How much does a shot of soda water cost?

In the Waterwitch, Lancaster, it costs 50p!



Oh, I feel a rant coming on.



As the Grue said yesterday, muttering as he emerged from the pub,



'It's like pulling teeth, getting a pint in there.'

Healthy diet?

'So you have a healthy diet, it says here,' says the nurse, looking at my form.

'Yes, very healthy.' I tell her.

'So, lots of fruit, vegetables, meat, fish?'

'Well, no, I'm a vegetarian.'

Silence. 'I see. Do you take any supplements with that diet?'

Wtf? What supplements? I think.

'No,' I answer slowly, 'I cook.'

She looks at me for a moment and then moves on.

Do you think that the billion or so vegetarian Hindus are faced with the 'supplement question' when they visit a doctor?

I think not...

Potato wine, false cream

'Do you have any real cream?' I ask, as I put the tub of Elmlea on the counter.

The young girl looks as me with suspicion - this is obviously a trick question.

'Um, that is cream?' she tells me, which she manages to turn into a question right at the end.

'No,' I sigh, 'it's a mix of vegetable oil and various E numbers, not cream at all. Look,' I point to it, 'it doesn't say cream anywhere on it.'

'Oh, right.' She laughs a little bit. 'No, we've just got that.'

I don't know why I bought it. I never tried Elmlea faux cream before. Maybe it isn't too bad, I think to myself. Perhaps all those E numbers make it taste just like the real thing?

So, it's pretty awful. The wife whips it up. We taste it and pull faces. It tastes very false.

'I'll add honey and vanilla,' she says, 'maybe it will help?'

'Hmm.'

We eat it with Strawberries and crushed chocolate biscuits. It's like spooning foamy vegetable oil into your mouth. We finish, as we're distracted by TV as we eat it. Then we feel sick. Very sick. I have stomach cramps for godssake.

So, remind me why this stuff is made and / or sold again?

What else happened? Well, the Colonel came round and ate 11 of my pickled chillis, desite my warning that more than 10 could lead to complications.

Cue much later grasping of belly and moaning.

On Friday night we went to an after-party, the first that has happened in months, pretty much. Well, weeks anyway. I had been pretty restrained in the pub, apart from the unaskedfor whisky that the Colonel bought for me. So arrived pretty fresh. And probably a bit over-excited.

With a bottle of home-made potato wine.

Ah, 12 year old potato wine too. Yes, it *did* taste and look like Sherry, and normally, well, who would drink a load of Sherry at a party these days? You only get drunk on Sherry once in your life, usually when in your early teens, and usually it was from your parent's drinks cabinet. Once is enough. Really. Sherry drunk is not pretty. And it hurts, really hurts the next day.

So, I drank the Potato sherry. My father had been keeping it in his garage for the last decade or so. Very nice of him.

Due to uncontrollable forces, I was full of life until about 7am, when I was escorted home, oblivious, by two nice people. They probably stopped me from staggering into the canal, something that is not worth dwelling upon.

Next day was a noon-eye-opener. Blank periods swirled around the void that was my mind. The house was empty. I made a potato rosti before I even woke up and stuffed it, at burning temperature, inside me with the coffee. Numb all day, I did little...

DrC's B-Day

Rather surprised to find that people have actually been reading my blog. People I know. Yes, I know who you are. Well, a useful Lancaster resource at last...

Last night was DrC's birthday so a mob of people turned up and rearranged furniture outside the White Cross. I drank weak bitter, knowing full well that it would be a long night. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then splintered and most of us headed for Mint to drink overpriced, under-powered cocktails. Still, compared to most cocktail bars (not that we have many to choose from here) it's pretty cheap.

I had a Long Island Iced tea, recklessly, but as it turned out it wasn't so foolish as it was rather tame. I mean, how can a drink with five spirits in it turn out weak? You put a mini-dash of each in, that's how. I complained and received a shrug and an offer to replace it. So I just drank it.

Outside, smoking fags, talking to strangers. Felt like being in Europe somewhere, somewhere nice, I mean.

Drank a mohito, which was better. Then wanted a daiquirí, which was only on the menu in banana format, which sounded horrific. The barmaid happily made us a strawberry one though, which the Colonel and I accepted.

As we sipped our bright pink cocktails in our oversized, ornate glasses, a woman came over and said, 'I hope you don't me asking, but are you two gay?'

Hmm.

Another mojito. Oh dear, I'm definitely feeling reckless now.

As we're kicked out, the wife drags me to the bar where DrC is ordering a massive one-for-the-road line of shots. The wife encourages me to have one, so I do, foolishly.

I thought the barman was just incompetent, as he mixed a fruit and cream type of shot, which simply curdled (flashback to Japan, story for another time). So I spent the rest of the night saying this to anyone who would listen. Today though, the Colonel tells me that he must have done it on purpose, as he said, 'This'll make you vomit' as he poured them.

Classy.

The shot made my head whirl (yes, we all drank them anyway) and we headed to The Lounge, despite my protests. The lounge was dim but not too busy, downstairs anyway. I ordered Fosters, the weakest thing I could find, as I was a bit unsteady by this point.

I took pictures of a young couple (at their request, I hasten to add), chatted to whoever sat near me. Things started to get a bit hazy.

We left after an hour or two, who could say really? The Lounge only actually closes for 1 hour in every 24 to clean up. I shudder to think who stays in there that long.

Outside a man was being pinned down by a bouncer. His face was pressed against the road and his arms pulled wide and held. The man with his face in the road was saying, very well spoken,

'Look, I have no problem with you. Now, why don't you let me up.'

'No chance mate.'

We gawped for a minute, then walked home.

Very odd dream

So, Gilbert "Gil" Grissom of CSI fame was pottering about in his lounge.

(I was a mere fly-on-the-wall in this dream, watching the drama unfold)

He looked like he was getting ready for bed - turning off the TV, lamps etc when I noticed a large body bag on the floor.

Gil turned to the bag and said, 'Goodnight'. Upon which it started to move a little. Then a noise came from it - muffled, mumbling, throaty singing.

'..ho.. me ..eh.. way ..o go ...ome... I'm ...ired an.. I wan.. ..o go ...o bed...' Sang the bodybag.

'Bill?' Said Gil, opening the bodybag quickly. Inside was a dead, grey face, with a gag on it. He pulled the gag off and the dead face opened its eyes. It looked confused, tears welled up.

'Gil... help me...' It gasped.

Gil unzipped the badybag to the waist, showing that the corpse has been tied up too - arms, legs, with a thick rope. Gil didn't untie the body, but helped it sit up.

'Bill, I thought you were gone.'

But Bill wasn't listening. He had managed to get a hand free and now grasped for Gil with it, he became wild, tearing out his other hand, lunging, trying to bite Gil's leg.

Gil backed off as the zombie rose and grabbed a knife from the counter...

That's all I remember. What on earth am I doing dreaming about CSI stars? I haven't even seen the show for weeks...