COPYRIGHT SCOTT ALEXANDER YOUNG, BUENOS AIRES 1994

I could dress this up - really I could - and fuel the fantasies of anyone happy to be known as an 'Anglophile'. That is, anyone who romanticises the idea of the Quixotic Englishman in self-imposed exile; the penniless or scandalised 'younger son' hanging on in desperation to an idea of home that maybe never was, pouring sweat through a crumpled linen suit. Imagine, arriving in Buenos Aires, checking into the Claridge Hotel, shopping at Harrods, taking in the Polo - and spending long evenings sprawling on the verandah in wicker chairs, drinking G and T's. Well, with the right tropical rig, propensity to perspire, and the means (sheer effrontery) of introduction to The English Club in downtown Buenos Aires, last bastion of Argentine 'Anglophilia', that dream too can be yours.

'Club Ingles' was established in 1898, so seemed a dependable daguerreotype for all those W. Somerset Maughm daydreams. The Anglo Argentine connection began colourfully in 1796, when British Naval Commander Sir Home Popham took it upon himself to invade Buenos Aires. He did as much completely without orders, and presumably with the attitude that it was an Englishman's duty and privilege to extend the boundaries of Empire wherever possible. His forces were kicked out of the Argentine capital a few years later. As with the more recent Anglo Argentine dust-up, the conflict was soon over, and British merchants and railwaymen soon began to amass vast fortunes in Argentina. Their influence was widespread. Nouveau Riche families of the Belle Epoque sent their sons to Eton and Harrow. Even today there are exclusive private schools in Argentina with British teachers; old institutions such as St Andrews, that subscribe to the Public School model. Arriving at The English Club on a Monday at 11am, I met the club's genial manager, Ronald L. Briant, MBE. Mr Briant was a dapper septuagenarian with plenty of vim and a face that betrayed the burst capillaries of a good bottle man. His flannel trousers and suede brogues, tweed jacket and trim white head of hair, gave Briant the air of an ex-services man, which sure enough, he turned out to be. "Club membership is about 350, as it stands. There is a well-stocked library", (faded copies of Country Life and Dennis Wheatley), "a billiard room, ahm, bridge evenings and of course, the bar". His accent was crumbled Empire, replete with the charming vagaries of his generation: "don't you know", "and so on and so forth", and "well, there it is, I'm afraid". We were brought a round of gin and tonics by a stooped henchman of a waiter, with a moth eaten dinner jacket and an asken badly worn satin bowtie; his big hands trembled as he set down the well-proportioned refreshments. "He's really not much of a barman", Ronald intoned conspiratorially. "We had a very good barman for a while, who even spoke English. But he left. I think he might have been bored". Two besuited Anglophiles in late middle age filed in, and established a vague, grey presence at the bar. "I had to take over for a while, but the job was turning me into an alcoholic".

The man Briant gave something of his history. He was born in Paraguay of English parentage, but educated in England. His schooling over, he returned to South America to work in the Buenos Aires cattle markets, where every morning as many as 30,000 animals were weighed and sold. With the advent of World War Two, he and hundreds of other Anglo Argentines rushed to defend Mother England's shores. Briant became an officer aboard a torpedo boat, and stayed on deck for the duration. It was perhaps then that he, and so many others like him, formed their lasting impressions of the Old Country - a United Kingdom indeed, under attack from all fronts, but strong in spirit and brave in deeds. The Great Britain of Vera Lynn, WAAFs and Air Raid shelter romances. Since returning from WWII Briant has travelled back to England just once. That was in 1978, when the first wave of punk must have been sufficient to keep him away evermore. Better viewed from a distance, what? Besides, he found that he was no longer considered truly British. "My accent, you know, and the way I talk with my hands".  This dilemma over identity was not as unpleasant as one might think, during the Falklands 'Crisis', (or War, as I prefer to call it). At that time Ronald L. Briant MBE was managing The British Chamber Of Commerce. "It was, of course, a very 'delicate' situation. There was a lot of jubilation in the streets when the Argentine Navy invaded. But I never once felt threatened, or even alienated. Even friends of mine, pure Argentine, who supported Galtieri's invasion, said to me "if you ever feel in danger, come and stay here". Not even any trouble with the club. A lot of divided loyalties. Chap I knew, had been in the RAF; his son was in the Argentine Army at the time, fighting British marines. Of course, it was a tremendous relief when it was all over". Briant's mood lightened, and he diverted us with tales of The Chain Gang. This is a luncheon club for old timers who remember the good old days of WWII, when British society women living in Buenos Aires, would entertain the boys from the British Navy. The name evolved out of some piece of tomfoolery involving a toilet chain, the precise details of which now elude me. A pair of veteran expatriates arrived for lunch. One of them, whose accent was a bizarre hybrid of Argentine Espanol and the Irish lilt took it that I was 'a Scot', and seized on the idea with the ferocity of an Irish wolfhound on a leg of New Zealand lamb.

Feeling eloquent after my 11am gin and tonic, I pondered aloud, thus: "Societies like The English Club pay homage to the immigrant's dream of home, don't they? To a romantic ideal, part memory and part wishful thinking, of long summer days playing cricket, High Tea and an innocent, eternal youth as conceived by PG Wodehouse?" Ronald looks at me as if I've spoken the name of a family ghost that has not been mentioned for years. The Buenos Aires sun filters through the faded curtains of the bar, painting the room in the mellow sepia of nostalgia. Ronald Briant's eyes waver, and he is back in the Royal Navy, lobbing missiles at the Hun; a lifetime and oceans away from media types with their impertinent questions. Ice cubes tinkle in a glass. The waiter, hovering by, clears his throat and the world turns on its axis. It is not yet midday and outside the Buenos Aires sun is blazing - but it is always twilight at The English Club.