[LazyScot]

Some kind, anonymous soul sent me a short piece of security camera footage that took place just before I entered. If you will, imagine the following playing, silently, on a security monitor.

Marc looks at his watch and steps out from behind the bar with a tape measure and a bag. Whilst beckoning Pshrynk over, he moves a stool nearer to the door. With Pshrynk's help he makes various measurements and places the stool very precisely, and opens his bag. An animate discussion takes place where both Marc and Pshrynk gesture at the stool. Eventually Marc stands on the stool, as Pshrynk steadies it. From the bag Pshrynk passes a long rope that ends in a hook and appears to be covered in some sort of Velcro. More measurements, adjustments and discussions take place. Marc affixes the rope to the ceiling, leaving the hook dangling just behind the stool, slightly below head height. Then both Marc and Pshrynk nod happily.

And at this point the video ended.

As you may have noticed, I seem, of late, to be having some difficulty entering Adrian's. However, I devised a foolproof plan. A plan so foolproof, that even mother nature couldn't evolve a fool fool enough to derail it. A plan that was worthy of placement in the Museum of the Unbelievably Brilliant Plans. A plan that was guaranteed to get me a doctorate of planology for the work-famous University of Atlantis' Department of Forward Planning.

Pride comes before a fall? The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley? Mice, jam and flip-charts? As Zelda would say "pfft".

Here's the plan. First off, if I can't avoid the collision, I'll simply need to protect myself. So I developed a variation of the giant foam helm of stupidity, by wrapping it in a giant knitted woolly hat. Even in the event of a major thumpage, I'd feel nothing. Cunning, huh? But that's not all. I've noticed that the avians have a preference for hitting me front on. This is obviously since the resultant increase in approaching velocity assists the impact. So, if I travel backward, and travel backward fast, they will be struggling to catch up, and if they do, the impact will be significantly reduced. Didn't I say this was brilliant? Even Lefty would be impressed.

Anyhow, that is how I came to be running backwards into Adrian's wearing an enormous woollen hat stuffed full of protective foam.

It was about two seconds (or 3 meters in Adrionian dimensions), into my plan that several key points hit me:
1. That I might not have thought this plan though as well as I should as I couldn't see where I was going.
2. A stool (okay, technically I hit the stool, rather than the other way around, but, o holder of the pendant of pedantry, unless you want to be the subject of one of Marc's extreme experimental cocktails (of which more anon), I suggest you let this one go), which caused me to start falling over.
3. A large vecro'd hook (okay, technically it hit my woolly hat, but, o holder of the pendant, remember the cocktail threat) that pulled off the protective helm as I fell over.
4. A duck

THWACK

Thump.

As I came too, I vowed to listen more to the Wisdom of The Bard. As I lay there, the conundrum of why I get knocked unconscious, but the birds never do, sauntered by. I looked at the conundrum. The conundrum looked back. My mind studied the conundrum. The conundrum giggled. My mind and I looked at each other and back at the conundrum. It shrugged and wandered off to the bar for a drink. Both My mind and I were glad that it had disappeared.

Eventually, I pulled myself up to the bar. Unusually, standing behind it was Pshrynk, who put down a clipboard, and passed a drink. (It dawned on me how natural he looked. I wonder if his qualification required a minor in bar-keeping, or something similar.)

"You look like you need a bit more fizz. Here. Prosecco Riserva. It's a Bisol."

"Where's Marc." I said, sipping the Prosecco (by the way, it was, as always with the drinks at Adrian's, truly excellent).

"Out doing some Christmas shopping for Adrian. All of them." And as I looked around I notice that all the Marc's, even those busy serving customers, weren't there. (On reflection, I must be getting used to Adrian's as that does seem even slightly strange.)

"This is exceptionally nice. Any ch—" I notice that Pshrynk has already topped up my glass.

"I thought only Marc did that?"

"He left notes," said Pshrynk indicating the clipboard.

I picked it up, and noticed a whole list of drinks, names and times. Turning it over I noticed some scribbles.

"What's this?"

"Oh, Marc's got some idea about a constitution and independence."

"Independence from what?"

"I have no idea."

Several lines more or less literally (this is Adrian's after all) kidnapped my attention, and promised only to release it unharmed if I read them. Somewhat distracted by the Prosecco, the idea of Adrian's independence, and possibly a mild dose of concussion, I acquiesced. ""We hold these sillinesses to be self-aware"? "Laughter, non-sequitors and the pursuit of punnage"?"

"It's still a work in progress," said Pshrynk as he proffered a card with a Christmas scene, covered in little doors.

"Oh, an Advent calendar," I said, putting down the clipboard. "Today's has not yet been opened. May I?"

"Of course," I opened the door, and behind it were the words Which Way Is Up?. At that point Pshrynk placed a small drink in front of me.

At that point some uniformed people walked up to the bar. (How come they got to do that unharmed? Not fair.)

"Is Marc about?" they asked

"No. Can I give him a message?" Pshrynk asked.

"Yes. De do do do de da da da."

"Anything else?"

"No," they said, and with that they left.

Pshrynk and I looked at each other, but before we could say anything, Elle (the Cash Register and part time shrink) ran past holding a sprig of mistletoe in her… actually, the censor would rather I left that up to your imagination. (Clearly, the censor doesn't know you lot very well.) She was chasing the JukeBox who had turned Purple, falsetto and was dancing around her to the sounds of International Lover.

"But SAM, just a little kiss…" pleaded Elle.

"SAM?" I asked Pshrynk.

"Supplier of Amazing Music. I think she got bored calling him the Jukebox. And she seems to have a thing for acronyms. Slightly worrying."

