Xan carallán, British Xan


Three fourty, saturday night.
We’re on Sunday, technically, at now.
Two girls from London at a narow Galician street, Xan said, ‘ goodness’ with a very bad speech, girls don’t stop, girl’s don’t look Xan, girls give no any present of a word to him.
Xan , then , thinks about all, about his family, about dirty times , time ago, at suburbs at London, Father died,because cancer, because only Galicians want to work behind those material, dirty and dangerous and who knows the name of that material. Now his body lies buried in a lost corner, in a forgotten suburb near nowere,yes, in the kingdom, UK -for sure-.

Xan tried to recover the bit of his life at Galicia, he returned with his mother to that village, and had no opportunity, no chances to growing , to made himself a man, only the chance to survive. He was near to lose his leg, working at a building for a local cacique -good jobs was only not for good workers like Xan, but for wannabe-mafia boys.
Xan carallán, he says, and many dirty words to the church, to the local mafia, to teachers, to politicians, to all the one.
Xan didn’t turn his head to see the girls, Xan go on, Xan return home, tomorrow is Sunday , tomorrow another -more dirty words. Fucking, what the hell- Sunday.
Another working-Sunday, you can’t work, oh God save me, oh Jesus please pardons my sins, oh priest and sacred heart, save me , but what a hell no money , then Xan, -who’s the real carallán?, WHAT THE HELL ARE THE PRIEST AND THE SONS OF THE MAYOR, THE TEACHER WHO HURTED HIM, WHAT THE HELL???, Xan is shouting, a cat jump over the wet stone wall, with a ‘tourist: Galicia is not Spain’ grafitti- Xan return home, thinks about the girls, no time for a girl, no time for nothing, his old friends,-what a hell- no notice about him, everybody at the university, all the ones cry-cry boys, fathergivememoney to study, fathergivememoney for drugs, fathergivememoney for the yacht.
Xan’s shoes, dirty shoes, broken shoes, shoes like a joke of real shoes, and no money to wear decent clothing, and what the hell, Xan, great Xan don’t speak English -he was four when he returned Galicia- , only a bad wannabe Castillian-castrapo, and Galician lenguage all the time. He wish speak other languages, see new faces, have other chances.
But other Galician boy. Nothing more.
And nothing less.

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