A most tolerable weekend.
Winter is upon us and it is hitting our tiny and isolated village like a hammer on a wet sponge. Supplys are running low and there is a fear amongst some that the ten day break betwix Christmas and new year will be the ending of many a homestead.
Therefore a great councel was called in the Village Hall and beneath the hallowed image of a drunken fairy lurching off a fetted peice of holly the situation was discussed in depth. It was decided that all the villagers would contrabute a small amount of money and that a trusted person would be selected to go to London and bring back victuals for the hard days ahead. This was done and while the epic contest of scissors paper stone was being conducted between the stalwats of the village I half inched the cash and high tailed it of to see my Girlfriend. Many will stave this winter in Medmenham but screw em.
With this horde (horde I say!) I along with my lover indulged. Using the spare capacity from Allisandrows sleeping brain we catapulted ourselves back to the 1930's and had a merry time imbibing cocktails with a catalogue of london society. This is Mackenzie True.
We went to Smolensky's on the Strand for someones birthday, this is merely actually true.
Ah what joy it is when a good rum is used properly, very few places can do it properly and sadly this venue was amongst them. I stuck to white russians and martinis which were tolerable. Soon we managed to disceren that the beraded barista was of a muh superior quality to the shaven callow youth in the mixing of cocktails. The youth was still at that deplorable stage where the belief that a surfit of vodka will cure all still holds sway. The bearded man had learnt wisdom and the art of proportion.
Then we went to Walkabout which was shit, far to loud and expensive and my feet stuck to the floor in a truly nauseiating fashion that means you feel like you are walking on wet tar.
On the Sunday I journeyed into town and with two giant proveyors of truth settled down to solve the most pressing dillema over a bowl of chips, namely:
What the hell are we going to do for New Years eve?
One the champion of the minimilast laissez fair school suggested doing nothing, to hoots and howls of derision for the assembled masses who had gathered in the pub to bathe in our reflect glory.
Master T of the High Altar of Gonzo suggested we do something. This was met with rapturous applause.
No one could quite agree what we should do but we did agree, it should be epic, the very ground should shake with the ressonance of the thing. Above all it should in no way involve antipodian chain bars.
So any suggestions?
Therefore a great councel was called in the Village Hall and beneath the hallowed image of a drunken fairy lurching off a fetted peice of holly the situation was discussed in depth. It was decided that all the villagers would contrabute a small amount of money and that a trusted person would be selected to go to London and bring back victuals for the hard days ahead. This was done and while the epic contest of scissors paper stone was being conducted between the stalwats of the village I half inched the cash and high tailed it of to see my Girlfriend. Many will stave this winter in Medmenham but screw em.
With this horde (horde I say!) I along with my lover indulged. Using the spare capacity from Allisandrows sleeping brain we catapulted ourselves back to the 1930's and had a merry time imbibing cocktails with a catalogue of london society. This is Mackenzie True.
We went to Smolensky's on the Strand for someones birthday, this is merely actually true.
Ah what joy it is when a good rum is used properly, very few places can do it properly and sadly this venue was amongst them. I stuck to white russians and martinis which were tolerable. Soon we managed to disceren that the beraded barista was of a muh superior quality to the shaven callow youth in the mixing of cocktails. The youth was still at that deplorable stage where the belief that a surfit of vodka will cure all still holds sway. The bearded man had learnt wisdom and the art of proportion.
Then we went to Walkabout which was shit, far to loud and expensive and my feet stuck to the floor in a truly nauseiating fashion that means you feel like you are walking on wet tar.
On the Sunday I journeyed into town and with two giant proveyors of truth settled down to solve the most pressing dillema over a bowl of chips, namely:
What the hell are we going to do for New Years eve?
One the champion of the minimilast laissez fair school suggested doing nothing, to hoots and howls of derision for the assembled masses who had gathered in the pub to bathe in our reflect glory.
Master T of the High Altar of Gonzo suggested we do something. This was met with rapturous applause.
No one could quite agree what we should do but we did agree, it should be epic, the very ground should shake with the ressonance of the thing. Above all it should in no way involve antipodian chain bars.
So any suggestions?