Hey, I'd love a sherry and coke...

Saturday Night, Seville, 2am. We are full of jamon, tortilla, some sensational matador-fortifying giblet stew and crammed in the corner of a small, backstreet bar run by Sevilla’s numero uno balding middle-aged folk singer, El Padrigal. An impromptu foot-stamping flamenco jam is in full-swing as El P asks for the order: “Quatro jerez dulce!” I shout across the guitars. Ceremoniously the great man half-fills four copas from the barrel in the corner, dispensing an amber coloured elixir, only stopping to top the glasses up with Coca-Cola before slamming them down on the counter. Aah, Sherry Cola. Just like the Kinks used to sing about.