top of page
  • _

They may take our lives...

 

pero jamás nos quitarán la libertad!

 

I spent the day in La Zubia prior to moving my stuff into the new apartment. I wanted to get a feel for the place, have a wander about, and suss out the bus routes etc. Inevitably I went into the William Wallace for a bit of lunchtime tapas.

 

I am proud to say that I did my fellow Scots proud and ordered a rather ambitious sounding Harmburguesas William Wallace to go with my second glass of wine. It felt good to play my own small part in reinforcing the globally held view that us Scots are brought up on a diet of lard, fat, lard, alcohol, sugar, ciggies and fat.

 

When it arrived the layering of the burger appeared as follows:

(from the bottom up)

cheese

tomato

lettuce

some kind of mayo

beefburger

ham

lettuce

tomato

bacon

a fried egg

mayo

 

Obviously, taking on so much lettuce at lunchtime was a struggle but in true Wallace style I just got on with it. The two rather fey yet delicious free tapas I had downed beforehand slightly took the edge off proceedings and somehow made this magnificent culinary gut fest taste not quite as good as it ought. I put it down to being out of practice and to being too exposed to all this foreign muck.

 

Still, when I had finished the gourmet dish and made my first attempt at bipedal movement I discovered with much satisfaction that a layer of  congealed saturated fats had set into concrete from my legs upwards. A job well done then.

 

To appease my Scouse and English leanings I rounded things off with a nice pot of tea and gave consideration to doing a runner. The genius of the Hamburguesa however was to render any sudden movements impossible. A magnificent tribute to the great man. And some say he died in vain.

 

What greater legacy could he have hoped for as Longshanks prepared to rip his belly out on the scaffold all those years ago?

 

Mel Gibson my ass.

 

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

1,114 and counting

Tonight, in a bar in La Zubia, I shall impart my 1,114th English class. That means that in little under two and a half years I have given, on average, 455.72 classes a year, 37.97 classes a month, 8.8

Barcelona

an extract from my forthcoming book, 'The Cats of the River Darro' Dead? Dead at fifty? I can't believe it. It's not fair! Why's it not fair then? Fifty's a good innings. It's more than I give most pe

The Girl Who Is Isabel

I used to teach a girl named Isabel. One day, shortly after we'd finished our series of classes, she got onto my bus but it turned out the girl wasn't Isabel at all. Oddly, over the next few days, I k

bottom of page