MIKE DID not know what he was getting himself into. I didn’t know who Mike was at the time, only that I was sitting in my favourite cocktail bar, Footlights, during the all-day Sunday happy hour and these two very colourful, very loud black guys came in, full of laughter and big gestures.

They plonked themselves down at the two bar stools next to me and instructed Ian the barman to “set them up”. Two martini glasses and two vodka glasses were set up on the bar. Into the large glasses went double doses of Kahlua, Grand Marnier and Green Chartreuse. Into the smaller ones, similar doses of Bailey’s and Blue Curacao.

“Are you ready for this?” Mike asked his friend, who turned out to be called Frankie. Frankie nodded. “Really sure? You don’t have to if you don’t think you can handle it . . .”

A straw was placed in each glass. Ian ignited the Kahlua mixture. The men were now on their starting blocks, poised and ready. At the command “Now!” Ian introduced with one hand the creamy blue liquid and with the other, a liberal shaking of cinnamon into the broad glass. Sparks flew up in the air, a flame shot up and the two guys sucked for all t hey were worth. Three seconds later it was all over, except for oaths, head shaking and blinking from Frankie and Mike.

Well, I pride myself in my knowledge of things alcoholic, but this was a new one on me. As an investigative journalist, I felt it behoved me to demand to know just what it was they’d been drinking. That was when Mike made his big mistake.

“I invented it. It’s called a Flaming Lambourghini.”

“Looks good . . .”

Mike shook his head and smiled ruefully: “No offence, but it’s not for ladies – most men can’t handle it.” An evil grin spread over my face.

“Is that a challenge?”

“I’m warnin’ you, it’s bollocks strong. Half an hour later, Frankie going to fall off his chair aren’t you muthafucka? – just watch him.”

“I could drink that and stand on one leg.”

“You could, huh? OK. Tell you what. I’ll buy you one, and if you still standing in half an hour, you’re a great woman.”

My other half tried to warn him what he was dealing with, but his admonitions fell on deaf ears. Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly.

A minute later, fifteen quid’s worth of alcohol is spread out before me. I do the business, complete with going, “Fwarghhhh!” as the last blue flame flickers round the end of the partially melted straw.

Ian hugs me, congratulates my chap on the calibre of his woman, and then proceeds to offer regular time checks until my half hour is up.

In the meantime, a Singapore Sling and a Daiquiri Gold have found their way down my incautious gullet. When the time was up, I not only stood on one leg, but hopped and waved my arms around. Not the most sober behaviour, I’ll grant you, but at least my co-ordination was intact.

My alcoholic acumen won us an invite to Mike’s party next weekend. “Everything gonna be there. Whatever you want. Food, drink, anything.”

Somehow, it was that last word which made me grin as wide as Mike.

HEAVENLY

CONSOLATION

A word to Stuart Clark and anyone else who seized moistly upon the new Jesus and Mary Chain CD only to howl in disappointment at the marked absence of filthy guitar sounds: don’t you know yet it’s the B-sides you gotta check out to get a fix of what you crave?

Two versions of the single ‘Come On’ have been released, one featuring three murky new songs (not on the album) and the other – oh wow – three scintillating cover versions.

Imagine this if you can: The Pogues’ ‘Ghost Of A Smile’, Prine’s ‘Alphabet Street’ and The Cramps’ ‘New Kind Of Kick’ given the Chainey treatment. All the filth, sleaze and wit you can handle, boys and girls. And believe me, the advocates of speed manage to out-sleaze Poison Ivy and Lux Interior with a vengeance, which takes some going.

So do not despair. All is well. The Jesus And Mary Chain have not abandoned you in your hour of darkness, just released a rather more mature album which, with any luck, might rake in a few quid and extend their sensual grasp beyond the party faithful to boot.

KICK ’EM WHILE THEY’RE DOWN

Talking to my local Big Issue vendor the other day. She’s a little girl in her teens with matted hair full of brightly coloured plaits down to her waist and two friendly dogs who sit on her coat looking cute while she patiently waits for customers – no soliciting for her.

Seems the Government is pressing the Big Issue to betray the trust of its vendors by revealing their names and whereabouts of its vendors, not so they can offer them safe roofs over their heads or anything like that, but because it’s worried that some of them may be claiming benefit and working by selling the mag!

She reckons some of the more vulnerable vendors – those on the run from violent families and the chronically mentally ill – could stop selling the magazine through fear of being tracked down and submitted to the whims of an uncaring establishment.

My little vendor’s still got a big cheesy smile for everyone and bubbles over with a surfeit of gratitude if you throw caution to the wind and buy a couple of copies instead of just the one. If one day she isn’t there outside the station, I want to know it’s because she’s finally got a place for herself and her hound companions, not because she’s been persecuted off the only home she knows – the streets.