Free-D

There was perfect communication between them, they moved like a well-oiled machine, and though they were from different continents they spoke a single language

Someone once said – I can’t for the life of me remember who – that the Nobel Prize for Literature usually went to writers whose work was particularly easy to translate into Swedish. Seems like a reasonable assertion to me; after all, how much can you distinguish the brilliance of the original from the brilliance of its translation. Even a simple noise like Lorca’s ¡Ay! is virtually impossible to pitch with the right sense of naturalism within an English context. I think I may have mentioned some time ago the ridiculous literal translations of Spanish dialogues in Chris Stewart’s “Driving over Lemons” – an otherwise quirky portrait of an Englishman making good in Andalusia, - in which Hostias was literally translated as “By the Host” and other such incongruities.

I spent the whole of the last Puente re-writing a bid for a project that aimed to set up a European centre for language research. It’s an interesting concept because when the subject of the research is language itself, unlike other sciences, paradoxically, the field of study tends to become more “lengua-centric”, by necessity. It’s difficult – if not virtually impossible – to write about or investigate questions relating to the Spanish language without using it. And while VG heroically strives on with his aligned comparative corpora, such tasks can only navigate microcosms. Far from uniting us, language research seems to revolve in ever-decreasing circles, and the only nightmare alternative is that we all forget our mother tongues and turn to English… God forbid!

It all seemed so depressing I went down to the bar to watch the Champion’s League… ah, now there is internationalism at it’s best… a Spanish and a Portuguese manager, each fielding a team purportedly English but consisting of a staggering fifteen nationalities within the squad: About a decade ago the panic mongers and more ethnocentric amongst us warned of the dire consequences of international-ising teams, but for English players at least, the effect has been extraordinary, and the likes of the Cole twins (!!), Gerrard, Carragher and Terry (best not mention poor old Lampard) could hardly be said to have been dwarfed by their foreign counterparts. And what better to hear the dulcet tones of Spain’s greatest commentator - one Michael Robinson?

Even lowly Salamanca – having lost any chance of promotion to La Primera Liga – finds itself shoulder to shoulder with the big boys, with its dealings with Arsenal. Although the agreement might be in jeopardy with recent backroom changes, Salamanca was to receive fledgling Latin American signings to groom them for European top-flight football under Arsenal. The deal was spawned after Mexican Carlos Vera moved here from Celta Vigo. Apparently he felt this was a more appropriate city to naturalise Latin American players for future use by the premiere club. It reminds me of when a Professor at the Philology Faculty complained to me that the problem with the University was that the best minds studied here but then moved on to more auspicious pastures. So here we are: the clearing house for the best minds and the best European footballers of the future. Not a bad role if you ask me.