Alberto - the Glass Collector

When I lived in Spain there was a bar I used to frequent with Spanish friends and sometimes visitors from England, especially with my best friend and fellow gallivanter Marjorie Felchman. Marjorie came to see me out there often as she enjoyed the beaches, weather and fantastic night life. This wasn't southern Spain, but the Basque country, which enjoys a climate a tad warmer than London.

This bar, I won't name, was pretty pathetic looking - a medium-sized bar with floor space in front, and a little space going round to meet with a dartboard and the entrance to the eternally wee-infested toilet. In fact most people preferred to urinate just outside than stand ankle deep in... well, you understand. We got carried away in there one evening, my Basque boyfriend dancing with a chicken carcass - no-one looked on in horror, everybody wanting a go with this piece of poultry. That's what I liked about the place, anybody and anything was acceptable as long as there was no violence involved. The only time there was a violent incident happened to be when some French youngsters were in the bar and beer glasses started flying. I don't know who started it, but it was great fun ducking until we they decided to close up for the night (read "early morning"). So it was free and easy and so were its staff - especially Alberto, the glass collector.

Alberto was unique in the fact that he seemed to be able to and get away with groping every female patron of this pub. In fact, if you weren't groped one evening, you'd gaze at your reflection in one of their mirrors and wonder why. This sounds terrible, but it was part of the scene of this place, the attraction, if you like. Alberto had probably been starved of oxygen as a babe, or later by a woman he'd just groped, so we accepted it as normal. With lightening speed he'd touch your hair or your waist or a boob. It never got worse than that. After a while it was easy to dodge him, which we all tried to do, but sometimes, he could grab a glass or two and in that same millisecond tickle your face. It wasn't pleasant but we managed to avoid it after the first groping or two. Marjorie and I always made it our job to warn newcomers to the bar, especially boozed up Aussies, who were more often than not thankful for our advice.

Marjorie and I used to see Alberto during the day, heaving huge bin liners around town. Sometimes he appeared with his alter ego, his best friend and fellow barman at this establishment, Francisco. Marjorie and I could rarely take our eyes off him, he was the antithesis to Alberto and was a true gentleman.

Like me, they'll be middle-aged by now, but I still see them working at that bar, serving drinks, glass collecting and sexually pestering.