I have tasted hell, and it is a badly made cocktail…

Well, it has happened again.

Some time ago I reflected on the all too common experience of ordering a simple martini from bar staff that should absolutely know how to make one, only to end up with a glass of vaguely cold disappointment for my troubles and hard earned cash. And I’m not talking about rocking up at your local, and schooling them in the arts of gin – I mean proper cocktail bars, the kinds of places where they’re proud of their mixing and their fancy liquors and general ‘we’re here for drinkers’ vibe.

These are places that should fucking know better.

Now, last time I politely refrained from mentioning the venue for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it’s a local, and generally, it’s poor form to shit where you drink and all that. And, secondly, it was a young lad who’d made the drink in question, and the guy who ran the bar looked after me in the long run, so… no harm, no foul.

But today, comrades, I say… fuck that honorable bullshit, because over the weekend I had a martini that made me want to take a dump on the bar and ask them to pay for it.