– On the Wednesday, we went for a nice stroll as a family up to a small chapel on a hillside overlooking the town. I know it was Wednesday because I wanted to get back in time to see the Copa del Rey final, an el clásico affair, between Real Madrid and Barcelona. More about that in the next bullet point. It was nice to talk about names of the babies that Pamela and I will one day have. One criticism I have of Pamela and her family are their unoriginal and such boring taste in baby names, all very saintly and Catholic, which doesn’t stand out from all the other Joses, Juans, Marias, Alejandras and Andreas in this bleeding country. Every name I suggested was discarded with venom and considered not Spanish enough. “Er… the would be father is not Spanish!” I’m trying to consider something right down the middle, but as always, Tia Sofie is trying to dictate the matter with her cheeky militaristic mind.
“How about José?”
“How about Juan?”
“How about Alejandra?”
“How about Santiago?”
“BECAUSE THERE ARE ALREADY 50 MEMBERS OF THE BLEEDIN’ FAMILY WITH THOSE BLEEDING NAMES!”
I eventually told the whole family that they would have NO bearing on the names of Pamela’s and my future children because their suggestions are, quite frankly, dull and of poor taste. Get over it. They like to be blunt with me. They now had yo deal with my bit Brummie bluntness. The walk was nice, nonetheless, even though my leg ached. Pamela saw a beautiful child that she wanted to adopt on the way up. Santiago, who often refers to us as Brad Pitt and Angeline Jolie, pretty much said it loud enough for the parents to hear that we wanted to buy their baby. Pamela laughed, embarrassingly, and flapped slaps at Santiago. Anyway, here are a few of pictures.
– We got back in time to buy a couple of six packs of beer to watch Real Madrid and Barcelona beat each other up. I love the way most the world still points its patronising finger at the UK for the hooliganism element of the game, even though it has somewhat died off (except with Millwall), but not say anything as Pepe hacks down Messi, Ramos punches Pique and Dani Alves swipes at Modric which ends up in Joey Barton esque, handbagged mêlée. It’s not passion. It’s pathetic. I’ll tell you what passion is. On that particular Wednesday, it came from a certain Welsh man named Gareth Bale, who showed the Spanish how to use will and might, having been nudged off the pitch, overlook it (instead of rolling on the ground trying to get a fellow professional sent off) and pace down the left wing, barge into the box and skip the ball past the flailing keeper. He really should be able to do that with his eyes closed, being that Real paid £85 million or so for him. The majority of the family support Real Madrid, and I do follow them over Barca, but only because I hate the hypocrisy surrounding Barca, the tiki-taca that bores football fans and purists to death and this “Mas que un club” attitude. The Barcelona squads of the past, the Maradonas, the Romarios, the Rivaldos, the Ronaldinhos, were far more exciting than the team now. Show ponies maybe, but more joyful to watch? Certainly! I am very much enjoying their discomfort at the moment, just like I’m enjoying Manchester United, with a similar superior attitude, slide down the table. It’s great! Saying that, Madrid isn’t much better with its repulsive taste for buying players for obscene amounts of dosh while the country is in deep recession. Not a club of the people, you might say. I also don’t approve of its Franco past. It seems a bit unnecessarily proud of it. I hope that Atlético Madrid wins the Spanish league, because I feel it’s good to break the El Clásico dominance, the team has a ferocious support and the team is based on hard work rather than money, much like Liverpool. I was pleased Bale won the game anyway, and I reminded the family that the Premiership is far more exciting than the Spanish league, and you see goals like Bale’s every bleedin’ week. They gave me a ‘How modest!’ look and then drifted to other parts of the house.
– There was a beautiful eclipse one night, apparently. It was one in the morning though, and tiredness won me over. I missed it.
To be continued . . . .