La Feista

Last Sunday Regent Street had a Spanish festival largely organized by travel agents. The entire street was blocked off from Oxford Circus downwards and was lined with silver tents, sand pits and palm trees plonked down every few meters in-between the couture shops. I’d like to say this completely transformed regent street into a Spanish fiesta, but it really didn’t.

In fact the whole street was quite bizarre. They had really made an effort, trying to sell the spanish dream but somehow the fiesta feeling never came through completely. It felt slightly corporate, slightly forced. It looked like regent street with some sand and tents full of travel agents.

There was a mini golf course just outside the tube, with a few people playing quite intently. I stood there, at the bus stop and watched them in amazement before starting to walk down the street.

I was a bright, sunny day. For some reason I had decided to carry my laptop and all my clothes in a backpack which weighted about 7 and 1/2 kilos. Me and a friend meandered our way through the crowds, past various similar tents with more travel agents handing out brochures amongst the palm trees or small plants which someone had cleverly suspended real lemons on with some wire.

But every now and then you’d come to a tent selling food, chorizo, white wine or simply giving away samples. We walked past Wedgwood, past Vera Wang, past Hamley’s where some employees dressed up as pirates were posing, and past the barbecue and a group of people on a stage pretending to be part of a medieval painting.

We finally picked a relatively isolated pavement on a side street, bought two glasses of chilled white wine and sat there in the sun, smoking imported cuban cigarettes called “Hollywood” and watching everyone go by.


2 thoughts on “La Feista

  1. Today i saw the devil. But there were no sharp horns, cloved hooves nor pointed tails. No, the most sinister one had unveiled himself in an altogether more perplexing manner. For his manifestation had taken the shape of eleven on legs, wearing yellow and blue with darkened boots. And i watched as they strode confidently over a vast field of green and took their place amongst ‘us’ in the ‘theatre of dreams’. Stood there, gallantly opposite them were another eleven on legs, dressed gloriously in bloodish red and purest white preparing to do battle. And as an orb was bludgeoned between these two sets of eleven, i watched in great anticiption, shouting for the eleven of red to victor over the neafarious ones eleven. And just when my voice had grown hoarse, and every drip of sweat had been drawn out from me, the orb flew, and it flew straight as the straightest of arrows, and it nestled in the corner of a rectangle of squares. The devils eleven embraced and rejoiced, my eleven of red collapsed to the ground despondant, and as i watched this scene unravel before me on my box of lights, i too fell; and the tears began to flow. For as in life, the benelovent are crushed by those that are hard-hearted, the hero will always fall at the most pinnacle of moments, evil invariably triumphs over those that are good. To cut a long story short, my team lost to fucking arsenal and im gutted.

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