In Buenos

Bar Gibraltar is the place. It’s a name sake for the owner used to be English from that place he didn’t belong, ’cause they always looked down on him.

He didn’t give a fig about the old place when he found his new place ’cause Spain didn’t want him there. And England wanted him to remain, broken, dying, bleeding and distraught. Grabbing anything and taking what’s given without gratitude or thanking the giver.

The new place is an old place, dark and wooden and smelling of beer. Its tall brass taps are coated with ice. The barmaid has blue eyes under dark brows. The glow in her face is framed by slick short angry hair. Her voice from the delta is freewheeling and scratchy. The crowd love her.

There are old maps on the walls, and young revellers getting hammered and trying to get laid. Like a fifties movie and it isn’t what they want that matters but what they take. They rejoice in a language tinged with colour in the noirish light and the darkness wins the fight.