Devil's Advocaat
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The dangers of mixing your drinks.
_____________________________________________________________________
There was Davy and there was me.
Davy’s parents were off on holiday for two weeks and they had left him to look after the house. I had been stopping by regularly to keep him company.
‘The telly’s pish tonight,’ Davy said, throwing the remote down. ‘Got any cash?’
I turned out my pockets to reveal a guitar pick and about £1.50 in change. ‘Sorry, man. I’m skint until Monday when my wages go into the bank.’
‘Can you no ask your folks for a loan?’
‘Nah, I cannae tap my mum up for any more - I already owe her twenty quid this month. I thought your folks had left you plenty cash for the fortnight.’
‘They did but I spent the last of it on that takeaway we had the other night. There’s a tenner left but that’s to pay the window cleaner.’ He slumped back into the armchair and sighed.
‘We could still have a wee drink, I suppose,’ I pointed to the well-stocked booze cabinet. ‘Surely your folks won’t miss a few nips out of all that lot.’ Davy ran his own eyes over the cabinet. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
‘Well, we could probably get away with a wee bit – they’re sure to bring another suitcase load back from the duty free anyway.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
A rake through the cupboard produced an unexpected bonus - a carton of cigarettes.
‘Here, help yourself,’ said Davy tossing over a pack.
‘Are these Chinese?’ I asked, trying to decipher the writing on the pale blue packet. There was a picture of a pine tree on the front.
‘Naw, Korean, I think. Mum brought them back about two years ago, smoked a couple and then left the rest. She prefers those Menthol Mores.’
I wasted no time in tearing open the packet and sticking one in my gob. I puffed a couple of times to get it going and then took a deep lungful of smoke.
‘They’re a bit rough,’ I spluttered as the dry smoke tore at my throat.
‘Stop moaning and give me a hand.’
I went over to the cupboard and eyed the rows of bottles lined up like glass soldiers on parade. Davy pulled out a bottle of Bacardi and handed it to me. ‘Go pour us a couple and then we’ll see what else we have.’
‘Are there no mixers?’
‘I dunno. I finished the last of the Coke this morning. There might be some orange in the kitchen though.’
I went through to the kitchen. The sink was overflowing with about a week’s worth of dishes. Sauce smeared cartons were stacked beside the drainer, filling the room with the lingering aroma of take-away. A solitary fly was feasting on a plate sticky with congealed spare rib sauce. I plunged a hand into the crockery mountain and managed to fish out two tall glasses. I gave them both a quick rinse and dried them with the cleanest bit of tea towel I could find. Then I checked the cupboards beneath the sink.
‘A-ha!’
‘What’s that?’ said Davy.
‘Found some orange.’
‘Cool. Get pouring then.’
I unscrewed the cap, added a dash of orange to the bottom of each glass, and then topped them both off with Bacardi.
‘Cheers,’ said Davy, as I gave him his glass.
We both took a big swig and grimaced as the liquid splashed over our taste buds.
‘It’s a bit sweet,’ Davy said, taking another sip. ‘Where did you say you found the orange juice?’
‘Under the sink.’
‘Bring it through a sec.’
I put down my glass and trotted back through to the kitchen. I returned with the plastic orange bottle. Davy took it from me and read the label.
‘Colin, you twat – it’s dilute to taste!’
Suitably chastened I added some water to the Bacardi and orange to thin it out producing much more agreeable results. We lit up another pair of pine tree cigarettes and continued drinking.
‘You know, Davy,’ I said, waving my cigarette. ‘These things aren’t that bad once you get used to them.’
Davy exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke into the air before replying. ‘Well, the way I see it, Colin – they’re better than nae fags at all.’
‘Aye, you’ve got a point there,’ I gestured at Davy’s glass. ‘Refill?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Several glasses later, I was staring at the drinks cabinet when a flickering light bulb came on in my head.
