Gin Tonic Quotes

Arthur shook his head and sat down. He looked up. “I thought you must be dead …” he said simply. “So did I for a while,” said Ford, “and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks. I kept myself amused all that time jumping in and out of a gin and tonic.

This was a dream. A very bad, bad dream, brought on by liver poisoning from too many gin and tonics. Here it was, a deal with the devil. At what price my soul? He watched me expectantly and threateningly all at the same time. If I said no, I knew what would happen. Save the glass, waitress, I’m drinking from the bottle! Happy hour, with my neck on tap. If I said yes, I’d be agreeing to a partnership with pure evil.

Part of her doing suicide intervention is my caseworker has to mix me another gin and tonic.

We wish you a merry Christmas” is the most demanding song ever. It starts off all nice and a second later you have an angry mob at your door scream-singing, “Now bring us some figgy pudding and bring it RIGHT HERE. WE WON’T GO UNTIL WE GET SOME SO BRING IT RIGHT HERE.” Also, they’re rhyming “here” with “here.” That’s just sloppy. I’m not rewarding unrequested, lazy singers with their aggressive pudding demands. There should be a remix of that song that homeowners can sing that’s all “I didn’t even ask for your shitty song, you filthy beggars. I’ve called the cops. Who is this even working on? Has anyone you’ve tried this on actually given you pudding? Fig-flavored pudding? Is that even a thing?” It doesn’t rhyme but it’s not like they’re trying either. And then the carolers would be like, “SO BRING US SOME GIN AND TONIC AND LET’S HAVE A BEER,” and then I’d be like, “Well, I guess that’s more reasonable. Fine. You can come in for one drink.” Technically that would be a good way to get free booze. Like trick-or-treat but for singy alcoholics. Oh my God, I finally understand caroling.

When I arrived in Beirut from Europe, I felt the oppressive, damp heat, saw the unkempt palm trees and smelt the Arabic coffee, the fruit stalls and the over-spiced meat. It was the beginning of the Orient. And when I flew back to Beirut from Iran, I could pick up the British papers, ask for a gin and tonic at any bar, choose a French, Italian, or German restaurant for dinner. It was the beginning of the West. All things to all people, the Lebanese rarely questioned their own identity.

About a week ago I was sitting in L.A.'s chicest nightclub with a few friends and the DJ was playing Yaz and Bowie and the videos were on and I was on my third gin and tonic and I realized that no matter where I am it's always the same. Camden, New York, L.A., Palm Springs - it really doesn't seem to matter. Maybe this should be disturbing but it's really not. I find it kind of comforting.

By 12.30, Giles had consumed five gin-rickies, four gin-and-tonics, three gin-and-its, two gin-and-bitters, and one gin.

A gin and tonic under its tiny canopy of lime, I said, elevates character and makes for enlightened conversation

I thought you must be dead …” he said simply. “So did I for a while,” said Ford, “and then I decided I was a lemon for a couple of weeks. I kept myself amused all that time jumping in and out of a gin and tonic.

Invalidating a woman’s life choices by saying things like, “Oh, but you’ll regret it if you don’t have kids,” or, “I didn’t think I wanted kids either until I had one,” is like me going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and telling the newly sober that eventually when they grow old, they’ll want to take the edge off with a little gin and tonic and that if they could only just be mature enough to control themselves, they could go on a fun wine-tasting tour in the Napa Valley.

