Breda: The Franco’s Fiesta Tour
Street Scene: Breda June 2026
Flip over. Play the B Side
I was gonna one way about Breda. And then, I flipped it and went hard the other way. Wow! What a night. Didn’t expect that. See the video below. But back to ‘the story’.
“Wise words, Sir, stand the test of time, and I am very glad the House has allowed me, after an interval of fifteen years, to raise the tattered flag I found lying on a stricken field.” Churchill House of Commons 1901
Churchill and Breda?
Winston Churchill, in one of first speeches as a newly elected MP, vainly defended his mad, bad and syphilitic father Randolph. The words echo to me now, sat in Café Bruxelles in Breda, as I also try to raise a different tattered flag from a stricken field.
(Editor note, raising flags from where they lie fallen… Mmm. What could that be a metaphor for? Yeah, doing poor sex gags again. Sorry. Not sorry.)
But my cause is different, though perhaps equally as hopeless. I’m in Breda, in June, surrounded by Belgian beers (yes, I know they should be Dutch, but Heineken tastes like piss) and an empty bowl of bitterballen. I start with a purpose that is clear as I reach down upon ancient literary battlefields, stooping for the pride lost so very long ago.
My novel Franco’s Fiesta.
FF - as it was never known - is not about Breda (though I will get to that, video evidence below, don’t worry would-be tourist doing a quick Google search). As a novel, Franco’s Fiesta was ahead of its time. A prophet without honour in its own chosen field. A dark star obscured on a stormy night. It was the unattributed fart in the lift of literary taste.
Yeah, I think I bought all the copies. And yet, and yet. The ghost of it lingers on, on Amazon. The paperback version - those few copies I didn’t buy - are being resold for high prices. No residuals for me I hasten to add (and at higher prices, goddamn it!).
I read one of my copies every now and again. I like a good page turner. Being honest, there are many things I like about it and several that I don’t. I know what I was trying to achieve, what I was trying to say - who and what I was appealing to. In this, I nearly succeeded. Writers are solitary creatures and I, at that point in my life, needed to turn inwards. So, I wrote a novel in a way I never had before or have since.
Breda, Anyone?
But enough of my yakking. This bar in Breda plays a real eclectic mix of English music. We’re in Smokie territory now ‘Next Door to Alice” for example. No, not the shit one that added “Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice’. Love the music selection. Some Beatles now. Music: Our greatest export. The UK is revered the world over for our pop and rock. Next one? ‘Winner Takes it All’ - dammit - the best song ever! From Sweden.
Breda: Things I won’t be talking about for those tourists that have strayed here.
The church (st. fuck knows, highest bellend tower blah blah)
The museums (lace or something)
All the other stuff
Things I will be talking about
Me
Franco’s Fiesta
Bars and Food in Breda. Getting slowly dazed and confused (step away from that laptop, Tim).
Why the fuck it is pissing down in June like Noah needs to build a bloody ark (if they had hills around here)?
Random interactions that a handsome, brown eyed man gets into. For example:
The Two Girls In the Bar
They will - forever - remain the two girls in the bar. It’s too early in the day for quotidian flirting. I’ve not even checked into my posh hotel yet but I’m three beers and seven bitterballen down. Still; there are two attractive ladies in Bar Bruxelles… We sat near each other; they, chatting knocking back wine, laughing, brushing back their hair, me, tapping on my laptop, pretending not to notice. I went outside, they went outside. Tick. They went inside and, er, I followed. So cool, so Alpha unchained. I left the bar unobserved. They’ll think about me tonight.
Back to the plot
The plot? I lost that some beers ago. They’ll be more about Breda but first, let’s talk about me, the misunderstood artist.
This literary device, the awkward pivot, is something I mastered despite not going having a degree in modern dance. A shimmy here, a shake there, a graceful pirouette , this muscle memory allows me to pivot shamelessly from one thing to another with grace and years of practice.
Franco’s Fiesta (for we are talking about this, in Breda) was a unique experience in my literary career as I wasn’t in the novel. Well; a bit, of course, but not much. I deliberately wrote it to get away from my usual ‘short guy whines about not getting the girl’ plot my previous novels explored ad nauseam. (See Two Girls In the Bar Above for a new episode of this old drama).
