It's been a long day. I need some refreshment before I turn in for the night. I find a small bar. There is a line of tapas along the counter, and rows of bottles on the glass shelves behind. Each tapa is one peseta. I have half a dozen, and buy a Calisay to go with them.
The bar is run by two lads who look to be scarcely older than I am. There are only two other customers. I fumble in my pockets for some money. Spanish bank notes are quite disgusting. They are very old and look as if they have been used to wrap up fish and chips several times. They are unbelievably filthy, and probably carry more disease than the average tsetse fly. The most disgusting of the notes is a small square one peseta note. I drape a few across the top of the bar, and they are swept up in a magnificent sweep of the arm by the bar-tender.
The lads are mucking about behind the counter, hitting each other with brooms. Eventually one of the older men comes across to my table and asks me where I am from.
"And how do you like Barcelona?"
I love it of course. This is my second home. I say so, and the man beams, and buys me a drink. Apparently the two guys are supposed to be on duty over at the station, but as the place looked a bit dead they closed up shop and came over to the bar to while away the time.
"They do that every night," says one of the boys behind the counter. "So if you want a ticket and everything is shut, you know where to come to buy it." He lets out a terrific moan as his mate whops him up the backside with a bucket. He picks up a couple of pickled eggs and throws them at his opponent, who tactfully positions himself by the sink and turns a fine spray of water over almost the entire bar. I grab two eggs and scoff them before they all get used for ammunition.
The two lads chase each other round the chairs, involving the railway men as well. They are pulled out of their chairs, and a rough and tumble ensues with each trying to grab the others' legs and genitals. They are all laughing and swearing like troopers, and bashing each other with bottles, saucers and ashtrays. I am rather taken aback, but the fight stumbles into me and I fall, crashing over a table. Then one of the lads grabs one of the men with one arm over his shoulder and the other under his crutch, but the railway man turns quickly and has the lad on the floor, laughs, washes his hands in dust, and comes over to his drink. Just as he is about to sit down his chair is deftly removed, and he hits the floor with a heck of a thump.
He is soon up again, and charging round the table after the two lads.
As suddenly as the romp started it stops and everyone is talking and behaving normally. One of the lads asks me how much liqueurs cost in England. He immediately shows his sympathy and lines up about twenty glasses along the top of the bar, and asks me what I want to drink. He points to the first glass. There is a bottle with some virulent looking green stuff in it. I point. The bottle is lifted off the shelf, and the glass is filled. I peer at the label: Green Chartreuse.
The lad points to the next glass. What do I want in that? There is a yellow drink next to the green one. I point. It is Yellow Chartreuse. Most puzzling. I try the green then take a sip of the yellow. The green is definitely nicer. The lad points to the next glass. "Hold on, hold on. I can't afford twenty drinks." I run my hand over the glasses.
He shrugs his shoulders. "There is no charge."
"No charge?" bellows the old man, getting up. He waddles over to the bar and holds out his empty glass. "Gasolina," he mutters, sticking out his paunch. A large measure of brandy is dutifully swilled into the glass.
There is a blue liquid behind the bar. “What's that?” I point. It is generously tipped into the next glass. Next is a rich chestnut-coloured drink. The blue tastes revolting, but I love the other. "What's this?" I hold up the glass.
Tia Maria, followed by Anis, Cointreau, Curaçao, Calisay, Drambuie. Then something called 43. It is a glorious amber colour and tastes very sweet. I prefer the Calisay.
The lad behind the bar has really got into his stride. He is pouring a small amount of drink from one bottle into every remaining glass. Then he gets another, and starts adding some to a few glasses. Then comes another bottle, and he adds some of that to more random glasses. Soon each glass is full to the brim with an insane mixture of drinks, and the colours look unbelievably messy.
I sample the first few. My mouth soon tastes like the inside of a bottle of curry mix. I retire to a corner table with my twenty glasses of assorted alcoholic insanity. The boys behind the bar are playing some silly dancing game and shouting. One of them climbs up onto the counter and drops his trousers, and begins furiously masturbating. The old man starts clapping.
I am sipping glass number three which looks the colour of a hefty bruise. I put it down and try glass number four, which looks like some slurry from the cowshed. It tastes unbelievably revolting. The old man is singing a raucous song. One of the lads is hitting bottles with a wooden spoon and jumping around like a mountain goat. The other lad is still masturbating on the counter.
The lad behind the counter announces that it is the done thing to drink liqueurs with milk. Out comes a tumbler, and some red stuff is poured in. The glass is then topped up with milk. It tastes foul. I tell him what he can do with his rotten Spanish customs, and go back to my row of glasses.
I eat another boiled egg. A new customer ambles in and orders a coffee. The lads put out some more tapas. There are saucers of small fish, some crustacea, olives, tomatoes, sausages, and different kinds of sauces. Our new arrival has some crustacea, then polishes off a handful of olives. His hand hovers over a tray of cashew nuts. He waves his long fingers in a circle over the dish, and then moves over to the bowl of sausages.
A few moments later the horseplay starts again. Out come the brooms, and over go tables and chairs. Water is squirted all round the bar. The new customer is quite a protagonist, and soon he has both lads on the floor and is whacking them with a broom.
One lad comes over and sits beside me and starts to talk. "Do you sleep with girls in England?" Before I have time to answer he starts making gestures. "Do they have big breasts?" By his gestures I would think he must be wanting to go to bed with a sumo wrestler.
"And what do you think of Spanish women?" he asks.
I shrug my shoulders. After all, I don't know many, and after my experience upstairs at the restaurant the day before, or was it the day before that, I am a little nervous of the subject. "They are alright I guess. Some of the girls in the petrol stations and the cafes are pretty."
"All waitresses are prostitutes." He smiles. I guess they would have to be, having to put up with the antics of the lorry drivers, with the coarse jokes, and their frightful singing, plus all those hands grabbing at them every second as they try to deliver the meals, bows being pulled, breasts touched, and bottoms slapped.
"In England it is like that?"
"No, it isn't. Cafes are staid, dull places, and most of the waitresses are old ladies."
"In England the girls' skirts come down to here?" He grins, and indicates his thighs. Then draws his hand up higher and higher and starts laughing.
Suddenly all the lights go out. There is a raging storm outside. The rain is battering the pavement. The electric supply has failed. "It'll come back," says my companion.
No- one seems to care. "This happens all the time," he says.
Ten minutes later the lights come on again and the lads start sweeping the floor, and righting tables. I try a sip from the twentieth glass, and fall sideways off my chair.