A Homage To Galicia (With Apologies To George Orwell)

Now its not that we Stags don’t care about the Anglo Galician Cup Blog. Its just that it takes six month’s or so, to sober up and, have the liver biosopy results come through and the hand tremors cease before we can cast our minds back to the events of our sojourn in the domain of the Porquos Bravo’s.

The blog has a hint of surrealism about it, in more ways than one, and we wanderers from the white chalk cliffs of Albion aren’t as European as you. Good job we don’t play you at University Challenge, we’d lose that annal (as well) nothing to with ones arse..

Speaking of results, after our recent visit, the ‘match’ is best forgotten as far as we Stags are concerned. All my careful jottings of the ‘game’ have been cast into oblivion and only surface when I have eaten cheese late at night. We stayed again at the Hotel DeBarca though I hear its going to change its name to the Hotel Debacle to reflect the Stags performance. Our hungover ‘hero’s’, some with face’s as green as their shirts (which cast off snooker tables did you get the material from Thompson?) formed up like lambs to the slaughter in the bright Pontevedrian sunlight. Overhead the sea gulls wheeled and cackled like airborne witches from the first act of the ‘Scottish Play’. The rest is history, Thank God, apart from the victory ale served up by Serge in the usual hospitable manner by our Galician chums, I think it still lies resurgent in Clayton’s lower colon to this day and comes up for air and a look at the outside world from time to time. More restful memories come to mind, the first intravenous infusion of Estrella Galicia (lovely girl) in a bar called the Trafalgar in Santigago almost had me doing a hornpipe while whistling a Mike Oldfield tune and dreaming of the great day’s of the Royal Navy ie ships biscuit complete with weevils, fishing for fresh rats in the hold and rum, sodomy and the lash...

All those times back in Blighty where you visit a pub called the ‘Bulls Head’ and there ain’t one. Back in PV and there’s a bloody great one looking like its just charged through the wall in a position where we would have being seeing mice and tall rabbits called Harvey if we had lingered another forty eight hours. Curious toilet arrangements in a winebar, groaning platters of Galician Breakfasts with me casting a wary eye out for tuna, tapas par excellence, 6/% moorish beer served up by the Argie, late night sandwiches in PV, clean streets, civilised drinkers, Galician lasses with chic,not showing their thongs or tattoos, police you treat with respect, football with loads of passion and beer but no violence...

Paradise lost but not for long because we’ll back. But its Sheffield’s turn this May and the Porquos want some culture. Plans are a foot amigos (and it won’t be the culture that comes out of a Petre dish either Thompson, the Lap Dancing place has closed down and there’s no Hooters in Sheffield apart from that one that blows at one ‘oclock).

Now I won’t be able to match Victor and his rendering of the Galician anthem but when I stand on stage with me Vera Lynn tapes on there won’t be a dry eye in the house (come to think of it there won’t be anyone in the house because the last bus will have gone) Boroman has promised his speciality act playing bones and there’s more. Just confirm those dates Porquos, after visiting Newcastle and the Bigg Market you’ll appreciate some culture, how do you fancy some hot pork pies along with the Stoones down in Sheffield?

Till Then.

Ron Clayton.
Made In Sheffield Sometime Before 11th August 1952

PS: about those cannon outside the Fat Cat. I’ve got a mate down Attercliffe who is interested in getting em weighed in, have you a contact?