Interestingly enough, the first 50 or so pages of Franco’s Fiesta were written abroad, in a village outside Valencia. Hence, I had real insight into the local colour, sights, flavours, rhythms and signs. The plot is a rather obvious take on Richard Burton making a movie with a hot, and younger, co-star whilst the Elizabeth Taylor character watches on, observing from one bourbon to another. Add the Falangist regime, a strung out Eric Clapton cameo plus a Marxist director and you have a great story. At least, that’s what I thought.
Although I’m old, so very old, I don’t actually remember 1970 when the novel was set. Consequently I spent ages researching the feel of Spain, of Valencia in 1970. I’d write down descriptions of market squares, of shops, of shop signs, of children playing in the street late on hot summer evenings. The layout of the brickwork in the market square. The smell and look of the vegetation as the seasons changed.
Here’s how the marketing plan went.
A runaway successful novel. Bought by millions. Of course.
Calls, so many calls!, from top drawer agents wanted to represent me to sell the movie rights. I know the difference between net and gross, don’t take the piss, mate!
A bidding war between various studios. “Not less than 7 digits or I walk".”
A multi million advance. Spent well, no revenge spend there. Hi - ex colleagues! Look at me now, bitches.
Chat shows. Think pieces in the broadsheets. Is he the new Amis?
A large salary paid as an advisor on the movie version of the picture. Casting rights? “Just tell again, how much do you want this part?”
Several gossipy articles about how Tim Robson has been seen partying in Hollywood linked to several famous actresses. (Passed on by Tim to every girl in his life, ever.)
Critically acclaimed release supported by stellar box office returns. “Is that Armani, Tim? Who’s that on your arm?”
Rinse. Repeat. Arise Sir Tim
However, my GTM missed the mark on one or two of the above. So let me list those misses:.
All of them.
Bars In Breda
De Heeren van Breda - just off the main square. It rained. And it rained. Friendly staff. WIfi works outside (under an awning). Edited most of this masterpiece in ‘observational tourism’. The main customers seemed to be the bar staff and their friends. Loved how the bar man, knowing I was English, called me ‘mate’.
Café Bruxelles - Large, wooden, central bar, interested barmaid who I gave carte blanche to recommend beers. My type of place. Again; friendly staff. Slightly wonky table as I wrote some of this masterpiece. See two girls interaction. It’s why I do this for you.
The other one - Jaap? Sat next to two alcoholic women balanced by two alcoholic men on the other side. A Dutch sandwich, lightly toasted. I went deeply fried with a plate of Dutch bar snacks. They hold me still in their breadcrumby embrace. Lovely owners. You should go there.
The Next One - Probably won’t write about this. Through discretion or, more probably, embarrassment. Nah, fuck it:
Ended up on stage with a live band at Cafe Lievense. It’s like the 90’s never stopped. See video below. I give this place my whole hearted support. Chatted with owner. Nice guy. Good concept. Fun crowd. I rocked. As you can see yourself!
Flagpole. Breda. Hints.
I was going to write that I hoped I’d find those two girls from earlier on and tell them all about Winston’s flagpole quote. But, no one wins from that Tim, so I decided to go with a few 8% Delirium Reds instead. I know where my pleasures ultimately lie. No one’s going to be talking about flagpoles tonight so, here’s some touristy things:
Interesting that when listening to Dutch conversations between natives they often slip into English to make a point. Also, the rhythm of Dutch and English is very similar. Just got dragged into a football conversation about the Premier League. Had to admit, I know fuck all. The Crises of the 3rd Century? Mick Taylor guitar solos? They invited me over anyway. But… Laptop, yeah? I watch. You talk.
Those tinkly bells on the hour. Every hour. In every Dutch city I’ve been to. You know you’re not in England.
Are there any nicer people than the Dutch? They’re fluent in other languages but also friendly and cool. Always love coming back here. They love me too. And big here. See video below.
Did I mention the rain? Seriously! Every bloody time. Well, not exactly true. I went to Maastricht a few years back, my hotel had a pool next to which I posed in my long shorts (calm down ladies - it’s before I lost the weight!). It was only a few years ago and it seemed cash was king. Now? All about those Apple Wallets. Progress?
Canals. Tick. Bikes. Tick.
Come? Don’t come? Do you think I care? Buy the book.
Getting Down to Neil in Breda
Read On
It’s not my first time in the Low Countries. You should check out Me and F Scott Fitzgerald in Delft or Rainy Antwerp or the Darkness of Bruges. Or just the whole lot - Scabrous City Tours.