Pentru că au sâni rotunzi, cu gurguie care se ridică prin bluză când le e frig, pentru că au fundul mare şi grăsuţ, pentru că au feţe cu trăsături dulci ca ale copiilor, pentru că au buze pline, dinţi decenţi şi limbi de care nu ţi-e silă. Pentru că nu miros a transpiraţie sau a tutun prost şi nu asudă pe buza superioară. Pentru că le zâmbesc tuturor copiilor mici care trec pe lângă ele. Pentru că merg pe stradă drepte, cu capul sus, cu umerii traşi înapoi şi nu răspund privirii tale când le fixezi ca un maniac. Pentru că trec cu un curaj neaşteptat peste toate servitutile anatomiei lor delicate. Pentru că în pat sunt îndrăzneţe şi inventive nu din perversitate, ci ca să-ţi arate că te iubesc. Pentru că fac toate treburile sâcâitoare şi mărunte din casă fără să se laude cu asta şi fără să ceară recunoştinţă. Pentru că nu citesc reviste porno şi nu navighează pe site-uri porno. Pentru că poartă tot soiul de zdrăngănele pe care şi le asortează la îmbrăcăminte după reguli complicate şi de neînţeles. Pentru că îşi desenează şi-şi pictează feţele cu atenţia concentrată a unui artist inspirat. Pentru că au obsesia pentru subţirime a lui Giacometti. Pentru că se trag din fetiţe. Pentru că-şi ojează unghiile de la picioare. Pentru că joacă şah, whist sau ping-pong fără sa le intereseze cine câştigă. Pentru că şofează prudent în maşini lustruite ca nişte bomboane, aşteptând să le admiri când sunt oprite la stop şi treci pe zebră prin faţa lor. Pentru că au un fel de-a rezolva probleme care te scoate din minţi. Pentru că au un fel de-a gândi care te scoate din minţi. Pentru că-ţi spun „te iubesc” exact atunci când te iubesc mai puţin, ca un fel de compensaţie. Pentru că nu se masturbează. Pentru că au din când în când mici suferinţe: o durere reumatică, o constipaţie, o bătătură, şi-atunci îţi dai seama deodată că femeile sunt oameni, oameni ca şi tine. Pentru că scriu fie extrem de delicat, colecţionând mici observaţii şi schiţând subtile nuanţe psihologice, fie brutal şi scatologic ca nu cumva să fie suspectate de literatură feminină. Pentru că sunt extraordinare cititoare, pentru care se scriu trei sferturi din poezia şi proza lumii. Pentru că le înnebuneşte „Angie” al Rolling-ilor. Pentru că le termină Cohen. Pentru că poartă un război total şi inexplicabil contra gândacilor de bucătărie. Pentru că până şi cea mai dură bussiness woman poartă chiloţi cu înduioşătoare floricele şi danteluţe. Pentru că e aşa de ciudat să-ntinzi la uscat, pe balcon, chiloţii femeii tale, nişte lucruşoare umede, negre, roşii şi albe, parte satinate, parte aspre, mirându-te ce mici suprafeţe au de acoperit. Pentru că în filme nu fac duş niciodată înainte de-a face dragoste, dar numai în filme. Pentru că niciodată n-ajungi cu ele la un acord în privinţa frumuseţii altei femei sau a altui bărbat. Pentru că iau viaţa în serios, pentru că par să creadă cu adevărat în realitate. Pentru că le interesează cu adevărat cine cu cine s-a mai cuplat dintre vedetele de televiziune. Pentru că ţin minte numele actriţelor şi actorilor din filme, chiar ale celor mai obscuri. Pentru că dacă nu e supus nici unei hormonizări embrionul se dezvoltă întotdeauna într-o femeie. Pentru că nu se gândesc cum să i-o tragă tipului drăguţ pe care-l văd în troleibuz. Pentru că beau porcării ca Martini Orange, Gin Tonic sau Vanilia Coke. Pentru că nu-ţi pun mâna pe fund decât în reclame. Pentru că nu le excită ideea de viol decât în mintea bărbaţilor. Pentru că sunt blonde, brune, roşcate, dulci, futeşe, calde, drăgălaşe, pentru că au de fiecare dată orgasm. Pentru că dacă n-au orgasm nu îl mimează. Pentru că momentul cel mai frumos al zilei e cafeaua de dimineaţă, când timp de o oră ronţăiţi biscuiţi şi puneţi ziua la cale. Pentru că sunt femei, pentru că nu sunt bărbaţi, nici altceva. Pentru că din ele-am ieşit şi-n ele ne-ntoarcem, şi mintea noastră se roteşte ca o planetă greoaie, mereu şi mereu, numai în jurul lor.

I also knew that he was the kind of anile little runt who, in foyers and theatre bars the West End over, can be heard bleating into their gin and tonics, "I go to the theatre to be entertained.

Father Pierre, why did you stay on in this colonial Campari-land, where the clink of glasses mingles with the murmur of a million mosquitoes, where waterfalls and whiskey wash away the worries of a world-weary whicker, where gin and tonics jingle in a gyroscopic jubilee of something beginning with J?

You hit me again and I’ll—” “What? Bleed more? Thanks, but I only drink gin and tonic. That’s one vampire attribute I’m without. No fangs, see?

Two gin and tonics, please,” he said without so much as a second glance to the flight attendant. “That okay, baby?

All the way out I listen to the car AM radio, bad lyrics of trailer park love, gin and tonic love, strobe light love, lost and found love, lost and found and lost love, lost and lost and lost love—some people were having no luck at all. The DJ sounds quick and smooth and after-shaved, the rest of the world a mess by comparison.

