I was talking to Kamran, the young man from Pakistan, who works at the British Fish n Chip shop in the Raval, Barcelona. This shop sells delectables such as IRN BRU, Vimto, Lilt, Lucozade, Dandelion and Burdock, Ginger Beer, chip buttys (A bun with chips) and toast with Marmite. All little bits of food which can cure a homesick Britisher. Do you have a British friend feeling homesick? Bring them to the chip shop and buy them a fish n chip supper. It’s a wee unassuming shop, but beloved to the homesick Brit in Barcelona.
Find it right behind the big bronze cat at Rambla del Raval 26. Or call them for a home delivered fish and chip supper or a pie and chip supper (T 934 411 134).
Kamran: Last month Hrithik Roshan came to the chip shop.
Me: No way! Awesome!
Kamran: Yeah, he sat on the terrace and told the waiter that he was a big Bollywood star, so the guy called me. It was my day off, but I came down and met him. It was great!
Me: Oooooooo Hrithik Roshan! I used to have the hots for him when I was sixteen thirteen. That´s so cool you got to meet him. Have any big Pakistani celebrities come to the Raval?
Kamran: Nahi, Pakistan se sirf behn chuth athe
- Nope, only sister-fuckers come from Pakistan.
Hrithik Roshan. Dreamy!
Dear Nan,
Yesterday I did something in Barcelona you wouldn’t approve of. I got caught.
I was taking the Metro home from Placa Catalunya with a friend when it happened. We had just reached the barriers, when I realised my T10 (10 journey ticket) had run out. I had no money to buy a new one, so I decided to piggyback on Enrico’s last ticket. Yes me, the same person who’s too shy to call Bingo, because I can’t stand the policing from the bingo ladies. The very same person.
It went swimmingly at first. We went through the barriers and down the escalator with a spring in our step, riding high on illicit excitement. I was rubbing shoulders with the world of crime here! Oh what a rush! I could probably start calling the African dudes on Barceloneta beach ‘brother’ after this. Surely they would recognise a fellow hustler when they saw me?
Sadly my life of crime was short-lived. We got to the bottom of the escalator and paused to check which platform the train was on. That was our undoing.
‘Perdona!’ the calm but firm voice of the guard sank like a rock in my heart. Three seconds of pretended deafness and preoccupation later, he was standing in front of us blocking the way. Sh*t! Enrico turned on his best ‘let’s be friends’ expression. In Catalan, he explained how we were generally decent (erm?) law-abiding commuters who always bought a ticket, but today we were broke. ‘Unfortunately for you, my supervisor saw you and sent me to get you. You’ll need to talk to him’, the guard explained patiently. I kept my mouth shut so they wouldn’t realise I didn’t speak Spanish, much less Catalan. An easy feat when you’re trying to figure out how to pay a 25 Euro multa (fine). It may not seem a lot, but it is if you had to try and steal a 1 euro and 25 cent journey to begin with. Great! I’m going to jail for 1.25 Euros!
Back at the barriers, the guard instructed me to stay behind and took Enrico over to talk to the supervisor. Oh the agonised guilt. Oh the gnashing of teeth and kicking of self. It was several minutes of the nail biting kind, before Enrico reappeared, looking sheepish but pleased. No multa? ‘No multa. But a little gift’ he said as we rushed to catch the last train. Gift?
When he met the supervisor, he had repeated his story- Honest citizens with a cash flow problem. The supervisor listened and nodded before giving him a light warning and letting him go. A 10 year veteran of Barcelona, Enrico pushed his luck, ‘Thank you very much, but I can’t go anywhere. Like I said, we used our last ticket’. ‘Ah yes’ the supervisor moved towards the ticket machines, ‘Where do you need to go?’ ‘Les Planes sir’
Enrico flourished a full, free T10 ticket, laughing incredulously.
So, like I’ve said before Nan, Barcelona is a fascinating city. Every once in a while She gives you a great thumbs-up when you really need one. Most other days though, She uses another finger.
T and I were walking home from work the other night when we came across this. My video skills don’t do them justice, but as you can see in the photograph below, even the guys who sell glow-in-the-dark tat to drunks and tourists have taken time out to sit and listen. The girls were enchanting.
We converged, more by chance and less by design, at Ryans Beach in Barceloneta once again. It was a pleasant evening with a soothing sun. We sat on the terrace drinking pints and bemoaning our different fates. Too much work, too little work, unemployed and so on. Comfortable, languid and bored.
The peace shattered in a second however, when a fight erupted between an African and a Moroccan on the lane separating Ryans Beach Bar from the terrace.
I refer to ethnic identities here, because when you belong to the criminal world (as these two gentlemen did) in Barcelona, ethnic identity defines you, what you do, how you operate and who you answer to. ‘Pakistani’ refers to any young man from the Indian subcontinent – on Barceloneta beach, Pakistanis patrol the beach with plastic bags offering you water, beer, fanta (in a loud voice) and marijuana and hashish (in a quieter voice). The African boys- consist of various loosely connected gangs of young men from countries like Senegal and Nigeria, who practically live at the Cubes. They specialise in selling marijuana and cocaine and bag snatching. In the evenings they sometimes get their drums out and spend hours dancing to African rhythms. The Moroccans used to specialise in bag snatching, mugging and dealing various drugs, but their presence on the beach has been waning. Perhaps an under radar turf war is being waged.
Back to the fight
One tall sinewy African man. One furious looking Moroccan. The terrace was captivated. The Moroccan paused to take his knapsack and shirt of. ‘Hit him now! Kick hi
m when he’s taking the shirt of!’ Did I yell that? Surely I didn’t yell that? The advice fell on deaf ears anyway. The African man was a firm follower of the Marquess of Queensberry by the looks of it, all fair play and gentleman punches.
The Moroccan set aside his bag and clothes and got a few punches in before going down. Instead of ending the fight there, he was then allowed to get back up! What kind of street fighting was this? Bloody Marquess of Queensberry! Up came the Moroccan, ripped off the African’s shirt, then his T-shirt, going hell-for-leather. ‘Poke him in the eye!’ came the yell from the terrace. Not me this time. Our entire table had got up to have a better look by now, leaving me to guard the bags. No celebrity has ever received more rapt attention.  ’Poke him in the eye!’ the shout was repeated. He didn’t poke him in the eye, but he walloped him one on the jaw. The Moroccan tried to get up for the second time, got pushed back down and this time he stayed down. Friends of both fighters came to pull them away from the scene before the police arrived. The fight had gone on for a good 10 minutes by now, but there was no sign of the police.
Mark picked up the discarded clothes, bags and phone from the fight. He approached the African dude first to offer him his stuff back. He took all the stuff apart from the phone. Mark keeps the phone and so gets another claim to fame. He becomes one of the few people to hustle a hustler, preach to a preacher, pimp a ……you get the picture.
Two minutes later the Mossos (One of Barcelona’s police forces) pulls up on the promenade in front of the terrace. Two burly officers get out, march up to the man building sand sculptures and bust him for having lamps inside the sculpture. Open flames are a risk to public safety man!
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