Location: Seville City Centre
Who’s there?: Ally n Jenny
When?: 29th May-1st June
Hola Hola. He Vi Vora Spania. He Vi Vora Spania! Yes, folks, Mrs Jockose and I are off to sunny Spain! Aribbbbbbbbbbbba aribbbba! Underlay Underlay!
We’re off to the home of extreme scorchiousness, sangria, sardines and marmalade! That’s right, we’re off to sunny Seville! Not only that, Mrs Jockose has somehow managed to procure a couple of ACDC tickets – how immensely suerbio muchos goodoss is that? It’ll not just be oranges getting shaken tomorrow night. In the words of one of Glasgow’s most legendary legends, ‘Ye cannae beat a bit of ACDC.’
On the train to Heathrow next morning, Mrs super doooper forgets it’s ear plugs she needs to shut me up and mistakenly tries to keep me quiet by wearing a blindfold. Ha – will take more than that, as it’s not yet 10am and I’m still at my peak!
Figure 1: Jen is all eyes and ears as I regale witty ditties first thing in the morning
To think I don’t know the difference between ears and eyes. But, by the time we’ve checked in and having a refreshment, all is forgiven, and with a glass of fizziness and a pint for me, eyes and ears are fully opened as I’m now bearable, being officially well past my effervescent time, as it’s just gone noon.
Figure 2: Mrs J tanning the bevs at Heathrow
As we exit our very pleasant flight with Hola Airways, the searing Andalucian heat nearly knocks us over, and we struggle for breath, not being used to temperatures above 5 oC. Sweating like bears in a sauna, we hail a taxi and before we know it, we’re steaming through palm-tree laden boulevards and linen clad Spaniards, towards sea and sand. I instantly establish a rapport with Jose, our driver, by telling him how good Seville FC are.
He brakes sharply and looks me in the eye and says, ‘Sevilla are sheeeet. I am Betis.’
Cheeky bugger, I thought. ‘Sorry, amigo’, I say.
Jose returns a thin unconvincing smile.
Then I remember, Rangers horsed Betis in the Europa League last year – home AND away, and they wear green and white strips. Hurrah!!
‘Nae luck mate. Betis are gash. Glasgow Rangers humped you boys, home and away. Your team is mince!’
Jenny kicks me. ‘Ally, don’t talk about the footy. What are you like?! You’ll get us thrown out of the taxi, like in Milan.‘
‘Wasn’t my fault the taxi driver hated Baresi, the all-time best centre back in football. How was I to know he supported Inter and not AC?’
Jose and I have a Mexican standoff – we both know not to say any more about footy. He needs paid and we need a lift, so we travel in silence, me smiling all the way, whistling Glasgow Rangers tunes quietly.
‘I love Seville already’, I say to Jenny.
‘Yes, looks great, doesn’t it.’
‘Yes, so much better than Betis.’
Jose glares through the rear-view mirror. Ha ha ha. Get it round ye. Not my fault he supports a crap club.
Our hotel is slap bang in the centre of somewhere and is of fascinating historical significance. Unlike your average Travelodge, it has bricks, tall plants and flushing toilets. Even more amazingly, we feel truly blessed as there is a pub across the road, and get this, it serves beer. Cerveza por favor, aye, yes please gringo! Hmmm, delicious. Who said Spain has no culture?
Figure 3: The luxurious, opulent courtyard at Travelodge Glasgow Queen Street
Figure 4: Cheeky one before ACDC, and a beer too
A few scoops later, we set on our way to ACDC.
Boy, is it busy around the centre of Seville. Crazy ACDC fans are everywhere – young, old, fat, thin, all genders, breeds and nationalities – and that’s just the dogs. The vast majority have devil horns, not natural ones – more the plastic type you can get from Woolies for about £4.99. Our super helpful hotel receptionist firmly advises us there are no taxis available to get to the gig in the whole of Seville, even though the concert doesn’t start for another 3 hours. This could be a major boo boo – missing the concert is simply not an option.
‘Is there a bus we can get to the stadium, amigo?’
