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About Malaga

Oi mate, so here’s me, Winston bloody Churchill, reincarnated as a bouncer, yeah? Picture this: I’m standin’ at the door, arms like oak trees, guardin’ the gates of this grubby little joint—thinkin’ bout findin’ a prostitute. Not for me, nah, I’m too posh for that muck, but it’s a tale worth spinnin’, innit? Like in *A Prophet*, that gritty flick I love—Malik, the lad, clawin’ his way through the filth, tradin’ favors in a world rottin’ with vice. “You kill me, I kill you,” he’d say, all quiet-like. That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ here.

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I found my own quirky hideout on Carrer d’Isabel, a tiny café with the best churros – hands down. I’d sit there for hours, mulling over my thoughts. Sometimes life here feels like a slow, gushing movie scene: “Truth is a pebble in your shoe,” like they say. Eh, I dig that.

Bizarre mural from the Spanish Civil War featuring Hitler, Mussolini and Franco is discovered in Alicante – but what does it mean?