"Baby, I know it's hard to believe," sang SAM the Jukebox

"You know you want to, just a little Christmas kiss under the mistletoe…"

"Maybe, if you're good girl" sang Sam as he and Elle danced out of earshot and into the middle of next week.

I noticed I'd finished my Prosecco, so, possibly still befuddled, I tried the drink in front of me. It was, ummm, different. Even for Adrian's, it was different.

At this point I think it is worth explaining a few definitions that will be shortly used. Firstly is the term "extreme". You know the word pink. Now there is a perfectly normal sane version of this colour. The sort that a chunk of humanity has as their skin colour. Then there is Pink, as in the colour that little girls insist in dressing in. This is somewhat less reasonable. Next there is PINK. This is the dayglow colour used in lycra and worn by the colour-blind or the misanthropic (or the colour-blind misanthropic). Finally there is extreme pink. Extreme pink is the sort of pink that makes little girls scream in horror. It is the colour that even misanthropes leave in their wardrobe. It is the sort of colour that marches up to your eyeballs, scoops them out with a pair of rusty nails, puts them into a golf-ball washing machine before jumping up and down on them. Then for good measure it places them into a liquidiser. And just in case there was any doubt, it assaults the dangling optic nerve with an exceptionally salty class five hurricane. Finally re-inserts your eyeballs. So now you understand what the qualifier extreme means.

Next, is the term experimental. Experimental is normally a coded way of saying "buggered if I know what's going to happen". Unfortunately, by that definition, everything in Adrian's would count as experimental, so (and in order to comply with the Working Time Directive (Words)) further qualifications on the meaning have been introduced when it is used within, or in relation to anything happening within, Adrians. First off, even Adrian himself would have to truthfully say, even after taking the advantages of future temporal retro-echoing techniques, it was difficult to be sure of the outcome. Next, after describing the experiment, Laws (of Physics) and Reality should be seen running in the other direction as fast as they possibly can. Finally, Marc should be quoted as saying "I think this is a good idea."

That's the definition diversion done, so lets return…

"What was that," I asked, indicating the now-empty glass.

"Which Way Is Up," stated Pshrynk.

"That way," I said, still somewhat befuddled. Then it dawned on me that I was pointing at the floor. "Oh no," and with that I fell off the floor and hit the ceiling.

"The advent calendar. It's a cocktail advent calendar. You opened the door, so you get the cocktail"

"Just whose bright idea was that," I said as Up got bored being on the floor and wandered over to a wall. So I found myself standing on the wrong surface and subject to another rapid repositioning (i.e. I fell against the opposite wall).

"Marc. He had some products from his lab he wanted to try out." With that he indicated at door behind the bar I'd never noticed before covered in bio- and chemical hazard warning signs, radiation monitors and assorted scary looking hieroglyphics. Glowing gently with a dull sound that sets ones teeth on edge was the sign "Marc's Experimental Extreme Cocktails Laboratory."

"And just why did he think it was a good idea?" I asked, as Up got bored and decided to head over to next Thursday. This left Down confused for a little bit.

"They take your mind off your troubles. Anyway, be thankfully you didn't open Tuesday's like Slite. Mind you, I thought he'd have been immune."

"Why, and what did he get." Down still seemed confused by next Thursday, so I was hopefully I'd stopped falling. Now if only I could work out how to shake off the effects of Marc's concoction.

"The Head Turner. And the active ingredient in it is apparently Surströmming"

"So what did it do?"

"Look for yourself," said Pshrynk, indicating last Tuesday where Slite was just being served the cocktail by one of the Marcs who was away Christmas Shopping. At that point, Down gave a shrug, thought last Tuesday was as good as anything and headed over there, rapidly followed by me.

Landing with a thump on one of Tuesday's armchairs I saw Slite taste the first advent cocktail. He blinked twice. At this point I'd expected him to do something like an impression of an owl. Instead his mouth sort of folded in on itself, rapidly followed by the rest of his face and head. Then his mouth, followed by the rest of his face and head reappeared, but backwards. Slite blinked three times and the process repeated itself.

"Antitode?" I asked last Tuesday's Marc that wasn't there, just as I saw Up getting bored with next Thursday and starting to try and find somewhere interesting.

"Make your sodding mind up," shouted Down at Up, startling everyone. Grumpily Up settled into next Thursday with a ill grace (I don't know why Grace was ill, but I suspect it was something to do with one of Marc's cocktails. I just hope she gets better soon.)

"Anything for my customers," said Mrs Paca, trotting over with a plate of British Christmas mince pies. "My catering is always an antidote for Marc's cocktails."

"Spoil sport," said the absent Marc.

I gratefully ate a mince pie (and it was one of the best I've ever had, full of the most wonderful dried fruits preserve and in a glorious pastry). And promptly fell back to where I started.

I glanced at the other open doors on the advent calendar: Wile E Coyote, The Time Warp, The Acutelator and Added Accents.

"Added Accents?" I asked Pshrynk.

"Hmmm. I got that one. I just need to figure out my revenge," he replied, moving in an uneasy fashion as if he had been having difficulty sitting for a day or so.

"So what's Marc up to with these extreme cocktails?"

"Trying to get Adrian's reclassified as a munitions factory or store, I suspect." And with that Pshrynk indicated a huge stockpile of pre-mixed, labelled cocktails, pre-packaged into miniatures.

"Munitions, huh? So, avoid the advent calendar, then?"

"That would be a good idea."

"And let me guess, that's not one of Marc's extreme cocktails."

"Now that would be telling." Pshrynk also seemed to have got Marc's poly-syllabic enigmatic smiles down to perfect as well.