Good timing, I think. Those two over there are only an inch into their pints, so they won't want another. He's only drinking soft drinks, and doesn't look keen for a top-up. Which leaves two drinks to buy, plus another bottle of Becks for me. What could possibly go wrong?
"So, let me get this right. That's a vodka and diet coke..." (since when did you start drinking vodka and diet coke?) "... and a Fosters shandy" (likewise, I mean, what sort of a drink is that?) (it makes my bottle of Becks look positively masculine, that does). "No don't worry, I won't need any help carrying that lot back from the bar." I exit the West End pavement, past the security bloke on the door and back inside the pub.
There's a bit of queue at the bar. It's what you expect on payday Friday, so I hunt for the point of weakest resistance and stare earnestly towards the bar staff. This could take a while. Loud music pumps away in the background, and there's a steady stream of passers by to keep me alert. Another friend, a latecomer to the social gathering, appears behind me. "So what can I get you then?" The chosen drink this time is a lager, an Amstel please, definitely not a Fosters, definitely not a Carling. No problem, but I'm probably going to need some help with the carrying now, thanks.
I carry on waiting attentively. Some fresh bloke swans in off the street, creeps into an emergent space to my left and gets served immediately. I glare silently at the barman for breaking the golden rule of hostelryship, and wait some more. Eventually a rather small barman I've not seen before makes eye contact, and the game is afoot.
Hmm, which drink shall I kick off my order with? I'd better not start with the "Fosters shandy" in case he gives me two separate drinks by mistake. I'll leave my Becks til last. And maybe not the lager, whatever lager it was, not sure, so not the lager.... I'm being stared at now because I've failed to announce the name of any drink whatsoever within the first five seconds. Erm, OK, I'll start with the "diet vodka and coke".
"Smggll uhhdppel?" Oh bugger, I've got the barman who doesn't speak English very well. I have no idea what he just asked, even though he said it very pedantically. "Smggll uhhdppel?""Smggll uhhdppel?" The loud bass thump from the DJ isn't helping, and I fear the barman could repeat himself for the rest of the evening and I'd still not twig.
"Singal or dowbal?" Ah, gotcha, it's a vodka query! Except I have no idea which of the two options my friend outside wants. Great mate I am. Is it polite to buy a double, or is the default a single? Erm, erm, how the hell do I know? "Go on, double." I hope that's right. "Diercoak?" Hang on while I process that muffled query. Ah yes, that's what I asked for earlier, isn't it? "Diet coke". Isn't it?
My mind has suddenly gone blank on the remainder of the order, so the barman heads off to pour drink number one while I compose my thoughts and try to remember which complex alcoholic beverage comes next. I can't be drunk already, not on two bottles, I must just be having a rough evening. Oh yes, "pint of Amstel".
"Avno Amztall." Oh great. Newly-arrived friend, who's been here many times before, has managed to ask for a drink the pub doesn't stock. And has disappeared. So, erm, I need a valid alternative. Not a Fosters, and not a Stella I think he said. I don't have the luxury of reading back six paragraphs to double check the precise request, and I don't want to get this wrong as well. I stare hopelessly at the barman, knowing that any in-depth conversation is doomed to fail. I give up.
Tell you what, I'll just have the vodka for now. "Just the vodka." I can deliver that outside, confirm what's still needed and come back for the rest of the order later. "Yes, just the vodka. Just vodka." I dunno, three pounds seventy-five for a squirt of spirits in diluted sugar syrup, it's daylight robbery. But hey, my round, whatever.
I head back to the door to return to the pavement clutching one measly drink. The bouncer stops me, pointing to the tumbler in my hand. "Oi, no glass outside!" Oh joy. I wonder if the barman did actually mumble something unintelligible about needing plastic, but I completely failed to notice. The bouncer looks very insistent, and demands that I return to the bar immediately to get the drink poured into something less breakable. He's clearly imagining untold health and safety risks to other patrons if I take even one step forward. I, on the other hand, am thinking swearwords.
I return to the bar with my one solitary defeated receptacle. I note, with mounting disappointment, that the queue is now two deep. The thought of waiting another few minutes to ask for a plastic beaker has become, suddenly, wholly unacceptable. I surrender.
Stuff this for a laugh. I've attempted to order four drinks and not even managed one. Does this place want to provide a service, or are they staffed by incompetents and jobsworths? So much for trying to buy everyone their chosen liquid refreshment. I abandon the undrunk vodka on the bar, and walk back outside past the smug doorman to rejoin my friends.
"My round. Failed. Sorry."
I give up on the evening, and the burgeoning social gathering, and head home. At least I can't go wrong with a drinking chocolate.
