I wrote this one back in 2010. It's about The Lavatory Bar (not the Bar Katanga, that came later). But, what with it being Easter, and me in the processions, I thought I'd run it again. The picture is two of the Guardia Civil visiting my dad back in 1970.
.....
In the old days, before the
passing of Franco, the bars closed at 1.00am. Most of them no doubt closed a
lot earlier, right after the black and white football game on the telly ended,
but the bars in the tourist towns at least, would remain open for the boozy
foreigners until the bell went. By the late sixties, prices for a gin and tonic
had crept up to fourteen pesetas, and a beer cost anything up to a duro – five pesetas. Our town lush, Old
Antonio, would patrol the bars in Mojácar on the lookout for a drink, appearing
more and more dishevelled after each invitación.
‘Rubio, dame un duro’, he’d whine.
The local bars were dressed
in simple stone, marble, slate, tiles and plaster. There might be a calendar
for decoration, the obligatory shelf of bottles, Green Fish gin and so on,
perhaps a TV or a radio or a juke box – or with luck, all three. Noise was the
keynote of a good bar, with the walls rebounding the sound and lifting it on
high.
The few foreign bars would
be decorated with paintings from local artists (who always attempted to drink
for free) and would have the lights on low. Music came from a record player.
By 1.00am, those who wished
to continue with the business of drinking would move to our solitary
discothèque, run by Felipe, a Frenchman from Casablanca. Felipe would charge a
little more for a cubata, the generic
name for a mixed drink, but he had a disk jockey and a dance floor. At 2.00am,
according to the rules, he’d close the door and pretend to be shut while we
finished our drinks.
This could take some time,
as the next legal establishment, the Fisherman’s Bar in nearby Garrucha, didn’t
open until three.
In those days, the local
Guardia Civil had to provide their own transport, which would generally be an
old moped. They wouldn’t bother hiding behind a road-sign to catch the
occasional drunk driver – they couldn’t stop you without ‘probable cause’
anyway. At best, they might be in the village watching the small car park and
helping drivers reverse safely out of their space and away down the hill.
The trip to Garrucha took
about fifteen minutes and included a drive through the dust, ruts, or puddles,
depending on the season, of the floor of the riverbed, the oddly named ‘Rio de
Aguas’ that, in those days, more or less divided the two towns geographically.
Garrucha High Street was
and remains a narrow and ugly road that flows straight through the fishing
village and away towards Vera and civilization to the north. In those times, it
was a two-way street. Halfway down it was the Bar Bichito, a bar with a
special licence to open at 3.00am for the fishermen to have an early morning carajillo, a black coffee and brandy.
This particular mixture always seemed like a good idea to the inebriates from
Mojácar who would order a round as a song began to bubble up from within them.
Hitherto, the drinking had
been reasonably quiet, with the music taking the strain, but in the Bichito,
fetchingly designed in white tile throughout and known to the foreigners as
‘The Lavatory Bar’, there was no music whatsoever and entertainment had to be
found elsewhere. The bar made the ordinary local establishments of the times
look positively attractive. The door was on the end and opened into a narrow
bar which stretched along in a small 'el' shape parallel to the street. There
were two small tables and a few chairs just inside the door, and, if feeling
faint, one could always sit outside on the curb. Otherwise, we stood at the
chest-high bar (or even higher for some of the vertically challenged local
fishermen), blinded by the bright lights and namesake decor and watched,
between songs, as Pedro man-handled his one-spout Italian coffee machine. The
toilet facilities, a throne with a long drop, were through the back and doubled
as a storage room for the beer and soft drinks.
The fishermen and the old
municipal cop would look on in a friendly way as the small group of plastered
Britons, French, Germans and Americans, depending on the draw, would start on
their lengthy repertoire. A family favourite of ours was ‘I Wonder Who’s
Kissing Her Now’ (an old song immortalised in the late sixties by the New
Vaudeville Band) followed, perhaps, by the popular drunken bawl ‘I’ve Got
Sixpence’ or perhaps ‘Bless Em All’. A cockney couple, Pat and Tony Farr, had
taught us a number of appropriate songs, such as ‘I’m One of the Ruins that
Cromwell Knocked Abaht a Bit’ or ‘I’m Henry the Eighth I Am’ and so on.
More carajillos as Pedro, face pitted with acne, would tell everyone to hsss, to be quiet. People are trying to
sleep (apparently).
Things could only get worse
as the Rugby Songs were unleashed. Rugby Songs are England’s answer to folk
music and run along the lines of ‘My Little Sister Lily’ or ‘They Were
Tattered, They Were Torn…’ with lots of lines ending in –uck and so on. Curiously,
many of them are set to opera music, which gives the performers a chance to
really crank out the key words with enthusiasm. At times, even the extranjeros can be loud.
The ride home was always uneventful, I’m sorry to report. No accidents or arrests. But those were
different times. Cheap, basic and fun.
