Nick is going to kill me when he reads this...
Absinthe has been described as ‘The Drink that makes you want to kill yourself.’, but I never truly understood why until last night.
Those of you who have never heard of absinthe won’t have a full appreciation of the devastating implications of the preceding sentence. It’s a drink banned in several European countries including France and Italy, and is outlawed in all 50 US states. The higher-quality stuff is up to 160% proof and is an hallucinogen - prolonged usage of the stuff is also known to cause insanity and it smells like a liquorice allsort.
This ... is the good shit.
So little surprise when I found out this particular liquor was freely available at my local S Bar that I was eager to try some. I feel in this case, curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it skinned it, beat it and ate it alive.
I was in the establishment already a little worse for drink with Nick ‘no-trousers-and-covered-in-vomit’ Vargas, who would on this night earn his nickname. Mortifying Nick aside, as I mentioned earlier I had always assumed that absinthe was a drink which when over-consumed could induce suicidal tendencies. In fact the thought that the drink would make you want to kill yourself within minutes of your first sip had never crossed my mind. I ordered two absinthes with ice and a splash of water, and setting one in front of Nick I toasted and drank.
A complex, tingling sensation of taste and vasodilation swept across my tongue and continued down my throat. My saliva glands responded to the taste and sloshed the remnants of the drink round my mouth. My eyes widened and my shoulders sunk. I inhaled deeply and at once the thick air of the bar seemed springtime fresh and I could almost hear birds twittering sweetly in the back of my mind. I set the glass down in front of me and stared shamelessly at it, the alcohol bringing a slight blush to my cheeks. Was I hallucinating? Was I about to be sick? No, dear reader, I was in love.
“My God.”
I looked over to Nick with a helpless grin on my face. It was my first time experiencing love at first taste and I was so beautifully lost in it.
“Bleurk - what the fuck is this?!”
Nick apparently, was not.
“This? This is my new favourite drink. This is beautiful.” Another gulp, and an appreciative pause “If this makes me want to kill my self, it’s a death worth dying for.”
We slowly finished the drinks, and declined another as we were to both awaken early the following day for work and university respectively. I think we initially noticed it happen, but we weren’t conscious of the actual effect itself. I mean we realised this wasn’t the usual drunk, it certainly wasn’t a feeling I was revisiting and I must have experienced almost every conceivable aspect of ‘drunken’.
It’s a fact that different drinks have different effects on me. For instance drinking vast quantities of beer or lager tends to make me stupid-drunk. Wine makes me happy-drunk and whisky seems to unleash a devilish alter-ego from the depths of my consciousness. This, however was getting me ... somewhere. Nick was feeling it too.
In actuality, it was making us want to kill our selves. The effect of absinthe is the purest drinking-drunk I have ever experienced. Just one glass had done us for the night.
Permit me to explain.
Absinthe makes you want to kill yourself. It makes you want to go up to the bar, buy fifteen bottles of various spirits and develop cirrhosis of the liver right then and there. It’s evil. This drink is the worst possible thing that can happen to you on a night out. And it was happening to Nick and I.
“I reckon I can beat you.”
“Nick, we’ve already established I can drink more than you - there’s no shame in it. Well, maybe a little bit. Even a lot. Even to the extent of you wearing a dress from now on. It’ll be good practice for-”
“Up to the bar.”
“Are you sure Nick? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Now.”
In our absinthe-clouded state we sat at the bar, as Nick mixed a cocktail so painful the evil in it alone could be seen from space. It ran thus:
1 measure of Jose Cuervo golden tequila
1 measure of Gordon’s gin
1 measure of blended Scotch whisky (barman’s choice)
1 measure of white tequila (barman’s choice)
Half a glass of house red wine
Topped with lemonade, lime segment to garnish
I am convinced other highly alcoholic ingredients were added by the dash while I turned away to study the peanuts lying on the bar in a small pool of Guiness. The smell of the damned concoctions was what made me sit up and pay attention. It was like gone-off paint stripper poured over a raspberry pavlova. Nick sat there grinning and I groaned. I still had one more round to order after this, as per the rules of the wager.
I necked it.
Nick sipped it.
I won this round.
Nick finally caught up with me, and then excused himself to visit the toilets. While he was away I started talking with the barman. I needed a final knock-out. Nick was on the ropes, swaying violently - I just needed a solid right-hook to send him flying out of the ring. But as we were matching drinks.... it would be tricky. If maybe I drank mine first, got it over with. I ordered two double shots of three wise men. Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Jose Cuervo and a Wild Turkey dash. It was ugly. I downed it in one.
...
I excused myself to visit the toilets.
“Nick, where are you? Get out of the cubicle, for I am about to be violently sick.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nick, I’m serious - I cannot continue this conversation without vomiting.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nick?”
“Fuck.”
“Right.”
“Off.”
I walked out of the toilets then went in to the lady’s. I strode purposefully over to a cubicle and partook in some of the most casual, therapeutic vomiting I have had the please of doing since I was bottlefed.
The barman came to check in on me and to inform me a puddle of gastric juices were seeping from under the cubicle in which Nick was currently residing. He asked if I could help move the wounded soldier. An odd request I felt, as although the sober one of the two, I was also by this point quite moronically drunk.
“Nick?” I slammed the door open.
WHAM!
“Ah, my fuckin head!”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
“Fuck off!”
And there he was, trousers round his ankles, sitting on the toilet in the middle of a sea of his own creation.
“Nick - we are leaving. We stay, we drink - them’s the rules.”
“Close the door and I’ll stand.”
“No, you’ll cover yourself in puke. How about I stand round the corner?”
“Deal.”
The rest of the night played out the way most nights do - us two staggering back, occasionally punching eachother in the head. Buying a kebab and at one point I believe I fell out of a tree. In fact I’m certain of it.
