And lo, the time to serve drinkage is upon us. Be afraid, be very afraid.

While I remember, Asta, the doilies were made from shredded sanitary towels. As Always, be very thankful it wasn’t used ones, but I went with the all-white theme. You should know by now, I’ll never get taken over by the fairies of Twee. You’ve got a super-sized Mojito, but you should be very glad no-one ordered a Bloody Mary – I’d have had to do the vampire version, and that would’ve offended all and sundry. (And if you don’t know, it’s similar to the Archaeologist’s version, where you find out which period it came from)

Karen, you have my sympathies on the long drive – but at least you’re escaping to That There London (rather you than me, in this heat) for some fun. For the moment, here’s a large super-chilled Stoli Vanila, and some equally-chilled Red Bulls to give you the energy to get to the end of the day. Personally I think Red Bull smells (and probably tastes) like diabetic wee, so again it’s best to be thankful I haven’t mixed up the flasks. (I’ve got something special planned for that K person, of which more in a minute or five)

While Karen’s girding her loins/liver for the London trip, Pete appears to be desiring the company of a “Dizzy Blonde” or two. I’ll tell you now, there’s no way I’m getting involved in that argument…

Mike has requested a “Fucking Bullshit Cocktail” which sounds vile, even to my jaded alcoholic tastebuds and sensibilities. Still, the punter/customer (and there’s a phrase that should not be abbreviated or spoonerised) is always right – and pissed – so here you go, Mike. Just make sure you make use of the ice-bucket when you spew your ring up.

Despite not actually ordering, I’m laying out a bottle of Hendrick’s for Gordon and Lori – I know they’re usually late, and for once I’m feeling charitable. There’s plenty of ice, and some mixers if they must be heathens, I won’t complain.  And Clair hasn’t mentioned anything either, so I guess a complimentary bucket of Gin and Tonic will be appreciated.

And finally, that drink for K. It’s called a wank, and I’ve – ahem – amended it a tad, so it’s now a Kwank. The ice has been specially created for this drink, a cocktail in itself of diabetic tramp’s wee, and the sweat collected from my own ballsack. It certainly adds a dollop of that je ne sais quoi. And K, if it tastes a bit salty, well we’ll just call that Lyle’s special addition. Don’t worry about it, there’s nothing communicable. (Well, so the doctors say)

Me, I’m just going to stand behind the bar here, where it’s nice and air-conditioned. There’d better be a thunderstorm at the end of today to clear the air. If not, I’m going to have to drop my guts – and I try to save that ’til it’s closing time and the bar needs clearing.

Enjoy, all.