‘Yesss of course, sir.’
‘Ah brilliant senor’, I smile at Jenny, who is clearly impressed with my Spanish. Sorted.
‘When does it leave por favori?’
‘Ah let me see sir.’
‘It departs from centero Seville.’
‘Ah good, the centrinos, perfecto amigo.’
‘It departs at ….6.’
‘6? Oh, brilliant mon hombre.’
‘…at 6 tomorrow morning, sir’.
‘Whit? You’re joking! The gig’s tonight, ya goon ye!’
‘Sorry sir. Goodnight.’
Quick as a flash, Jenny grabs my arm and races us down the street towards a couple of ACDC fans who are hailing a taxi.
Just as they get in, Jenny shouts at the girl. ‘Are you going to ACDC?!!!!’
Lool I think – did Hitler have a moustache? They’re ACDC horned and t-shirted. Of course they are going!
The girl stops in her tracks, one leg in taxi, one leg out. Her boyfriend is already in the back seat, leaning over to see what’s going on. ‘Yesss. We are.’
‘Can we share with you?’ asks Jenny, in her best pleading voice.
‘We have ze Uber and is pre-booked sorry.’
‘Please’, said Jenny in the eye batting way that only she can do.
The lady pauses, then nods. She rants to the driver in Spanish at 100 mph. He looks at me shaking his head. I try smiling but that’s not usually a good idea and sets his head convulsing vigorously, as our advocate continues to try to persuade him.
‘I’ve got dosh, spondoolies, comprendy gringo’, I say to him. He looks furious.
Jenny jumps in the back, so I have no choice but to jump in the front with him.
‘All right, mate?’ I politely enquire. His face is red and angry.
‘ACDC mate. Canne beat a bit of ACDC. Scotland mate.’ I’m usually excellent at building a rapport with strangers.
The boyfriend in the back goes ‘Ah, Scotland – Kenny Dalgleish, very good.’
‘No. I’m English’, said Jenny.
‘Aye, but Scotland’s better’, I reassure him. ‘Anyway, her maiden name was Bell and that’s a sub-clan of Macmillan, and her grandad was Scottish. So, she’s in denial.’
The back seat guy stares at me blankly, then says ‘Souness also.’
‘Aye, he played for Rangers. Fantastic player.’
The taxi driver has given up and speeds off with us and our brand new Spanish friends in tow.
Luckily, they do have pretty good English. Our driver has not.
I say to him, ‘Betis. Real Betis?’
Jenny slaps her hand against her forehead.
‘Merde Betis. Sevilla!’ He spits at me.
‘Aye, right me too mate. Betis are gash. Rangers beat them 4-2 on aggregate in the Europa cup. Glasgow Rangers mate. He nods but says nothing more.
There’s a bit of an uneasy silence for a moment.
I decide to break the ice by opening with, ‘Sevilla sounds a bit like Saville, by the way. There’s a famous English paedo called Jimmy Saville, so you’d best be careful going about saying that if you visit England.’
Tomorrow night is the champs league final between Madrid and some other lightweight football team. I ask my pal in the back if he’ll be watching it.
‘Si mate. I am from Madrid. Real supporter.’
‘Ah brilliant, nice one mate. A proper football club.’
He then says something to the taxi driver and a massive argument in Spanish ensues.
I look back at my mate, who explains, ‘He no like Madrid. He hates them very much.’
‘Ach, he’s an arse anyway, he likes Jim’ll Fix it’, I say.
Jenny and I try to pay the angry driver, but he won’t take it, not even a tip. Our friends in the back insist it is all taken care of, and it was a pleasure to meet us. They won’t even let us buy them a drink, as they wave and shout after us, smiling and rushing hand in hand towards the stadium.
They were top people, and fine ambassadors for Spain.
Taxi driver -not so much.
Figure 5: The Monsters of Rock have arrived
We weave our way into the stadium through lanes of security. Everywhere is packed. We make it just in time, completely missing the warm up band, not that one is needed – already scorchio and the place is jumping – sizzling with anticipation. We sip from our freshly served Mucho Rock ACDC mugs, filled to the brim with cold Cerveza, and look around the stadium, which is dark and glowing with flashing horny headed fans and a flame-lit stage. It seems appropriate to let rip with a fruity one, so I do my best as an ambassador for Glasgow and its inhabitants.
