Rottweiler Soup: Come and Have a Go If You Think You’re Hard Enough
One More Cup of This Hemlock, Then I’ll Have the Fucking Lot of Yer
This is the saddest day of my life. Never did I think that I would find myself drinking the last two bottles of my stash of Glenmorangie. I’d always promised myself that I’d save them for the day my divorce papers came through. Or the birth of my first grandchild. Or the death of Kathleen Turner (it’s a long story). Whichever came first.
I usually find that getting down a bottle of whisky becomes increasingly easy the more I drink, but this time around I found there was an inherent tension. I had no way of replacing the booze once it was gone. Thus, much as I might normally delight in the hot golden glow of a wanton gulp, every atom in my body, every nerve, every tendril, was tweaked to high alert, straining to savour each drop, extract the essence from it, attentive even to the ghostly vapours emanating from the glass, trying to absorb them into my being, make them mine, make them me. And I think I absorbed pretty well all of them. From the first bottle, anyway, which took me a good hour and forty minutes to finish. After that, things started to get a bit silly. I put the plug into the bathroom sink, emptied my very last bottle into it and mexico pharmacy immersed my head as far as I could. There’s nothing like a whisky facial, trust me. I held my breath for as long
as I could manage and then, with all the self-control I could muster, drew a snort up each nostril to let the liquid really suffuse my sinuses.
There was some screaming.
I went on an impromptu walkabout in the bathroom, smacked my head on the shower door and generally waved my arms around randomly in pursuit of a towel to clear the whisky from my eyes. The first bottle had dulled my senses, but not so much that I was inured to agony. Only common sense. I managed to make my way to the kitchen where I dug out my favourite Longhorns mug (Go Longhorns!) and started to bale out the sink, scooping the Glenmorangie into a tureen that I use to toss salads. On occasion. When I was done, I carried the tureen into the living room and placed it on the coffee table for ease of access. Then began the process of baling out the tureen, using the same Longhorns mug, and scooping the whisky into me. In deference to the significance of the occasion, I sat upright, keeping a straight back and a brave demeanour, knowing that while I was bound to get maudlin drunk, it was better than the alternative: maudlin sober.
So, after five mugs, it now being 5.30 p.m. and just beginning to hit dusk, I’m sitting there in my living room in a Verner Panton chair, sweating, half naked but still wearing my shoes, with a fishing hat on, listening to The Clash’s Greatest Hits over and over on the CD player, staring at the ceiling and recalling how Europe put all its rejects, misfits and psychos on the Mayflower, and grinning, the drool falling triumphantly from both corners of my mouth onto my unbuttoned shirt. Around this time, I got my second wind, and some instinct for self-preservation manifested itself because I decided to restrict myself to shots. Not that this would mean drinking any less. Just slower. And with more effort. Assuming I’d be able to find the shot glass with the bottle, and then find my mouth with the glass.
At 7.50 it was well dark and the bottles were finished. I could still stand and pull up my pants, but now I was shouting the lyrics to ‘Rock the Casbah’ even though the CD player was turned off. I picked up the empty bottles to take over to Percy Place, where there was a Dumpster by the rear exit of the Bank of Ireland offices. I had it on good authority that the security camera attached to the wall and targeted on the back door didn’t work, so there’d be no recording of me getting rid of the bottles, the good authority being the little old lady at number 34, who I’d caught leaving cardboard boxes in the same bin one Sunday evening. That was good viagra or cialis enough for me.