‘Hey, you know, I think I could knock us up a couple of Green Monsters from out of this lot.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Make it so, Number One.’ He pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt as if he was Captain Picard off Star Trek.
I set about my task with a passion. In my mind, I was like Tom Cruise in Cocktail - a little splash of this, a little dash of that. Finally, there was only one crucial ingredient left to add - Advocaat. I picked up the bottle and examined the sickly-yellow liquid. It looked quite thick but I reasoned that it had just settled after lying in the cupboard for a while. I gave it a wee shake and added it to the rest.
I passed a glass to Davy and we both drank up. As we drained our glasses, I chanced upon the Advocaat bottle again. My eyes fell on the “best before” date. No wonder it was lumpy - it was out of date! Not just a little out-of-date either - two whole years! The rancid taste was suddenly very evident in my mouth. The pair of us gagged simultaneously and rushed to the kitchen to pour the drinks down the sink.
‘Jesus Christ, Colin, are you on a mission to kill us both tonight?’
‘Hey, this is just a minor setback. I’ll find us something to wash the taste away.’
‘Nah, nah, man. I think it’s time we broke out the big guns.’
‘Eh?’
‘Colin, it’s time we both had a wee nip of Shanghai Surprise.’ He slid out of his chair and scrambled across the floor to the drinks cabinet.
Shanghai Surprise was the stuff of legends. Apparently, Davy’s old man got it from one of his engineer mates who had been working in China. Had I been in a more sober frame of mind I might have had second thoughts about taking up Davy’s offer but any semblance of common sense had called a taxi and went home hours ago.
The next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor of Davy’s bedroom with my head lolling from side to side. The world was revolving around me in a steady spin that seemed to increase in speed from 45 to 78 rpm every time I moved my head. I could hear Davy downstairs somewhere, strumming tunelessly on his acoustic guitar. He appeared not to have noticed I was gone. Finally, it must have clicked somewhere in his pickled brain that something was amiss. I could hear him clattering up the stairs before bursting in to find me.
‘Up you get pal. I know what you need.’
He was trying to drag me upright and escort me to the bathroom. It was proving to be a difficult proposition since he could barely walk himself.
‘I wanna go home.’
‘Naw, you just need to clear your head a wee bit, that’s all.’
We staggered into the bathroom. Davy pointed to the bowl. He reminded me of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pointing to Scrooge’s grave.
‘I don’t need to go.’
‘I’m not taking you for a shite, you fanny. You need to be sick.’
‘I don’t wanna be sick.’
‘Trust me – it’ll clear your head right up.’
I hung onto Davy and tried to lean my head towards the toilet but the contents of my stomach were unwilling to co-operate. I lurched forward as he thumped me on the back.
‘C’mon, Col, get it out.’
I shook my head. ‘S’no good. I can’t.’
‘Pish, you’re just going to have to tickle the old sick trigger that’s all.’
‘What?’
He mimed shoving his fingers down his throat and gagging.
‘I can never get that to work.’
‘There’s a first time for everything. Now do it.’
I placed one hand against the toilet wall and steadied myself for the next revolting step. I could taste the stale cigarette smoke on my fingers as I started probing the previously uncharted terrain at the back of my throat. I gagged but still didn’t throw up. In desperation, I thought about all the germs lurking under the rim of the toilet.
Suddenly my throat was tightening around my slippery fingers. It felt as if my stomach was trying to jump out of my mouth.
‘That’s it – get it out.’
I barked, heaving out the entire contents of my stomach in a watery torrent. When I was done, I lifted my head, tears streaming from my eyes and wiped a sliver of drool from the side of my chin. Davy was right; I did feel strangely better for the experience. At least now, I was able to walk without help.
‘I think it’s time that I went home,’ I told him.
I stumbled down the road and fell into my bed. My final thought as I drifted off to sleep was that, in future, I would leave mixing the drinks to Tom Cruise.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: The dangers of mixing your drinks.