Figure 6: ACDC ticket and mug shot
Before much longer, the boys are on! We’re way at the back but the big screens give us a great view of the stage action. Soon we’re bobbing around and shaking our things. Great stuff. ‘Hells Bells’ – a personal fave – is pumping, as well as ‘Highway to Hell’, and everything else tbf. Top set, from one of Scotland top bands! Aye, I know half the world think they are Australian, but the founding Young brothers were born – and spent their formative years, in Glasgow, while Bon Scott – the vocalist on their first SEVEN albums, did likewise in Forfar. All emigrating to Oz in the hope of avoiding the Bay City Rollers and Moira Anderson. Good move I say!
Figure 7: ACDC video
Having been well and truly rocked, Jenny strategically and magically somehow manages to get us an Uber on the way back to the hotel. She’s missed a trick not being a travel agent, beating 40,000 people who are queuing up, all standing mouths a-gaping as the driver shouts down the queue…’Jennnnnneeeeeee, Jennnnnneeeeee’.
Next thing I know is I’m being woken up in our hotel bed by a laughing Jenny – it’s 1 am and she’s excitedly saying, ‘It’s Ewan for you, its Ewan!!!!’
I respond with ‘Miaow-miaows. Mr Miaow miaows!’
‘It’s Ewie!’.
‘What? Ewan who? Not that Hibs Auld Reekie geezer who’s performs oral on strangers?’
Must be dreaming – nightmare. Must cut down on cheese.
‘Hullo’, I muster.
‘Mr Grant?’
Holy moly – it is Ewie!
Jenny shouts in the background, ‘he’s in Seville!!’.
‘You’re joking!’.
‘Aye, Mr Grant, we were at ACDC.’
‘You’re joking!’.
‘Where are you now?’ I wonder if it’s too late for a cheeky ten pints and a kebab.
‘Still walking back. It’s a 3-hour walk to the centre.’
‘Get a taxi, man! Walking’s for losers.’
‘Shut it you, Rangers boy, or I’ll extract a filling. Meet for quick lunch tomorrow before our flight back!’
‘Errr, aye Ok.’
‘Jenny has arranged.’
‘Right, see you then mate cheers. Cannae believe you’re in Seville. You stalking me – again?’
Lunch with Ewie turned out to be a very boozy, laugh-a-minute affair. Accompanying him was an old mate of his from Uni – Andy, who is a big Acca Dacca fan, and more importantly is a top lad. He somehow managed to tolerate sharing a corridor with Ewie whilst they were at Uni together. Beer and Rose flowed and we had a right old bit of banter, slagging off Auld Reekie, dental professionals, Hibs, Rangers and Glasgow. Unbelievably, Andy actually got a call confirming the sale of his business during our fourth pint, and so he paid the bill following a rushed bottle of champers. Hurrah!!
The lunch was all too quick, lasting a meagre 6 hours. Unfortunately, the lads just made their flights on time, otherwise we’d still be there.
Figure 8: Light lunch with Ewie, Andy and Jen
Jenny and I had booked a nice restaurant for our evening dindins with live flamenco dancing. Deciding we should have a quick siesta following ‘lunch’, and the departure of Ewie and Andy, I wake up with a start and shout, ‘Holy Moly! It’s 2am!’
We’ve been asleep for 8 hours. Bummer. Missed our dinner – again!
24 hours in Seville have gone already, so next day we get up bright and early at 11:30 am and wander out to see some of the sights, and have some much needed brekkers.
We pass by the scene of yesterday’s lunch, looking quite different in the hot light of day. Jenny poses cooly outside whilst I look at the interior, which is very well stocked with hanging pigs. I’m sure they weren’t there yesterday. Hmmm.
Figure 9: The day after. Jen outside the fateful ‘light lunch’ venue. Beware – it’s dangerous!