Carrying the bottles in both hands meant using my elbows to steer me down the stairs, using my arms as leverage off the walls, then the banister, then back off the walls, stepping gingerly but with the persistence built into every drunk’s DNA that allows him to overcome trams, traffic cones, trouser zips and tremors. At the bottom of the stairs I took off the fishing hat and left it on the table in the hallway. I had to put down the bottles on the table first to take off the hat, but when I picked them up again and found myself confronted with the front door, I realized that I’d left my keys in the door to my apartment. I turned to head back upstairs and got to the cialis vs viagra bottom of the stairs before the redundancy of taking the bottles back upstairs dawned on me. I put the bottles back on the table and went back up the stairs, less gingerly this time, since I only had myself to damage, and retrieved the keys. To save time, I fell down the stairs to the hallway and managed to get the front door open and scrambled down the front steps, through the gate and across to Huband Bridge. Then I realized I didn’t have the bottles with me. I scrambled back up the steps, spent eight minutes trying to get the key in the front door, got the key in the front door, retrieved the bottles, and then fell down the front steps, determinedly protecting the bottles as I fell because I was on a mission to put them in the bin.
The street was empty—no surprise given the curfew—and the fact that I hadn’t brought out my pass was an incentive for me to get over to Percy Place and dispose of the bottles as quickly as possible. But when I got closer to the bin I was able to make out a silhouette under the street lamp next to it, using the bin as cover. A wino? A mugger? Surely not, with the curfew due.
What to do? Take the bottles back up to the apartment or just brazen it out and look like I knew what I was doing?
I plumped for the latter, and as I got closer the shadowy figure resolved itself into the form of a not-unattractive hooker. I say ‘not unattractive’ here, with the benefit of two bottles of Glenmorangie, and I’ve no doubt that a similar phrase had not leapt to her mind upon seeing me. She was shorter than me but looked like she could take care of herself in a knife fight, but with good teeth, a decent complexion and dark hair in a bob. I could make out what I thought were fishnets but they could have been varicose veins. A mini skirt, the requisite crop top, a shoulder bag and a denim jacket. She’d probably spotted me the moment I opened the front door and fell down the steps, so she’d had time to assess my intentions and whether I constituted a threat. Or a mark. So we both knew that I meant no harm and we exchanged nods as I approached the Dumpster. Several times, in fact, as I crossed her eyeline more than once, my approach not being entirely along the shortest route. I flipped open the lid of the Dumpster and chucked the bottles inside, throwing myself off-balance and a couple of feet back against the wall of the Bank of Ireland building. The hooker laughed. As did I.
‘Howaya, love’, she said, with a darling Northside twang.
‘You’d better be getting in’, I attempted to say. She seemed unconcerned.
‘Time for another couple more yet. Besides, the Gards know me. They know I’ll play ball if there’s a problem.’
‘Grease their palms?’ I ventured.
‘If that’s what they like.’
I tried to push myself off from the wall to stand erect.
‘How about you, love? You looking for anything?’
On any other night it would have seemed like a daft question. I haven’t considered using a street hooker for years, but I’d also never drunk my final bottle of whisky before, said farewell to the love of my life. And I knew Delia was gone for good, and I knew Maggie was getting her orifices inspected elsewhere, so I fingered my pocket—for cash—and said,
‘What d’you do?’
Her patter ripped past me I was so blootered, but I managed to make out French 80 euros and handjob 50 euros and straight fuck 100 euros, which all seemed perfectly acceptable except all I had in my pocket was a 50 euro note. She saw me extract it and plucked it from my fumbling paws.
‘Handjob it is then, love. Come back here behind the bin and get it out. It’s normally extra for the condom, but I’ll throw it in for free.’
I staggered backward again behind the Dumpster without turning round, my concentration focused on trying to undo my zipper. I couldn’t vouch for the cleanliness, sterility or aroma of my dick, but I wasn’t in any state to inspect it now, and in truth we were past the point of embarrassment here, you know what I’m saying? If you’re pissed out your head and getting a handjob off a hooker behind the garbage cans, believe me, concern for human dignity is not one of your primary motivations in life.
She moved in close to help me out, fiddling away briefly at the zipper and then flipping out my limp dick, taking care not to laugh.
‘Got a bit of work to do here love, haven’t I?’ Like that was going to relax me.