When it's summer, people sit a lot. Or lie. Lie in the sense of recumbency. A good heavy book holds you down. It's an anchor that keeps you from getting up and having another gin and tonic. Many a person has been saved from summer alcoholism, not to mention hypertoxicity, by Dostoyevsky. Put The Idiot in your lap or over your face, and you know where you are going to be for the afternoon.

Because of the last time you overheard me talking about con—er, protective products,” I said. Nothing. I might as well be babbling about rush hour traffic patterns, for all the reaction he showed. “You ordered a strawberry gin and tonic because I was talking about strawberry-flavored…

Ah, thank you,' said Ford. He and Arthur took their jynnan tonnyx. Arthur sipped his, and was surprised to discover it tasted very like a whisky and soda.

A good book holds you down. It’s an anchor that keeps you from getting up and having another gin and tonic.

Without the Jesuits you wouldn’t be enjoying your gin and tonic.

mom consisted of so much gin and tonic that they didn’t dare cremate her because of the risk of explosion,

Gin and tonics won't say "I love you" and neither will he.

Meditating deeply so that she could really, clearly experience being angry and lonesome and hurt and horror-struck never seemed as good as a strong gin and tonic and another hour of work.

Trying not to poke myself in the eye with the rosemary. I wonder how everyone else with a gin and tonic is managing it without injuring themselves. Maybe that’s a thing that you get taught at private school - how to drink cocktails with unwieldy garnishes.

All over Atlanta that fall, in the blue twilights, girls came clicking home from their jobs in their clunky heels and miniskirts and opened their apartment windows to the winesap air, and got out ice cubes, and put on Petula Clark singing 'Downtown', and sat down to wait. Soon the young men would come, drifting out of their bachelor apartments in Bermuda shorts and Topsiders, carrying beers and gin and tonics, looking for a refill and a a date and the keeping of promises that hung in the bronze air like fruit on the eve of ripeness.

For some, gin was a vile and degrading venom, but for many others it was a thirst-quencher, a proof of virility, an aphrodisiac, a rite of passage, a tonic, a nourishment, a pacifier for children, a fount of confidence and inspiration for the preacher or the soapbox ranter.

Her address book confirmed it, the pages inhabited equally by the living and the dead....Each name called up raucous dinner parties and gin-and-tonics on sunny patios, lazy Saturday afternoons at the swim club, station wagons filled with noisy boys in polyester baseball uniforms.

If your head isn’t up to the job, your legs better be!” (It should be noted that when she died, the bank robber’s mom consisted of so much gin and tonic that they didn’t dare cremate her because of the risk of explosion, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have good advice to offer.)

Sometimes you see English people going out to pub, bar or disco with friends, standing awkwardly together drinking beer or gin and tonic and waiting for something ‘romantic’ to happen. Usually nothing happens apart from everybody getting drunk, which is hardly romantic. So, typically, instead of meeting Mr or Miss Right they meet Mr or Miss Right Now, which lasts as long as there is enough alcohol circulating in the blood vessel.

Twilight never lasts long in India, but its advent was like opening time at the pubs our rulers had left behind. The shadows fell and spirits rose; the sharp odour of quinine tonic, invented by lonely planters to drown and justify their solitary gins, mingled with the scent of frangipani from their leafy, insect-ridden gardens, and the soothing clink of ice against glass was only disturbed by the occasional slap of a frustrated palm against a reddening spot just vacated by an anglovorous mosquito.

And finally Nell: British, cool, eschewing the books and the expert advice. So trust-your-instincts. So I-really-shouldn’t. (I really shouldn’t have that chocolate-chip muffin. Those chips. That third gin and tonic.) But there was something else about Nell, something below the salty exterior I spotted from day one: she, like me, was a woman with a secret.

She would hear the verbal balancing act: urgency mixed like gin amid the tonic of consideration.

In short, I was in a familiar place, the place of feeling unfamiliar, which I responded to in my usual fashion by arming myself with a gin and tonic, my first of the evening. I

I’m afraid we don’t serve glow-in-the-dark gin and tonics.

gin and tonic,” Christian says. “Hendricks if you have it or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendricks, lime with the Bombay.

gin and tonic

Gussie is an orange-juice addict. He drinks nothing else.' 'I was not aware of that, sir.' 'I have it from his own lips. Whether from some hereditary taint, or because he promised his mother he wouldn't, or simply because he doesn't like the taste of the stuff, Gussie Fink-Nottle has never in the whole course of his career pushed so much as the simplest gin and tonic over the larynx

...But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink.

The British habit of taking quinine as a prophylactic precaution against malaria developed into the evening “gin and tonic”—the gin being considered necessary to make the bitter-tasting quinine in the tonic water palatable.