XxX - Mike
Those of you who have never heard of absinthe won’t have a full appreciation of the devastating implications of the preceding sentence. It’s a drink banned in several European countries including France and Italy, and is outlawed in all 50 US states. The higher-quality stuff is up to 160% proof and is an hallucinogen - prolonged usage of the stuff is also known to cause insanity and it smells like a liquorice allsort.
This ... is the good shit.
So little surprise when I found out this particular liquor was freely available at my local S Bar that I was eager to try some. I feel in this case, curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it skinned it, beat it and ate it alive.
I was in the establishment already a little worse for drink with Nick ‘no-trousers-and-covered-in-vomit’ Vargas, who would on this night earn his nickname. Mortifying Nick aside, as I mentioned earlier I had always assumed that absinthe was a drink which when over-consumed could induce suicidal tendencies. In fact the thought that the drink would make you want to kill yourself within minutes of your first sip had never crossed my mind. I ordered two absinthes with ice and a splash of water, and setting one in front of Nick I toasted and drank.
A complex, tingling sensation of taste and vasodilation swept across my tongue and continued down my throat. My saliva glands responded to the taste and sloshed the remnants of the drink round my mouth. My eyes widened and my shoulders sunk. I inhaled deeply and at once the thick air of the bar seemed springtime fresh and I could almost hear birds twittering sweetly in the back of my mind. I set the glass down in front of me and stared shamelessly at it, the alcohol bringing a slight blush to my cheeks. Was I hallucinating? Was I about to be sick? No, dear reader, I was in love.
“My God.”
I looked over to Nick with a helpless grin on my face. It was my first time experiencing love at first taste and I was so beautifully lost in it.
“Bleurk - what the fuck is this?!”
Nick apparently, was not.
“This? This is my new favourite drink. This is beautiful.” Another gulp, and an appreciative pause “If this makes me want to kill my self, it’s a death worth dying for.”
We slowly finished the drinks, and declined another as we were to both awaken early the following day for work and university respectively. I think we initially noticed it happen, but we weren’t conscious of the actual effect itself. I mean we realised this wasn’t the usual drunk, it certainly wasn’t a feeling I was revisiting and I must have experienced almost every conceivable aspect of ‘drunken’.
It’s a fact that different drinks have different effects on me. For instance drinking vast quantities of beer or lager tends to make me stupid-drunk. Wine makes me happy-drunk and whisky seems to unleash a devilish alter-ego from the depths of my consciousness. This, however was getting me ... somewhere. Nick was feeling it too.
In actuality, it was making us want to kill our selves. The effect of absinthe is the purest drinking-drunk I have ever experienced. Just one glass had done us for the night.
Permit me to explain.
Absinthe makes you want to kill yourself. It makes you want to go up to the bar, buy fifteen bottles of various spirits and develop cirrhosis of the liver right then and there. It’s evil. This drink is the worst possible thing that can happen to you on a night out. And it was happening to Nick and I.
“I reckon I can beat you.”
“Nick, we’ve already established I can drink more than you - there’s no shame in it. Well, maybe a little bit. Even a lot. Even to the extent of you wearing a dress from now on. It’ll be good practice for-”
“Up to the bar.”
“Are you sure Nick? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“Now.”
In our absinthe-clouded state we sat at the bar, as Nick mixed a cocktail so painful the evil in it alone could be seen from space. It ran thus:
1 measure of Jose Cuervo golden tequila
1 measure of Gordon’s gin
1 measure of blended Scotch whisky (barman’s choice)
1 measure of white tequila (barman’s choice)
Half a glass of house red wine
Topped with lemonade, lime segment to garnish
I am convinced other highly alcoholic ingredients were added by the dash while I turned away to study the peanuts lying on the bar in a small pool of Guiness. The smell of the damned concoctions was what made me sit up and pay attention. It was like gone-off paint stripper poured over a raspberry pavlova. Nick sat there grinning and I groaned. I still had one more round to order after this, as per the rules of the wager.
I necked it.
Nick sipped it.
I won this round.
Nick finally caught up with me, and then excused himself to visit the toilets. While he was away I started talking with the barman. I needed a final knock-out. Nick was on the ropes, swaying violently - I just needed a solid right-hook to send him flying out of the ring. But as we were matching drinks.... it would be tricky. If maybe I drank mine first, got it over with. I ordered two double shots of three wise men. Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Jose Cuervo and a Wild Turkey dash. It was ugly. I downed it in one.
...
I excused myself to visit the toilets.
“Nick, where are you? Get out of the cubicle, for I am about to be violently sick.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nick, I’m serious - I cannot continue this conversation without vomiting.”
“Fuck off.”
“Nick?”
“Fuck.”
“Right.”
“Off.”
I walked out of the toilets then went in to the lady’s. I strode purposefully over to a cubicle and partook in some of the most casual, therapeutic vomiting I have had the please of doing since I was bottlefed.
The barman came to check in on me and to inform me a puddle of gastric juices were seeping from under the cubicle in which Nick was currently residing. He asked if I could help move the wounded soldier. An odd request I felt, as although the sober one of the two, I was also by this point quite moronically drunk.
“Nick?” I slammed the door open.
WHAM!
“Ah, my fuckin head!”
“Hahahahahahaha!”
“Fuck off!”
And there he was, trousers round his ankles, sitting on the toilet in the middle of a sea of his own creation.
“Nick - we are leaving. We stay, we drink - them’s the rules.”
“Close the door and I’ll stand.”
“No, you’ll cover yourself in puke. How about I stand round the corner?”
“Deal.”
The rest of the night played out the way most nights do - us two staggering back, occasionally punching eachother in the head. Buying a kebab and at one point I believe I fell out of a tree. In fact I’m certain of it.
XxX - Mike