I real cialis online pharmacy felt, I think, her forefinger and middle http://cialisfromcanada-onlinerx.com/ finger supporting my dick, her thumb on the ridge of my nob as she set to work, not too tight but getting some pressure to create friction. Most of this is supposition of course, because I wasn’t watching and my sensations were dulled somewhat by the two and a half litres of 40 percent proof single malt Scotch pumping through my veins. Close up, she wasn’t bad looking, but I wasn’t about to even attempt conversation. For one thing, I could barely speak, and for another, what do you say to a hooker to make polite conversation? ‘How long you been on the game, then?’ ‘On a scale of one to ten, what do you think of my cock?’ ‘It’s a good job my missus can’t see me now.’ ‘I love you.’ There should be a book of etiquette for situations like this.
After ten minutes or so I remembered the curfew. Things weren’t going as well as I’d anticipated downstairs, and even the hooker—one doesn’t ask for names—must have been getting a sore wrist. Helpfully, I suggested that if she exposed a breast to me it might get me going a bit, might stimulate my interest. She frowned momentarily, but the sincerity of my suggestion must have won her over, because she turned toward me as she continued tugging away and lifted up her top to pop out her left breast—small but with a large brown aureole and protruding nipple—for my contemplation. I didn’t ask if I could touch it, but looking at it did stir something and I felt some surge at the base of my dick, which can only have been blood. There was no semen in the pipeline tonight.
Another five minutes was enough. I placed my hand on her shoulder to signify surrender.
‘I’m sorry, love’, I said. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Please don’t take it personally. It wasn’t you. It was me.’
She released my dick and wiped her brow, grateful to be relieved. That made one of us.
‘Never mind. It happens to everyone at some point, love.’ She was very forgiving. ‘Here y’are. You can have this back.’ She was holding out the 50 euro note. ‘We’ll consider it a NO SALE.’
‘I couldn’t possibly’, I protested. ‘You did your best. It was my fault entirely. I couldn’t take money from a lady.’
Flattered by my use of the word ‘lady’, she tucked her tit away.
‘You’re very good, love. Thanks very much. Maybe some other time, eh?’
My head sort of nodded and bobbled. I was trying for just a nod. The bobble was a bonus.
‘Sure’, I said. ‘Some other time. It’s been a business doing pleasure with you.’
Following History Today’s merger with Golf Magazine, readers weigh in on the Most Important Events of the 20th Century.
6: Berlin, April 1945: Adolf Hitler’s bunker shot on the 13th.
‘Nobody who was there will ever forget it.’ A. Mason, Troon.
5: Belfast, March 1988: Michael Stone’s Milltown Chip and Run.
‘Impressively aggressive approach play when all the elements were against him. Crazy stuff.’ M. Boyle, Baltray.
4: Bolivia, October 1967: Che Guevara meets his match.
‘Generally known as someone who preferred the long grass, Guevara found himself in the jungle once too often, the unfamiliar and unforgiving Bolivian terrain finally catching up with him. Several disastrous rounds brought an abrupt end to the Argentine’s involvement in the South American Tour.’ R. Carmichael, Lytham.
3: Paris, October 31st, 1997: Princess Diana’s short drive out of bounds.
‘It’s still difficult to understand how she got as far as she did considering the dodgy driver she was using.’ C. Winch, Carnoustie.
2: Austria, October 11, 2008: Jorg Haider crashes and burns in the 2008 VW Golf Classic.
‘Was foul play involved? Who cares when a performance like this makes so many people so happy?’G. Winstanley, St. George’s Hill.
1: Dallas, November 22, 1963. Lee Harvey Oswald stuns an incredulous crowd.
‘Even today, you’ll find people who just don’t believe it possible that Oswald made that tricky third hole in Dallas. From where he was playing and given his choice of iron, he couldn’t possibly have generated the head speed we see on the film footage. Pure magic.’ L. B. Johnson, Gleneagles.