Handball has become a major part of my Saturdays in Spain.

It's like baseball but with a softer ball, a smaller pitch, and underarm bowling. Do I play this game? No, I listen to it. Actually, I have no choice but to listen as it is being played in the field next to the accommodation.

I don't think I've ever come across so much enthusiasm for any game, but then I'm not the sporty type. Most of the good players seem to be called Jorge; at least, that the name I keep hearing being shouted. The catching skills of the fielders are phinomin, phanomia, fenom - they're really good!

Every now and then, the team coach starts off a really macho chant; it's a bit like the Maori haka but less scary because they not wearing war paint.

If I was a handball player, I'd want to be called Jorge, just so I could hear people cheering me on.

Oh, but what if Jorge is an absolute plonker who is being jeered not cheered?

I think I'd better think it out again. 

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