_____________________________________________________________________
There was Davy and there was me.
Davy’s parents were off on holiday for two weeks and they had left him to look after the house. I had been stopping by regularly to keep him company.
‘The telly’s pish tonight,’ Davy said, throwing the remote down. ‘Got any cash?’
I turned out my pockets to reveal a guitar pick and about £1.50 in change. ‘Sorry, man. I’m skint until Monday when my wages go into the bank.’
‘Can you no ask your folks for a loan?’
‘Nah, I cannae tap my mum up for any more - I already owe her twenty quid this month. I thought your folks had left you plenty cash for the fortnight.’
‘They did but I spent the last of it on that takeaway we had the other night. There’s a tenner left but that’s to pay the window cleaner.’ He slumped back into the armchair and sighed.
‘We could still have a wee drink, I suppose,’ I pointed to the well-stocked booze cabinet. ‘Surely your folks won’t miss a few nips out of all that lot.’ Davy ran his own eyes over the cabinet. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
‘Well, we could probably get away with a wee bit – they’re sure to bring another suitcase load back from the duty free anyway.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
A rake through the cupboard produced an unexpected bonus - a carton of cigarettes.
‘Here, help yourself,’ said Davy tossing over a pack.
‘Are these Chinese?’ I asked, trying to decipher the writing on the pale blue packet. There was a picture of a pine tree on the front.
‘Naw, Korean, I think. Mum brought them back about two years ago, smoked a couple and then left the rest. She prefers those Menthol Mores.’
I wasted no time in tearing open the packet and sticking one in my gob. I puffed a couple of times to get it going and then took a deep lungful of smoke.
‘They’re a bit rough,’ I spluttered as the dry smoke tore at my throat.
‘Stop moaning and give me a hand.’
I went over to the cupboard and eyed the rows of bottles lined up like glass soldiers on parade. Davy pulled out a bottle of Bacardi and handed it to me. ‘Go pour us a couple and then we’ll see what else we have.’
‘Are there no mixers?’
‘I dunno. I finished the last of the Coke this morning. There might be some orange in the kitchen though.’
I went through to the kitchen. The sink was overflowing with about a week’s worth of dishes. Sauce smeared cartons were stacked beside the drainer, filling the room with the lingering aroma of take-away. A solitary fly was feasting on a plate sticky with congealed spare rib sauce. I plunged a hand into the crockery mountain and managed to fish out two tall glasses. I gave them both a quick rinse and dried them with the cleanest bit of tea towel I could find. Then I checked the cupboards beneath the sink.
‘A-ha!’
‘What’s that?’ said Davy.
‘Found some orange.’
‘Cool. Get pouring then.’
I unscrewed the cap, added a dash of orange to the bottom of each glass, and then topped them both off with Bacardi.
‘Cheers,’ said Davy, as I gave him his glass.
We both took a big swig and grimaced as the liquid splashed over our taste buds.
‘It’s a bit sweet,’ Davy said, taking another sip. ‘Where did you say you found the orange juice?’
‘Under the sink.’
‘Bring it through a sec.’
I put down my glass and trotted back through to the kitchen. I returned with the plastic orange bottle. Davy took it from me and read the label.
‘Colin, you twat – it’s dilute to taste!’
Suitably chastened I added some water to the Bacardi and orange to thin it out producing much more agreeable results. We lit up another pair of pine tree cigarettes and continued drinking.
‘You know, Davy,’ I said, waving my cigarette. ‘These things aren’t that bad once you get used to them.’
Davy exhaled a cloud of blue-grey smoke into the air before replying. ‘Well, the way I see it, Colin – they’re better than nae fags at all.’
‘Aye, you’ve got a point there,’ I gestured at Davy’s glass. ‘Refill?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Several glasses later, I was staring at the drinks cabinet when a flickering light bulb came on in my head.
