If there's one thing I hate, it's vodka. Even if I was impartial to its solvent-smelling evil the very thought of drinking it straight has me retching, grabbing the other persons arm and wailing "please, not me- take him instead!" In the past the only sure way to numb the pain was the prospect of Dabby receiving a similar punishment, and me dishing it out. Oh yes, drinking games can be very rewarding when the cards are on your side.

But last night I was about to have my opinions (biased, no less, by Tete's unsavoury Safeway's own brand which gave me a week-long headache) on the Russian export changed permanently.

It was another legendary evening at the Moorings, myself and Beefy having made the journey from the Tolbooth (now frequented by such benders as Tubby Wigg) in search of superior drinks and premises. Drew, naturally, was being a stubborn git and decided to stay put at the Booth, my estimation of him dropping several rungs to a point where even if he bought me a yaught and adorned it with endless supplies of Carlsberg Export in the Bahamas I'd still have to call him a "misguided fool".

The Moorings was busy but not packed, something outside of Flash's control but coincidentally is at an ideal level where you don't feel claustrophobic nor do you entertain the notion of going to Henry Gay Beans for some peace and quiet. The good thing about the Moorings is that you never know who you're going to be bantering with, last night myself and Beefy, sipping Cherry Beer and Budvar (in your face Tolbooth!) were bantering with a bloke who handily lives about 2 minutes from the Moorings. A welcome change, you might observe, from the menacing glares you'll be subjected to at, say, the Station Hotel Udny.

After a while the guy we'd came to see finished bantering with a group of hard-rocking amigos, looking slightly worse for wear, might I add. With a glass of Addlestons in hand Flash bantered long with us, detailing the finer points of running a pub from his own merited position. After a while he turns to us and says, "ever been in a cellar?"

I looked at Beefy and shrugged, a hint of excitement in his eyes, salivating furiously over the bartop. "I'll show you!" Flash announces, already halfway to the cellar entrance, bounding past the regulars with a quick-step befitting of an introduction to possibly the most unattainable, forbidden, and sought-after places a drunken youth could possibly hope to see.

Going behind the bar, which was a first in its own right, we went downstairs to the mythical cellar to witness first-hand where dreams are made. As Flash closed the door behind him I could almost hear the faint chittering chants of a small group of people, I was certain. At the bottom of the stairs an orange-faced midget just escaped my view, a miniature keg under his arm. "Oompa Loompa... didledum... a puzzle for... if you're wise you'll listen... budvar and tanquiery gin..." was all I could make out as the voices disappeared into the darkness. "Ignore them" Flash muttered. I stared at him, searching for an answer on his face. "Between you and me, labour isn't cheap. If you want the best quality beer you have to cut down costs somewhere" he said, later ordering me to tell no one or he'd kill me, my children, and my children's children.

The cellar was an underground marvel, a place where copious amounts of alcohol is contained in sleek kegs cooled twenty-four hours a day. The lines looked impeccably clean, as Flash invited us to cross-examine the spotless lines, kegs and ice maker. Then, we were introduced to a room that will have any critics of the Moorings on their knees and begging forgiveness- a room which contained a solitary keg. This keg contained Ale of a variety my memory forgets, an expense surely few pub owners in Aberdeen would go to. "We make no money on this ale" he told us, bracing it and soothing it. "If you speak to it every day" he said, cutting himself off to coo it, saying "who's that? Who's that? Yes, it's Star! It's Star!" Myself and Beefy watched in awe at the man who has an inhuman passion for reaching perfection in beer was rubbing the keg, rocking it backwards and forwards to lull it.

The tour of the cellar ended at the soft drinks cooler, looking clean like you'd expect, Beefy taking extra care to inspect its lines for spots and giving it the thumbs up. Surfacing back to the bar, I felt enlightened like a scholar who'd finally surpassed his master of twenty years. When we returned to our seats Flash turns to Beefy, "you're the one who's driving right?"

"Right."

"Then I'm about to show Star how to get drunk for less than a tenner."

I turns, and a Cheshire grin stretches from Flash's left ear to right ear. "Wh-at..." I stutter, unsure whether he's about to inject aftershave into my veins or some other magical method of getting drunk off a tenner. He calls to the barman, "two vodkas." I forget their names, as you will soon find out why, but they were all unique.

The first tasted quite nice actually for a vodka. Just the smell made me nautious but once it had been knocked back it had a rather pleasant aftertaste. The second was noticeably "stronger", not by volume but by kick. I could already feel my forehead begin to numb somewhat, the sheer purity of the vodka putting Safeway's 10-shots-and-you're-still-sober ethos now conclusively separated from its ABV. The next shot was stronger still, or perhaps I was feeling it more, but it didn't go down as easy! It still kicked Smirnoff's commercial crap into a cocked hat though. The fourth turned out to be a rather pleasant tequila, but the fifth! I thought I'd have to end it all there, but no, I sipped it because I couldn't face the prospect of knocking it back. The vodka tasted so strong yet I knew it was the one I'd started on, sipping it seemed like prolonging the agony but Flash reassured me the next one would be easier. The sixth and final shot was a coconut rum which, while still strong, was a pleasure to drink. I hate vodka, but after this I'm willing to concede that it can be nice if you buy the right stuff. After six back-to-back shots, Flash's hypothesis was correct- I was feeling drunk. Not throwing-up drunk but nicely drunk.

We bantered some more, I told the DJ to put "Get In The Ring" by Guns N' Roses on which she eventually did. When it was time to leave, after four hours at the Moorings, we found Flash passed out on the stage! Haha! I shook his hand and thanked him for the tour and drinks, and had one more Sweetheart Stout before leaving.

We went and got a kebab from the faultless Belmont and then tucked to the 24 hour Tesco. I can't remember it very well but I was cycling one of the bikes that were on sale around the shop and knocked a bottle of Olive Oil off the shelf! A man stopped me and said "are you going to buy that bike?" and says to him "no, cos the handling's shite!" I told the dude I'd pay for the Olive Oil but he said he'd put it under breakages, me walking the bike back and leaving the shop sharpish! It was banterous though!

When I got home I made myself a huge fry-up but ended up spilling some of the scorching fat on to the mat and singed a hole through it... don't think ma was too impressed! Woke up feeling dehydrated, as is customary, and managed to just make the meeting I was due at in Aberdeen. My head still isn't feeling too braw but no hangover I'm happy to report, although eating somehow gets me re-tipsy. As I write this I can't drink any more water, but the sight of food makes me queasy.

Vodka 9 : Star 0

Posted by Star at 4/03/2004 03:24:00 PM | |