I remember in 1993 this bar was off-limits to foreigners, entry at your own risk, so I visited every night. The jukebox mix for 10 shillings accelerated the antipathy: a Europe without taste, education, culture, and class? My ten shillings, my three songs. I had more ten-shilling coins than any other foreigner. The fuck parade escalated one night, a regular complained and threatened someone next to me, my fan, a drunk who had been cheated on and abandoned by his wife. He took my side and screamed. I made the best of it, I threw ten shillings back into the jukebox and swayed to "Fly Me to the Moon" by Frank Sinatra and pointed out to Gust'l that "you'll fly high to the moon if you make one more noise." He didn't understand my nonsense, but he flew away and never came back. Never again.