Saturday 3rd November
The afternoon sun in Barcelona stung my eyes. I had to seek shade. Although a good twenty-five hours into my day I was still fairly sure I could trust the hotel receptionist to ensure the incoming telephone call could be transferred direct to the Irish Bar I forget the name of off La Ramblas. Amazing how obedient staff can be when they can smell Stella Artois about your breath.
"Ola, Senor Marks?" asked the bartender. I told him I was the very same. "Call for you from Ing-land." I took the receiver from his hand, stubbed out my Lucky Strike and prepared myself for the news by taking a hearty slug from my bloody Mary. Burridge had won 3-1. The goalscorers were Sam Hewitt, Rob Kelly and Schwodler.
"Schwodler?" I asked. "Was that Jay or was it Sam?" Hysterical laughter followed down the telephone line.
"Jesus, Marks - you really must be sinking the booze down there," said my informant still laughing. "Jay or Sam?.....that's priceless, really it is." I put down the receiver realising what I'd just asked and ordered another drink to celebrate.