On The Rocks

The Blue Pootle understands that there is a hierarchy of alcohol that can only be ignored at her peril.

Unfortunately, once one high heel has been placed on the bottom rung of the ladder, the next rungs begin to look rather like a beanstalk that leads up to some great big golden eggs, rather than an appointment with a packet of painkillers, lucozade sport, and the bad hair fairy.

The first rung is wine. I love wine. Red wine, the kind that stains your teeth purple. If that runs out I'll drink white wine, the kind that makes your mouth feel like a pincushion. If that happens to run out, I'll switch to rose. The kind that your cousin Trevor (who likes model trains and comedy ties) gives to you as a christmas present every year and you put under the sink to give to other people who you don't like if they pop round unexpectedly.

If that all went down to the stomach lining swimmingly then I'll probably start telling Hubby that beer is the drink of the epicurean. Real Ale. We'll reminisce about the ale they used to serve in the pubs at university, and then order some over-processed, chemical, 'comes out of the tap with the head already in place' type beer and smack our lips together in enjoyment, even though our taste buds switched off three drinks ago.

Then comes the third rung - the alcopop. I hate alcopops. They look radioactive, they taste of summer fruit squash, and they cost you at least £4.00 and your personal dignity. But, by this stage in the evening, they cut down on spillage and can be left with the non-dancing member of the group to hold in collections of twenty or more. The alcopop goes hand in hand with bad dancing, hoarse shouting, and twenty minutes spent waiting for a toilet cubicle that hasn't got half-digested alcopop all over the seat.

Rung four. The last stage. If I reach this, and Hubby hasn't rugby tackled me and demanded that I step away from the barman, things are looking bad.

Pernod.

Why does Pernod always seem like such a fantastic idea at 2.30am? Is it because it's the only word your lips can form? Or is it that you've just spent the last three hours singing the theme to 'Roobarb' and 'Jamie and the Magic Torch' with your friends, and you want to revisit the aniseed ball taste from your childhood? I don't know why it happens, but it does. And a blue pootle on a pernod bender is never a pretty sight.