Ah, it’s been a while. It has taken me all afternoon just to dust off these few barstools, and clean down the bar; seems like no-one cleaned up after the last cocktail party, which must have been a year or more* ago. The optics are still a bit cobwebby, but I’m staying away from them.
I hope the beer is running okay, because The Doctor has requested his usual, and there were mouse droppings around the barrels when I peered into the cellar. I expect that will improve the flavour. Incidentally folks, what you see here is the Real Doctor, not that impostor seen lately on TV, represented by one Christopher Ecclestone [although they do hail from the same part of the world, and in fact you never do see them both in the room at the same time].
Out of the kindness of my heart, I’m serving Mr D his Smirnoff-and-something-or-other, even though he never came back to place an order. We’ll keep it on ice for a while, but beware if that strange turning sound starts, and the bar starts to fade in and out; we could be in another century by the time you get to drink it.
It’s good to know that some old barflies keep an eye out in case the cocktails ever return. For the good of us all, Lyle has, thank god, finally finished working at CrapCo, which is sad in a way because now he will mainly write about Herself’s annoying pets. Cheers, Lyle; may you never be doomed to become a team player.
I am totally, utterly honoured that the Princess of Queens, that perfect hostess and interior decor artiste. krissa has joined us, and I’m more than happy to serve a disgusting-sounding Flaming Doctor Pepper to her delightfulness. Never did see the point of fizzy drinks, oneself. Well, apart from champagne, you know.
I’m also awfully pleased to have a cocktail virgin in our midst [correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Adhoc, but Oi don’t think Oi’ve seen you around these parts at cocktail hour before.] A white russian – and then another – seems a damn good choice, representing as they do the inevitable end of purity; don’t you think?
And finally, to my darling Pete, you lovely 6’4″ of badger jokes, you butter-rabbit of gorgeousness, you complete despondency-obliterating tower of strength, you great big hunk of cheeseworthy deliciousness, not just one pint of guinness, oh no; please, please please I beg of you, drink the whole lot, and don’t give any more of that nasty stuff to me. You horrid man.
Mine’s a white wine froecc**, for the start of the summer. Normal service [i.e. no cocktails] will be resumed next Friday afternoon.
*Research suggests that cocktails of a sort were available last October, which is nowhere near a year ago.
**Where am I going to find an umlaut at this time on a Friday?