Homage to Caledonia

The accent is thick: spread over his conversation like marmite. I expect he's alienating and amusing the other drinkers in equal measure. Perhaps the only equal measure on offer in the venta.

Andres is regarding him over a smeary glass and grubby towel with a look that suggests the accent is too strong to penetrate.

'An' thon's why ah dinna like the fockin' English bastards!'

Predictably this florid nosed fifty something goes by the name of Jock. And that's one of the things that doesn't quite chime: there are very few Scots who are keen on the name, most, especially in police forces or the armed services, bear it as Taffy and Paddy are borne by others equally long suffering. He lets out a loud belch: a kind of oral punctuation; he couldn't be less like Victor Borge.

Jock does like to think of himself as an entertainer though: he performs at every Karaoke within 20 mile radius of A______. The audience gets Mac the Knife whether they want it or not.

If the Venta's new owners let a karaoke in when Andres goes, I'm looking for another local.

Jock is dressed as usual in a pair of shorts with a cross of St Andrew design, a smaller version of which decorates his singlet just over his left man-breast. Whisky is his tipple; check out Glasgow bars - see how many people actually drink it. Jock's isn't even a good scots malt; it's J&B.

I do some translating from time to time, 15 euros an hour; black money of course – I'm no saint - just things like help people out at the bank, with the bureaucracy endemic in Spain at the town hall, medical stuff occasionally.

Jock's a bit of a joke actually, I have seen his passport in some or other office in C___: he was born in Peckham.