How was your week? *BANG*
It’s been fairly *BANG* quiet around here, if you don’t count our Crack mayor in Toronto. *BANG*
Pete and Karen are hiding under the duvet until *BANG* this all blows over.
So I’ve agreed to step behind the bar, and serve some drinks *BANG* in honor of that Guy Fukkes. There’s an object missing from that phrase don’t you think? *BANG* Pardon?!
Oh right, I knew I was forgetting something. It’s Lyle’s Birthday week. Give us your Best Lyle Wishes too.
Mine’s *BANG**BANG*BANG*. Good, isn’t it?
Explosive orders being taken here now. *BANG*
I’d like a Pumpkin Vanilla Cocktail with Spiced Sugar Rim, please. http://www.beantownbaker.com/2012/10/pumpkin-vanilla-cocktail-with-spiced.html
*hands birthday tip to bartender*
I’ll have a gin and tonic please and I’ll stand the birthday boy a yard of creme de menthe. Witha sparkler, please and thank you.
Ooooh, drinks for my own birfdee, like. What shall it be?
I looked here, but nothing really inspired me.
So I think it’s time for a pint of Ye Olde Kamikaze, please – cointreau, vodka, lime, topped up with smirnoff ice. After two of those you’ll be able to find me in the corner, with little to no memory of any further events.
Ah, November. We join our protagonist as he walks in through the front door of a pub. Inside, on the left, his friends sit around a circular wooden table. They invite him over. He does not see, for his glasses have fogged up, but he hears them calling his name, so he stumbles over anyway, ducking his head under the wooden beam. As the log fire crackles, he removes his long wool overcoat, his hat, his scarf, his gloves, and throws them over the back of a chair. The table is dressed with rings of beer from the undersides of glasses. By now his glasses have cleared up sufficiently for him to make his way to the bar. He looks at the ales on offer, chooses something that promises a ruby red hue and a hefty alcohol content. He also orders the drinks for those back at the table who have nearly finished theirs. Furthermore, three bags of crisps: one salt and vinegar, one cheese and onion, one ready salted. Having paid for the order, the crisps are hurled tablewards, the three pint glasses gathered into a cluster and carefully conveyed back to the table. Upon his return to the table, and the distribution of drinks, the bags of crisps are opened and torn along their side seams so that they can be opened out wide for sharing. He sits, he drinks, he laughs.
Happy birthday Lyle, have a crisp.
I think bonfire night feels quite rummy. Maybe a hot rum punch?
Ta!
I don’t like big explosions much, so I’ll just have a shot. Or two. Just tequila. Good tequila. Pass me the bottle, in fact.
Cheers, Pete.
Why the f*ck should that **** get special c*cktails on his f*ckin birthday? DID I?!
T**t.
Ohh and I’ll have a pint of stressed out and grumpy as fuck please. No I don’t know what’s in it. JUST GIMME A DRINK!!!
p.s. love you all!
Gordon – ranting in a bar whilst having your fly undone is not a good look. You’re not impressing anyone by waving that around.
Oh, I dunno, Graybo, I was looking for a toothpick.
And why should I get drinks? Because I’m an unapologetic self-publicist, and thomewhat thpethial. Velcro shoes, idiot mittens and everything. 🙂
Leave my toothpick alone!
Shit, wait…