workforce … too gagged to ask: Why?
Silently screaming their lanyard-clad cry!

David Swift 2025

New kid on the block - Author David Swift's poetic musings on the Lanyard was originally published in David Swift Author on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.