Look out! It's the living corpse of Christopher Walken!

Last night Jo and I took it upon ourselves to do something about the shameful excess of gin in this country by disposing of quite a lot of it in a manner that has ensured that none amongst the most vulnerable in society will be forced to come into contact with it. 

It began, as these things so often do, with the intention to pop out for a quick drink before dinner, and ended, as these things so often do, with me drunkenly demanding ice cream, regardless of fact that it is 1am and ice creams are just not to be had. 

But before we got to that point, we had done a little tour of a few of the bars around here. We drank much gin. I became convinced that I had learned to roll my tongue;

I hadn’t, but needed photographic evidence to convince me.

We ate enormous plates of stuff covered with mayonnaise;

And we ended up at Raspa, a bar around the corner from our house. I love this place. It’s tiny, with only about five tables in it, and it’s full of bits of music memorabilia. We generally refer to it as ‘the place with good music’ because, in a country seemingly devoted to the ear-bleedingly tedious warblings of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga, Raspa generally has something decent on the stereo, often classic pop and rock like The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, but just as often it will be something a bit out of left field, like the Billy Elliot soundtrack (which is great, by the way).

And, in what is becoming a bit of a theme on this blog, they serve a decent sized gin and tonic.

The choice is yours. Drink it, or use it to put out a forest fire.

On this particular evening, we were in for a treat. Raspa was showing what we eventually worked out was the opening formalities of the 2010 COPA America football thing. It was stunning. Sadly, I have been able to track down a video, so you'll just have to use your imaginations. 

It was all a bit bewildering. There were women in white dresses holding eggs, which they reverently presented to an older gentleman, who cracked them open and presented each woman with a flag. Some of the eggs seemed a bit undeveloped, and the woman had to place them in an incubator until they were ready. The master of ceremonies seemed to have broken free from a Tony Robbins seminar.

And the musical numbers were being performed by the mummified remains of Christopher Walken.

With my brain gently marinating in gin, it was all a bit much for me. (As a side note, I realise that it was a bit odd to have been taking pictures of the TV, but luckily for us, everyone else, including the barman, was far too drunk to notice. He was also looking at a very important news report about dildos that was showing on the bar’s other TV, so as you can imagine, his attention was elsewhere) It was at this point that I started to demand ice cream, which we did eventually find, though it was no match for the gin, and I still felt rough as anything the next day. But at least we’ve made a difference, and no sensitive people will have to deal with the sight of full gin bottles on the shelves of most of the bars around here.