Cheers. Cheers. Cheers.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against a blue drink specifically.

It’s just that whenever I’ve seen one it has been meatily grasped in the fist of a lady of a certain weight, a lady dusted with a light cheesy Wotsit hue and boasting two first names, one of which resulted from the sweepings of a Scrabble-tile hurling championship, one of which sounds like a pet worming product, lawnmower oil or a lesser-known grape variety.

Neither ever appeared in the works of Jane Austen.

So I was in something of a quandary when I went out – entirely by accident – earlier this week and the generous barman offered a selection of three pastis, one of which was, if you’re the kind of person who has a special carpet for the lavatory seat and a crinoline lady perched atop the spare loo roll, the colour of the water in your toilet.

Now bear in mind that this was an evening out which came hard on the heels of me beginning a period of healthy living – well, to be absolutely frank, on Day Two – and for all the good they were doing me these three pastis might as well have been three pasties.

But when the gods of happenstance take away The Younger Child for a sleepover, it is all bets are off and no returns for such pish and toshery as salads and mineral water, and one is forced by law to go out. Properly out.

On the heterosexual male spectrum of drinks, should you care about such things, the blue booze was as far as you could possibly get from a heaving pint of Clugston’s Old Emetic.

Damn tasty though.

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