Yet again I found myself drinking as though the Four Minute Warning had been sounded. The next time I come across a patriotic Polish barman out to convince his punters that vodka from Poland is the best in the world, I’ll just take his word for it and not insist that he proves a heartfelt conviction by handing out complementary samples. In short, I can strongly advise not to attempt a Pepsi Challenge-like experiment with Polish rocket fuel, although it was pretty fucking funny.
Didn’t have the foggiest what the fuck was being drunk. Spotting an angle in the overly generous barkeep’s experiment, I moved the subject up a notch by discussing the merits and pitfalls of potato- and grain-based vodka. Seizing the opportunity, my friendly Pole broke out more grog and insisted on further attempts in tasting the difference.
Alas, the barman spotted some inconsistencies with my connoisseurial powers of peasant juice when he handed me another shot of clear liquid. It was definitely grog but after some more utterances of nonsensical bollox about distilling and subtle hints about nature's herbs and spices, he explained that he’d given me a shot of Bacardi. Realising he’d just given away a shit-load of vodka to me and chum who’d join me for some new year’s shenanigans, he intimated that being unemployed did not form part of his game-plan for 2011. I sort of guessed that he’d escaped this sort of existence when he decided to leave some Polish shit-hole, like downtown Gdansk, in order to feed his fourteen little sprogs (you’ve gotta love the Catholic libido).
By chance, while I was blagging free shots, my chum had struck up a conversation with some strumpet from Essex. Dear Lisa Maria (Elvis fans for parents) said that she worked for a hedge fund as a PA (read this as a “Pussy & Ass” for a bunch of useless overpaid wankers). I really don’t know what the fuck they put in the water north of the Thames, but they do know how to churn out slappers that have a tendency to snag equally brain-dead humans with wallets fatter than the wheels on their yellow 4x4’s.
After imparting some deft observations amongst Lisa M’s dwindling number of brain cells, she realised that: (1) by chatting to a couple of chaps in this particular part of London, (2) her depth of facial makeup, (3) continual sprays of powerful perfume, and (4) her monotonous drone about how her tits looked in various garments, she was probably leading our fellow drinkers into believing that she could be a pro. Wanting to rid this perception from everyone’s mind, she decided to treat my homeboy and me to some G&Ts which helped perpetuate our sweet state of complementary intoxication for a while.
Subsequent to my chum proving that he’s still got it, i.e. slipping her his tongue (thankfully outside away from sensitive eyes), Lisa M realised that he didn’t own a yellow 4x4, nor did he live in Chigwell, so she decided to leave and give her credit card a rest – the G&Ts were really flowing by this point. Coupled with the fact that our Polish barman wasn’t as friendly as we found him (the spectre of Gdansk was probably looming large in his mind), I thought it was best that we’d leave for our respective homes to herald in a new year, and prepare for the god-awful hangover which was waiting for me the next morning.
Farewell 2010, long live 2011.
Farewell 2010, long live 2011.
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