Tennent's Bar

Four weekends and three storms February has seen. Ciara (pronounced Chiara), Dennis (pronounced Denis, not Denis) and Jorge (which the Brits struggle to pronounce, waving their vocal cords uncontrollably while aspirating the 'h'). Weekends and weekdays when it rained, snowed and blew without any consideration for the city's waterways, the black clay of the parks and the white sheep of the Highlands. The locals (it never ceases to amaze me) don't care about the weather, accustomed to swimming in puddles since they were toddlers. However, in recent weeks some plywood panels have robbed them of their sleep. Overnight, their local pub, a bad omen, had appeared surrounded by that bad wood that separates workers from consumers. Not even a little sign warning us! Some, passing by the opposite corner, with the same puffy jacket they wore to work at the shipyard, waited in the rain for something to help their intuition. Perhaps the materials that were being brought in or taken out. Our pub 'wetherspoonised'? feared the regulars, referring to the most famous (and evil) pub chain in the United Kingdom.

After 20 days with their corresponding nights, new lamps, which you could only see if you moved far enough away from the fence, appeared hanging next to the windows. They were spherical, made of transparent glass, with a rose gold screw and a vintage LED bulb. It doesn't look good! But Friday arrived (last night) and the pub shed its barriers and opened its doors again, as it has been doing since 1884. The first thing that struck you when you entered was the smell of fresh paint, absent from the dive for decades. At first glance it didn't seem to have changed much: in addition to the aforementioned lamps, new 70-inch televisions (pretty big size, a colleague commented) hung from the four corners and the ceiling was now a different, more elegant color; but the bar, the tables, the columns... everything was in its place. You had to pretend to be indifferent, so you couldn't stop to look too long without first going to the beer taps, which, thank God!, were serving the same brands. With a pint in hand, in your circle of friends, you could discreetly scrutinize the changes. The carpet and the parquet had been replaced by Portuguese ceramic tiles, the old paintings on the wall had been moved to the corridor and a new opening in the back wall, a hand's breadth from the window, allowed easy access to the adjoining room, at the cost of losing the bench and the table that occupied that corner. The locals seemed to have forgotten where the bathroom was to walk through the new passageway and scrutinize all the details. Their gestures and that special gleam in their eyes revealed their satisfaction. Right amount of changes, young man. Rarely can one experience the feeling of collective happiness that was breathed last night. I don't know why Alastair Grey's exhortation came to mind, added to his mural in a nearby restaurant: Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation. It's this people's second home. I come here every now and then on Fridays, they are here every day. They arrive at a certain time, alone or in pairs, sip their pints while reading the newspaper, chat with other shipwrecks, reflect or lose themselves in the Sky Sports News. Until they kick them out. Every day. This bar is their life. And it hadn't been stolen from them.

The clientele on the day of the reinauguration