And here are last night’s unedited scribbles, as promised. I haven’t read it (& never will, it doesn’t seem such a good plan now) but I hope it’s not really (please regard that “really” as being in italics) bad…
There is a man sitting in my carriage, in a suit with a half-opened tie and wearing a trilby. He has just finished his third phone call, letting each person in tuen know that he is on the train. Apparently this is important.
If he makes one more call he’s going to be beaten to death with his own hat.
The fact that I am on the train that I hate so much tells you all that this evening (or yesterday evening, since I’m posting it this morning, or last Friday, if you’ve been on holiday and are reading this in early June) did not stop at two cocktails. To get home by bus now I’d have to get two of them, and I’m not sure that the first of them would arrive at the half-way stage in time to catch the second one.
We had a greta time (I noticed that typo, I’m not that pissed, but I’ve decided to leave it there, since it sums up the way I feel now, I’m on a crowded train while I just want to be alone). They showed us how to make a Cosmopolitan, then we all had a go, and drank the results while they set up the glasses for our next effort.
If you go to a cookery class your first effort may not be edible. This is not a problem in a cocktail class, no matter how badly we did it the result was drinkable. And very pleasant. They then showed us how to make a Mojito, and we had a go at that, then again got to drink the result.
By that stage we were not leaving, we were just starting to have fun. Though the class was now over and we were now spending our own money we were going to have more cocktails. A couple of the lads had a go at inventing their own, saying things like “I’ll have a measure of Cointreau, two measures of vodka, a dash of Cinzano (seriously, does anyone know what’s actually in that?), a splash of cranberry juice and a slice of papaya.” Hopefully the results were enjoyable and helped to kill the pain at the fact that a drink like that costs about 35 euro.
I went by a much more logical route. Firstly I had another mojito, to see if it tastes as nice with the one and a half measures of rum that it’s meant to have than it did with the two measures that I’d sneaked into mine. It tastes stronger, because they very cleverly don’t stir the crushed ice into it, so when you suck from the bottom of the glass (God, I’d no idea where that sentence was going for a second) all you taste is the rum and it seems much stronger.
I selected my next drink by handing the menu to one of the other guys and saying “pick a drink for me, anything that doesn’t have whiskey in it because that makes me sick, but don’t tell me anything about it.” I ended up with a thing called an Emerald Isle. It was the colour of the green slime in Ghostbusters, and since he indeed told me nothing about it I can’t tell you what was in it, other than a slice of kiwi fruit. This sank gradually t the bottom of the glass as I drank, and when I finally picked it out and ate it it was practically pickled, as indeed was I.
My final drink was called a Rhapsody, chosen purely because it had crème de banana in it (oh, and vodka).
By then I’d to leave if I’d to have any chance of getting home (there’s a lot of noise behind me, a load of young guys are being thrown off the train by security, God I hate the DART).
As I write this I feel terrific. I may not feel terrific as I post it, but have promised not to change it in any way, so I can’t let you know (strike the early part of that sentence, the man sitting opposite has just sneezed on my knee).
I hope you are all having a good morning. I just hope I am too.