Steve Two Veeka

Almost 24 hours had passed since the discovery of the Captain Tom in Manchester’s NQ. But the opportunity was too good to miss with so many bars, even if the floor was swilling in an inch of flash rain.

The Walrus on a rainy Tuesday is at first a disappointing sight. Neither shiny or glitzy but completely lacking a back-alley dinge.

Dave The Dice was already in situ with a VM stacking up. Poor bastard. He never asked to be part of the Mission. Between us we’ve drunk a savage amount of spirits.

I scanned the menu for hope. The usual suspects plus a few house specials and three sweet looking refresher type cocktails.

Barkeep was Steve. I told him the rules.

“I can make you any cocktail in an alcohol free version. What do you want?”

“White Russian” said DtD.

“You want a glass of milk?” said Steve staring at me and projecting DICK on my forehead.

I was, after all, wearing tweed, speaking in a home counties accent, giving a seasoned northern barkeep shit. He had a point.

I had to double down and appeal to his artisanal inner self.

“No I don’t want milk and I don’t want a fucking virgin mohito. Nor had there better be any Beck’s Blue under that counter. You can do it, man” I said.

Steve hunkered down. There must only be so many tequila sunrises you can pour before you crack. This was a challenge.

Brows furrowed. All three of us began to engage in serious conversation about notes, spice, sweetness, mouthfeel. If we were drunk there’s no way we could carry off so much bullshit.

“Try that!” said Steve after final tweaks. The drink was pinky peach; suspect at best. We named it the Steve Two Veeka.