Nipper had been very pleased with the intensive workout he'd been enduring with WesWatson. After getting through a grueling morning, Wes had gone and our blue-faced hero had decided he'd done an outstanding job and deserved a treat. So he sat down with a bottle of potent clear liquor. It was 11am. His mind wandered as he drank. He reflected on the total change of direction he'd managed to take with this new exercise routine and the incredible determination he'd displayed in sticking with it for the entire morning. He smiled to himself and waddled across the room to the gramophone.

After some thick-fingerd fumbling, he pawed a heavy vinyl onto the turntable and lumped the oversized stylus down onto the record. There was a loud bang of complaint through the speaker, then the crackling magic of some splashy jazz came drifting out. Nipper's nose lifted and his eyes closed, as if he could smell the sound, he wandered musically back across the room toward the bottle, as if dancing along the unseen scent. He had literally no idea what he was drinking. He assumed the label was in English but his reading limitation was only surpassed by his desire not to know. He enjoyed the mystery of this fiery magic liquid. Given its flavour, the label may well have read 'Paint Stripper' or 'Liquid Paraffin'. It made no difference to Nipper. He was several glasses in now. His memories were now just a memory and it was all he could do to serenade the voice filling the room.

"I ROVE YOU ROIUS ARMSTRONG!"

The room spun, his heart raced and the fog descended. It was 11.45am

***

It was dusk when he awoke. The setting sun filled the room with a warm glow and his view of life was still similarly softened by the consumption of his new favorite drink. Without moving his eyes from the rays of orange light drawing romantic lines on the walls, his hand reached for the bottle. 

"Herro ord friend."

He unscrewed the cap and filled the tumbler next to it half full of what, he was sure, would be the answer to every question this potentially tricky evening could pose. He put the thick glass tumbler to his lips and poured half the contents down his throat, the other half up his nose. Along with a rather abrupt end to his romantic laze, this brought with it an invigorating burning sensation and a desperate panic for air. He sat up and spluttered, instinctively glancing around to make sure no one saw what had happened. He relaxed when he remembered he was alone and his brain stopped its reflex searching for a clever explanation as to why he would do that on on purpose.

With a tremendous act of will he tipped himself out of the incredibly comfortable chair and rode the momentum all the way into an impact with the back wall of the shower. His face pressed against the cold tile, a hopeful hand waved around in search of the silver spinny thing that made the water happen. The head burst on and the scream came out. After the shower's horrific shock to the system, he slipped into some comfortable robes, turned on the dangerous electric heater, applied the usual makeup and poured another glass. After making short work of the long drink, his eyes were once again drawn outside. The last of the light was cresting on the tops of the buildings. He loved this time of day. Grabbing the bottle he made his way out into the glorious night.

For some time the poetic wanderer, wandered. Sometimes dancing, sometimes lurching, elbows always out. He found an old bandstand at the end of a public park and sat on the steps watching the last golden crest of the sun, burn the very tops of the trees. He could smell a restaurant kitchen not far away and the sweet odor wet his mouth. The bottle was reopened and what remained was drained. He still had no idea what it was but even if he could read the words, he couldn't now. The whole world was a blur, the clearest sense he had was his smell and he was drunk on that too. He got to his feet and began to dance a little jig. As he did so he raised a theatrical hand into the air and serenaded the scent. 

"Oh sausages are rovery, I eat them arr day rong,

They make me so damn happy, that now I sing this song,

Oh rittre meatry marveL, so round and smarr and sweet, 

You dance across my tastebuds and give me happy feet,

Oh happy rittre sausage, I rove you more and more,

One day I eat so many, I end up on the froor,

For breakfast runch and dinner, I eat them arr for me,

Just ignore the chest pain, and crogging arteries, Oi!"

He chuckled to himself and slumped back down on the steps of the band stand. He looked across the park and made assurances to himself about things he would not remember. The last thought that passed his now useless mind, was a promise to find out what he'd been drinking. But he never would. This night would remain an isolated adventure, shrouded in happy mystery.