See you again

A rather tatty “cocktail lounge” was the scene one evening of a memorable, though somewhat brief, visit. Apart from a couple of gentlemen of Middle Eastern extraction, the place was virtually deserted and it didn’t take long to discover why. I ordered a Kloster and my friend a brandy and soda. For a couple minutes nothing happened but a discreet enquiry as to what had become of the beer received the response that it was “on its way.
Shortly after, while I was explaining to the girl that Kloster lives in a green bottle and not the brown one which she was pouring out for me, I became aware of gasping noises from my friend who had taken the first sip of his “brandy and soda”. He looked quite ill.
“My God,” he said, and handed me his glass for a sip. I am not a brandy drinker but whatever was in the drink, it most certainly wasn’t brandy. It tasted something like a mixture of hair oil and syrup. The girl insisted it was brandy and even produced the bottle. To her credit, it looked vaguely similar to a brandy bottle, but alas its contents was a doubtful liqueur, and one that most certainly should never have been allowed to escape from a bottle.
It was at that point pandemonium broke out behind us with the Middle Eastern gentlemen having a raging dispute over some undetermined point with seemingly everyone else in the bar, including themselves. Perhaps they, too, had ordered a brandy and soda. It was definitely NOT a healthy scene. We paid up and in true British tradition fled the scene. As we scampered out of the door a sweet voice chirped: “See you tomorrow.”
Facing the music
Sitting in a little bar one evening — all in the line of duty, of course — I tried to convince myself that the music being played was not really as dreadful as it sounded. In fact, it wasn’t dreadful. It was appalling. The tape was a chewed up Thai cover version of a medley of arguably the worst pop songs of the last 20 years – Yellow River, Sugar Sugar, Ring My Bell and all that sort of stuff with a few Boney M’s thrown in to make you feel really ill. The best that could be said about the tape was that the local version was splendidly out of tune, giving the songs an extra dimension they didn’t really deserve.
Chatting to a rather sweet young lady sitting at the bar looking rather bored — understandable considering the company — I mentioned that the music left a little to be desired. She agreed completely. Absolutely dreadful music, she said. Really painful. Couldn’t understand why anybody in their right mind would want to listen to that rubbish. Shortly after, the music mercifully ground to a halt. That’s when she excused herself … to change the music. I had just been chatting to the disc jockey. Obviously my words carried considerable weight as she promptly turned the tape over and played part 13 of the world’s worst songs.