They
say that, if you can remember the 60s, you weren't there. Likewise,
those who demonise Mrs Thatcher can have no idea of just
how bad things were in the UK before she came to power. I recall
negotiating back then with some Belgians who were amused at the thought
that Britain, the world's first industrialised country, was now the first country of the First World to be passing beyond industrialisation, to become “the
first country of the Fourth World.” She made mistakes, of course,
and her legacy is not all positive but, by God, she was needed.
Mrs
T isn't the only lady octogenarian being mourned this week. There's
also María Montiel, a famous Spanish film star of the 50s and
beyond. Born in 1928 of peasant parents, she was christened María
Antonia Alejandra Vicenta Elpidia Isador Abad Fernández but rightly
conclded this might be a tad too long for Hollywood. Where she came
to prominence alongside Gary Cooper and Burt Lancaster in Veracruz.
Ten or eleven years ago, I picked up her autobiography in El Corte
Inglés and I recall being surprised both at her beauty at the
number of men she claimed to have seduced, including all her
co-stars. Frankly, getting them all into bed can't have been much of
a challenge. At least, not one at a time. Anyway, here's a still from Veracruz and here's
the entire film. Try around minute 50 for her entrance. More
recently, here she is performing with Alaska. And here she is filming
in Pontevedra, in the movie Esa Women. They must have used a
lot of hoses to get the rain effect as it never pours that hard here.
Honest.
The
local tax office – the Hacienda – has decided to put its old
offices – themselves an ex-convent – on the market. By pure
coincidence, you can see them behind Ms Montiel in the Pontevedra
reel.
Finally
. . . Something completely different:- Reader Miquiztil has sent me this
poem by José María Millares Sall,
entitled Liverpool, Oh, Liverpool. If
anyone is willing to essay a
good, poetic English translation, this would be much appreciated.
Sobre
vuestros curtidos rostros de paloma endurecida,
sobre
vuestras sonrisas de sal y vino agrio, ya sobre los duros cristales
de la niebla,
está
mi alma, están mis ojos, amigos,
y
sobre el último dolor de la tierra,
y
sobre el último dolor de mis manos, tanteando el duro cemento de una
puerta vacía,
y
sobre la última agonía de las aguas está flotando mi corazón,
señores, mi corazón.
Por
favor, abridme paso, dejadme cruzar este túnel de plomo,
que
quiero ser el primero en llegar con mi sangre a los muelles de
Liverpool.
Amigos,
vosotros que os perfiláis como aletas de pescado
sobre
las últimas esquinas de los buques;
vosotros
que de cada rincón saltáis de una bodega a otra
como
sapos de azufre ardiendo, como tristes pezuñas de lagarto,
para
husmear el rojo carbón de las calderas,
para
darle vida al hierro como al alba le dais su fruto,
para
darle aliento al agua que se aleja para siempre de la tierra,
del
polvo que tanto amáis tras unos ojos,
decidme
que puedo soñar en vuestros rostros de ceniza
y
en vuestras sucias calles de alquitrán, y en vuestros hogares de
nata corrompida,
y
echar la raíz de mi sangre como un ancla sobre vuestras
jurisdicciones marítimas,
porque
además de ser un hombre como vosotros, soy un poeta,
y
un poeta es un corazón más sobre la niebla del mundo.
Por
favor, abridme paso, que quiero ser el primero en saludar con mi
sangre vuestras sonrisas de azufre,
vuestras
mujeres de estopa. Por favor, abridme paso.
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