Basically...

When perfect isn't perfect.

I’m on a deadline. OK… I’ve got three. A lot of unexpected things happened this week and threw what was already a too tightly-wound timeline into something... something that only works if I can somehow slow space/time to the point I get roughly - at least according to my word-count meter - 28.7 hours in every day for the next fortnight.

Part of my planning - the unhinged Gantt chart in finger paint and crayon that makes my existence possible - is, you’ll be relieved to know, a cocktail at six.

I’m happy to neck espresso, pull all nighters, wheedle and lie to editors and shovel all domestic responsibilities into the oubliette of ‘the work’, but I can’t do it without booze.

This is working definition of ‘self awareness’.

The drinks fridge is just behind my right shoulder. I use a Herman Miller Aeron Operator Chair, customised with rollerblade wheels. I can shoot myself 5m across the room to the coffee machine at will. And yes, I am actively considering a catheter.

But I’ve got the drniks fridge set so I just need to spin. All the gear is on a tray, on the bench over the fridge. Nobody can say I haven’t considered maximum efficiency.

I CAN MAKE A MARTINI WITHOUT STANDING UP

But tonight I took it too far.

You remember the last scenes in Goodfellas?

It’s a masterful piece of Scorsese direction. Henry Hill, played by Ray Liotta, is in the full, ice-sweat grip of cocaine paranoia. He knows the mob are closing in on him, the FBI have a wire taped to him and he can hear the Police helicopter hovering. It’s perfect. He leans forward, looking up through the windscreen... up at the chopper... sweating bullets. Eyes scanning the sky like overclocked radar...

…and then the voiceover...

“Basically, my plan was this: I’d go get a job, I’d get a Cadillac, I’d get a few bucks, and I’d give the rest to Jimmy...”

It’s the most masterfully perceptive piece of screenwriting I know. The juxtaposition of those words over the face of Liotta. Desperate, but powered through everything by the last artificial fillip of chemical hope. As driven as he is deluded...

The pace of the cutting and the monologue racks up... relentless... unbearable. Gabbling faster and faster. And as a viewer - in common with anyone who’s ever watched addiction unwrap* - you find yourself experiencing that awful precipitous realisation ….

“You have a plan. And it has less zero hope of happening”.

Sometimes I think of deadlines like Henry Hill thinks of NYPD choppers. Hovering, beating... cranking up the pace.

I digress. I needed a drink and fast. So...

Basically, my plan was this:

I knew enough of the maths of a Martini that I could build one from first principles and be back at my keyboard in a matter of seconds. Frozen glass, check. We’re going for a Montgomery so 1:15. 5g chilled NP vermouth using a bulb pipette, followed by 75g of -7ºC Berry Bros. & Rudd No.3 from the freezer. I knew the gin temperature would come up, that’s obvious, but not by enough to screw things up.

Stirring from room temp ingredients drops the temperature at the expense of dilution so, by the time you’ve dropped what’s in your mixing vessel to -5c you’ve probably added 15-20% of melt water.

Are you getting this?

I got chilled water in the fridge.

5g + 75g = 80g.

Let’s not go crazy... 15%.

15% of 80 ... that’s ...

What the fuck is that noise? Is that some kind of fucking chopper?

Twelve! Fucking twelve!

Twelve g of fridge cold water is not going to mess with the system.

It’s gonna work. That won’t raise the temperature beyond, like what? Half a degree.

Jesus... even Jimmy’s gonna go for a -4 martini.

Cut.

Thing is... it was shit. It was a dreadful, dreadful drink. Correct in every principle but lacking any iota of the ritual that gives it all meaning. Hollow. Meaningless. Tooth-grinding, neon-hot vapidity. It was mathematically, proportionally perfect. The perfect plan. But it was never, ever going to survive contact with reality.

I poured it down the sink.

I took a deep breath and mixed a Daiquiri.

A lemon Daiquiri. Shaken in the Alessi.

It took a deep breath and a couple of extra seconds to turn round the timeline crunch. The collapsing telescope, motorway pileup, Hitchcock zoom, trainwreck. It took some breathing and a little ritual to turn it all around and open it up.

God it feels good. Now all I have to do is sort out this copy.

So.

Basically, my plan is this:…

*Scorcese’s own relationship with coke is a matter of comprehensive record