‘Hey, you know, I think I could knock us up a couple of Green Monsters from out of this lot.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Make it so, Number One.’ He pulled at the bottom of his t-shirt as if he was Captain Picard off Star Trek.
I set about my task with a passion. In my mind, I was like Tom Cruise in Cocktail - a little splash of this, a little dash of that. Finally, there was only one crucial ingredient left to add - Advocaat. I picked up the bottle and examined the sickly-yellow liquid. It looked quite thick but I reasoned that it had just settled after lying in the cupboard for a while. I gave it a wee shake and added it to the rest.
I passed a glass to Davy and we both drank up. As we drained our glasses, I chanced upon the Advocaat bottle again. My eyes fell on the “best before” date. No wonder it was lumpy - it was out of date! Not just a little out-of-date either - two whole years! The rancid taste was suddenly very evident in my mouth. The pair of us gagged simultaneously and rushed to the kitchen to pour the drinks down the sink.
‘Jesus Christ, Colin, are you on a mission to kill us both tonight?’
‘Hey, this is just a minor setback. I’ll find us something to wash the taste away.’
‘Nah, nah, man. I think it’s time we broke out the big guns.’
‘Eh?’
‘Colin, it’s time we both had a wee nip of Shanghai Surprise.’ He slid out of his chair and scrambled across the floor to the drinks cabinet.
Shanghai Surprise was the stuff of legends. Apparently, Davy’s old man got it from one of his engineer mates who had been working in China. Had I been in a more sober frame of mind I might have had second thoughts about taking up Davy’s offer but any semblance of common sense had called a taxi and went home hours ago.
The next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor of Davy’s bedroom with my head lolling from side to side. The world was revolving around me in a steady spin that seemed to increase in speed from 45 to 78 rpm every time I moved my head. I could hear Davy downstairs somewhere, strumming tunelessly on his acoustic guitar. He appeared not to have noticed I was gone. Finally, it must have clicked somewhere in his pickled brain that something was amiss. I could hear him clattering up the stairs before bursting in to find me.
‘Up you get pal. I know what you need.’
He was trying to drag me upright and escort me to the bathroom. It was proving to be a difficult proposition since he could barely walk himself.
‘I wanna go home.’
‘Naw, you just need to clear your head a wee bit, that’s all.’
We staggered into the bathroom. Davy pointed to the bowl. He reminded me of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pointing to Scrooge’s grave.
‘I don’t need to go.’
‘I’m not taking you for a shite, you fanny. You need to be sick.’
‘I don’t wanna be sick.’
‘Trust me – it’ll clear your head right up.’
I hung onto Davy and tried to lean my head towards the toilet but the contents of my stomach were unwilling to co-operate. I lurched forward as he thumped me on the back.
‘C’mon, Col, get it out.’
I shook my head. ‘S’no good. I can’t.’
‘Pish, you’re just going to have to tickle the old sick trigger that’s all.’
‘What?’
He mimed shoving his fingers down his throat and gagging.
‘I can never get that to work.’
‘There’s a first time for everything. Now do it.’
I placed one hand against the toilet wall and steadied myself for the next revolting step. I could taste the stale cigarette smoke on my fingers as I started probing the previously uncharted terrain at the back of my throat. I gagged but still didn’t throw up. In desperation, I thought about all the germs lurking under the rim of the toilet.
Suddenly my throat was tightening around my slippery fingers. It felt as if my stomach was trying to jump out of my mouth.
‘That’s it – get it out.’
I barked, heaving out the entire contents of my stomach in a watery torrent. When I was done, I lifted my head, tears streaming from my eyes and wiped a sliver of drool from the side of my chin. Davy was right; I did feel strangely better for the experience. At least now, I was able to walk without help.
‘I think it’s time that I went home,’ I told him.
I stumbled down the road and fell into my bed. My final thought as I drifted off to sleep was that, in future, I would leave mixing the drinks to Tom Cruise.
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.