The Magician, Paul

I exited the fwah fwah fwah club I’d sat in all day on Pall Mall into the mild drizzle of London ready for adventure.

Today I was heading somewhere off piste with my drinking buddy Annabelle. She was hiding somewhere amongst the Eros-snapping tourists in Piccadilly. I found her clutching a mushroom stroganoff, pondering how to eat it on the number 19 bus.

Annabelle is a woman of action with an endearing habit of twizzling her fringe into a small dreadlock as she speaks. She holds court with tales of fantastic things and places and people. Together we have freeloaded across the City, draining supplies of Merlot at fancy entrepreneur’s receptions without shame or regret and our adventures under the influence have been plentiful.

So it was odd that we now sat upon a bus bouncing its way along Shaftsbury Avenue to complete a WTF Mission; sober.

Bringing someone from drinking-life into non-drinking-life is fraught with danger. I could sense my friend was nervous at the thought of imbibing fakery when there would be a perfectly good wall of gin to get stuck into.

She directed her suspicion at the vaper brigade and gave a convincing discourse on e-cigarettes as pacifiers. I could see the link and was grateful for the stinking gas cloud puffoons taking the heat. But I knew it couldn’t last.

There were suggestions of ordering a side of wine. Recollections of a damn good piss up in B&HB last night with friends-with-no-off-buttons. Cracks were showing. Danger. Think quickly. I distracted her with the splendid spectacle of James & Sons Umbrella shop and WC1 eased into EC1. Home and dry, from here the Borough would take over.

We disembarked outside a Vape & Juice bar (what-the-fuck) in Clerkenwell, fell through a magical side street or two and popped out in splendid Exmouth Market. Film location trucks everywhere added a sprinkle of something special.

Serious looking bourgeoisie types perched at bench seats in the windows of the bistros poking at dishes I imagined to be grilled chorizo and art-house scallops. Most seemed in a state of torpor, unable to appreciate their amazing fortune at being here and now and eating chozzy.

But mindfulness wasn’t the mission on this night. A New Drink was.

Onwards to Bourne & Hollingsworth Buildings.

I imagine B&HB is a perfect place to get trollied at anytime. There’s a baby grand piano as you walk in begging to make you look like an idiot as the gin tells you it’s OK to play bullshit jazz in public. Half upholstered sofas have been skilfully matched with mismatching chairs. There’s a bathtub.

In the center of it all a huge and glorious bar, home to our protector for the evening – Paul.

Paul, we would discover, was different.

I laid down the rules. “No sugar, no alcohol, not Seedlip, kid would spit it out. Bitters OK.” Same as always.

“OK. What time of day is this drink for?” asked Paul.

Holy crap. Paul was hitting back.

“And what’s the weather when you’re drinking this?”

Hang on geezer, most people stumble at no alcohol.

“What about glassware, what’s the preference?”

Fuck me. In three questions my new hero Paul had made me feel like a complete beginner in this game.

Annabelle eyed the gleaming bottles of gin (in truth, as did I).

Paul disappeared and began concocting.

He was too far down the bar to observe closely. All kinds of unlabelled Potteresque jars and bottles appeared and vanished. Bright blue bitters were sampled. Heads scratched.

He returned with not one drink but three and left us to absorb.

Annabelle was by this point banging her fists on the bar like an excited child.