I met Fyodor in the Rocks yesterday for a boozy lunch. I got there a bit late at 12:30; finally being able to catch a cab after walking from my house all the way to UTS.
I jumped in the taxi and said: "The Rocks. Let's roll." The taxi driver replied with "Rock and roll?" I told him "Look, you just do the driving. _I'll_ bring the funny."
Fyodor was already at the bar of the Lord Nelson with a Victory Bitter newly broached. The barmaid asked what I'd like.
"I'd like a beer that'll make me fart like a demon", I told her.
"Well, you're spoiled for choice here, sir!"
"Excellent."
Pork pies with hot hot hot English mustard and pickle and a pint of foamy brown were the order of the day, followed a while later by a bowl of wedges. By then we had a table and were sitting down. Ooh, the luxury.
I got home twenty minutes before my shift started at six, more full of beer than I have been in a while.
At about 9pm the demon awoke. I was surprised that customers could actually make it through the door without the aid of frantically swung cricket bats.
"It's warm in here!" said one.
I explained that it was because of all the fridges.
This morning I popped into work to install a funky ceiling light and the cellar man greated me with "I heard you were drunk last night!"
Of course I was. The fool. I know I was drunk on shift last night: I was there.
Anyway, we discussed books and blogs and people and stuff and even real life. Fyodor even went so far as to present his business card and tell me his real name.
I would tell you what it is, but my keyboard is broken and I don't know how to do umlatts and those other squiggly things they put over letter. Accents! That's the technical term for them. Yeah.
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