10 November 2013


So I say to the fecker, donchu tell me watta gotta do - 
he gives th’ look of death to me, a ‘who in Hell do yah 
think you’re talkin’ to’ stare chilled to perfection. Neat 
I say, I’ll take it neat with ice, don’ matter if shaken or 
stirred, long’s th’ vodka’s 100% Russki. There’s then 
an ominous silence n’ he tries t’ out-stare me; waste 
of energy as I’m breakin’ out in smiles an’ jivin’ to th’ 
beat of his now obviously increasing discomfort 

He snarls - there’s protocols you’ve duty t’ recognise 
mate, n’ only th’ beer’s free, Russki vodka’s not f’ th’ 

likes of you’n me unless we’re celebrating. We are, I 
jeer, you recognise me as a nemesis you’ve always 
feared turnin’ up t’ pin you square - so break out the 
best for a reunion of our unabashed homogeneity 
© 28 October 2013, I. D. Carswell