Your favourite booze is also that of Brylcreemed, womanising slogan-spouter Don Draper off ‘Mad Men’. You sip it slowly while reading what Esquire has to say about the best way to cook a steak. At the sound of clinking ice cubes, you ask the barman for the cheque. He delicately tries to explain that you’ve already paid, because this is the UK, and that people don’t usually sit at the bar, because this is Wetherspoons.
‘Why bother spending £16 on a drink if it’s not on fire?’ you reason, failing to factor in the reality that, by burning off the expensive bit of your drink, you’re essentially shelling out for a really expensive glass of warm nothing. We confidently predict you have never owned a phone without smashing the screen within 48 hours.
Long island iced tea
It’s a fancy name, isn’t it, for a drink that’s essentially the result of all the leftover booze from a big party being tipped into a glass, then topped up with a shitload more whiskey. Before adopting this as your go-to drink, you need to think long and hard about how you feel about the idea of shitting yourself in public.
All we can assume about anyone who regularly orders themselves a lovely big glass of alcohol-infused fat is that they either really, really love ‘The Big Lebowski’, or that they’re bulking up for a film role. Possibly the lead in their own self-funded remake of ‘The Big Lebowski’, because they think the bit where the guy says the thing about the rug is so fucking funny.
Are you tired? Are you stressed? Maybe you’re just horny? You never were very good at analysing your own emotions, so you cover all bases, order booze AND caffeine and hope the resulting chemical reaction doesn’t tear your mind asunder and turn you into a gibbering maniac.
Is it morning? Fine – carry on. But anyone ordering a tomato-based drink after midday is to be treated as a dangerous rebel – the sort of person who’d stroll into Hawksmoor and casually order a bowl of cornflakes, or a big rack of toast, or a broadsheet newspaper. Probably a bit better than having a martini with breakfast, mind.
You’re either a Milanese grandmother or a twentysomething bike-riding Hakckneyite. Either way, you’re probably wearing excellent shoes.