Figure 10: It’s not all Rose & Cervezas at the light lunch venue. There are pigs too!
Before long, we’re tucking into a decent Sevillian brekkers and some very tasty orange juice.
Figure 11: Rehydration with vitamin C, forty hours after our liquid lunch.
Figure 12: Rare picture of a Spanish building with tables and a pavement outside it
In case yer wondering, it’s not all eating, drinking, dancing and partying with Mrs Jockose and I, we are huge fans of serious modern day and historical architecture and art. We pass by various exciting buildings, like the colon museum, and enjoy reading public information signs. My favourite warns of the very strict policy concerning dug dumping, or excrementos, which is the term fondly used by the locals. Please note: ‘You’re talking excrementos, big man’, is the new hit phrase for all the hip and trendy Glaswegian psychopaths, and has just gone viral on twitter-tok. You heard it here first. I have adopted and simplified this expression for Wolfy, who is Portuguese- and a big fan of dropping large ones, to ‘No Wolfy. No excrementos, Wolfy.’ I think she gets it, as we’re seeing a real reduction in her public emissions; we only need to buy 100 browner bags a week now. This is an example of true glocalisation, something society needs to do more of.
Figure 13: No browners here, Wolfy! 10/10 for aiming & solidity though, duggy. High five!
We finally make it through a large tree-lined park to a big building thing with paintings, a wee bit of water, and steps and everything. I’m not good at describing architecture, so here is a fantastic picture I took in panaramo mode, recently accepted by National Geographic.
Figure 14: Outstanding photo capturing the whole of Seville in one luxurious shot
We also stumble across a spaceship thing made from bamboo, which, to be fair, was quite interesting for 2 seconds.
Figure 15: Beam me up Scotty! Strange architecture, & a spaceship in the background.
All this sight-seeing and walking around has made us Hank Marvin. So, we sniff ooot a wee tapas restaurant place, called ‘Ostiguillo’. It’s got a pretty decent menu and is rammed to the gunnels with locals, which is a very good sign, and as impactful as ‘recoge los excrementos’.
Figure 16: No excrementos here, amigo! Quality tapas. Very nice
We horse like beasts and fill ourselves up, ready for more wandering, shop browsing and gazing, at the awesome architecture of this lovely city.
We’re too stuffed for dinner that night, so we end up visiting the piano bar at the hotel to play an impromptu live set – Jenny is a maestro, I just sing in the background. I plump for Andy Arnold’s fave bev, Campari Spritz, whilst Jen takes it steady with a pint of local fizzy wine.
Figure 17: I reluctantly play a couple of sets on the piano so Jenny can have a break
Saying we’re too stuffed is a bit of a lie, as much later we do head out for some tapas things – I couldn’t manage much, so just had a 14 Oz steak and chips, and Jenny had some cheesy thing, washed down with the amazingly groovy Sevillian Orange wine. What a drink that is! Highly recommended, it does taste like wine but is orangey at the same time. No idea why they call it Vino de Naranja, but it is truly delicious if you like wine and, err, oranges.
Figure 18: Tanning some orange wine drinky. Get it doon ye!
Next morning, we head to the Southern Death Cult breakfast bar, called Moya, where we indulge in huge amounts of fruitiness – and just about have time for breakfast too.
Figure 19: ‘The kids of a Coca-Cola nation are too doped up’… to breakfast here, seemingly.
Figure 20: Moya does the Southern Death Cult justice by serving the best breakfast in Spain! Kasota Kasota.
Figure 21: Another Orangeman ruining the country’s tourist reputation
Sadly, we had to leave for the airport shortly after the most important meal of the day, having had an action-packed couple of days in Seville.
Highly recommended place if you like sunshine, oranges, bevvy, tapas, buildings, plants, Ewie and ACDC. All very well priced…Only warning is best not mention footy to taxi drivers, they can be a bit touchy. Poor pets.
Oh, as for the marmalade, and sardines?….managed to pick some up at the airport. Happy daze.
Sources
1-21: Ally and Jenny Grant photos May – June 2024