Normally folk who request things on this blog get short shrift. Who do you think I am, Coldplay ?
But because Professor Pie Tin from Ireland, Ireland asked so nicely, here’s some nearly live blogging from the Marsaskala Labour Club. I’m in no fit state to blog, so this will probably be a rare typo-free post.
We’re staying in Marsaskala in the south-east of Malta, about 20 minutes from Valetta.
Like nearly all the towns here, it’s a fishing village of about 10,000, 1,000 of whom run convenience stores and 100 run bars selling John Smiths Smooth.
Here’s a nice picture of St Thomas Bay.
I’ve been looking for a locals bar, without much success, and the Labour Club looked my best bet. Who knows, it could be Malta’s Red Shed.
Mrs RM wasn’t at all convinced by the hidden appeal of this place, which I clearly should have reserved for a Valentine’s Day treat.
I told Mrs RM this is what she paid her £25 Labour Party sub for, and if push came to shove I could manage the tune to “Seven Nation Army“, which must be enough to gain honorary membership.
We peered into what resembled a warehouse.
Inside a small single room, a giant man in a pullover sat at the entrance writing in ledgers.
“It’s members only” hissed Mrs RM.
In fact, all that was needed was a smile.
“Hello. Come in”
Do you want to see my CAMRA cards ?”
Within seconds we were seated at the bar by the Maltese/Irish barman, who assured us that a verse of the “Red Flag” was unnecessary.
In honour of our visit, he put on a mix tape that included Euro cover versions of;
- Uptown Girl
- Eye Level
- Save Your Kisses For Me
- Matchstalk Men & Matchstick Cats & Dogs (jolly version)
We let him choose our beer. After all, he was from Dunstable.
Here is our feast of Craft.
Some German beer named after a tennis player in cans that looks like it came from Aldi, Skol from Malta, a local Cisk. The Heinken tap was “just for show“, and a bottle of Duvel tantalising placed on the top shelf was “a present from 2006“.
Our host snacked on a jar of cornichons and his homemade Irish coffee, which eventually Mrs RM succumbed to.
The handful of locals were polite but ignored us, our Gentle Giant regaled us with tales of his time in Luton boozers. With the help of WiFi stolen from next door I was able to find the (keg) gems of his colourful past on WhatPub.
An hour later we’d got through 3 cans,1 bottle and a coffee with an excess of Sambuca in it, plus 3 cups of unfathomable crisps. He asked for £7; I gave him rather more.
It was the highlight of the holiday.