“Have you got any of these chilled?”
“Yes sir, indeed we do. None are in the fridge – that fridge, right there, the one IN THE SHOP – but many are in our special walk-in fridge out the back, where we stock every single brand of beer in the world, chilled by specially-calibrated thermostats, including what I notice is your drink of choice, McNasty’s Super-Strength Bus-Shelter Fuel. But beware, that fridge is available only to the most select brethren of the crappy off-licence; those who have been initiated into it’s mysteries. For behind the facade of just the one fridge, of a shop surrounded by low-ratable value multiple-occupancy housing, charity shops, one extremely off-brand boutique and a well-known local brothel, behind and beneath lies a sordidly glamorous hellfire club of chilled beer, hot gypsies, and the spirit of Bacchus.”
I lowered my voice.
“But they take it too far, sir. You must have noticed, you’re in here every day, that we’ve lost two serving-wenches already this month? It isn’t right what they do in there. A gent like you shouldn’t get involved with them animals, sir. You’d be best advised to just drink the same thing you drink warm every other day of the year without complaint, and stop asking stupid fucking questions of poor bloody offy drones who are stuck inside earning a godamned living on the hottest day of the bloody year, while you, due to your reluctance to pay the £1 premium for big-name brands, are drinking 7% of regrettably warm lager with your unemployable mates and your fucking pitbull, on that patch of grass between the Spar and the Community Centre. If you ask me.”
Of course I fucking didn’t. But a man can dream.