It was the sort of pub Alan liked, furnished with wall- to-wall forty-five-year-old gin-and-tonic drinkers. A notice on the wall behind the bar read: Please do not ask for credit, as a punch in the mouth often causes offence.

Good luck. Take quinine if it's Cairo, take salt if it's the desert, take precautions if it's a local girl. Avoid gin unless good tonic is available, smoke no more than one pack, and keep anything made of metal on the outside of your skin. Dismiss.

I wasn’t sure whether he was a grad student, poet, actor, stripper, or brilliant combination of all those things. But the man knew Lord Byron, and he knew words. He knew the rise and fall of sentences, the way to pause, the moment to look up, catch our gazes, smile. He knew emphasis and speed, pacing and clarity. He was a prince of poetry, and he had us mesmerized. Champagne was uncorked and dunked into gleaming silver chalices of ice, then poured into tall, thin glasses while we listened, legs crossed and perched forward in our chairs. “Is it better if we’re objectifying his body and his brain?” Margot asked, lifting the thin straw in her gin and tonic for a sip. “I don’t much care,” Mallory said. “He gives good word.” I couldn’t have put it better myself.

I gather from Audrius that that concoction contains ten different ingredients. In addition to vodka, rum, brandy, and grenadine, it boasts an extraction of rose, a dash of bitters, and a melted lollipop. But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda . . .” Shaking his head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “Excuse me for expounding.

People use the word breathtaking—no doubt I’ve used it myself—but it dawns on me as I watch you from behind my watered-down gin and tonic that I’ve never truly grasped the meaning of the word. Until now, that is, when I suddenly find all the air has gone out of the room.

Lucy preferred gin and tonics during the summer and switched over to whiskey sours in the winter. At dinner, a sit-down affair with the family, Lucy drank whatever the Temerlins drank, including expensive French wines. "She never gets obnoxious, even when smashed to the brink of unconsciousness," wrote Maurice, revealing more about the chimp's alcoholism than perhaps he intended. At one point, he tried to wean Lucy off the good stuff and onto Boone's Farm apple wine. Assuming she would delight in the fruity swill, he purchased a case and filled her glass one night at dinner. Lucy took a sip of the apple wine, noticed her parents were drinking something else, and put her glass down. She then graabbed Maurice's glass of Chablis and polished it off. She finished Jane's next. Not another sip of Boone's farm ever touched her lips.

In the twilight the Americans brought gin and tonics to the beach and rented pedal-boats shaped like giant swans. They trolled night crawlers from their bamboo poles, sipped their drinks and nodded to the lovers who paddled among them, spellbound, all of them, in the tangerine dusk.

My mother will emerge with a towel on her head, Nefertiti fashion, and a good terry-cloth robe, and make herself a tall gin-and-tonic and look like a movie star for an hour. Being around her is like being on safari; there is an elusive something we are after, in difficult conditions, and we will look good in the getting there.

Lauren had hoped to make him notice her as a woman, and he was certainly noticing her. Now she rather hoped he would say something nice. But he didn't. Without a word he turned on his heel, strode over to the bar and dumped the ocntents of one of the glasses into the stainless steel bar sink. "What are you doing?" Lauren asked. His voice was filled with amused irony. "Adding some gin to your tonic." Lauren burst out laughing, and he glanced over his shoulder at her, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Just out of curiosity, how old are you?" "Twenty-three." "And you were applying for a secretarial position at Sinco-before you threw yourself at our feet tonight?" he prompted, adding a modest amount of gin to her tonic.

At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda .

Then we’d head to a bar on Third Avenue. Diaz, in his uniform, with his limp, almost always met a woman. The limp was gold. As the woman watched Diaz hobble back to us with drinks, sloshing gin and tonic on the floor, I’d say, “Fucking Iraq.” She’d seldom ask me to elaborate. If she did, I wouldn’t tell her how, as a squad leader, Diaz contracted a bacterial infection while masturbating in a Port-a-John; how the infection spread up his urethra, into his testicles; how that made him lurch, causing a herniated disk, which resulted in sciatica.

... I somehow got the idea that oak floors were located exclusively in New York City. This came chiefly from watching Woody Allen movies. I wanted to live someplace that looked like Mia Farrow's apartment in 'Hannah and Her Sisters' (little did I know that it was Mia Farrow's apartment). To me, this kind of space did not connote wealth. These were places where paint was peeling and the rugs were frayed, places where smart people sat around drinking gin and tonics, having interesting conversations, and living, according to my logic, in an authentic way.

It is a curious fact, and one to which no one knows quite how much importance to attach, that something like 85% of all known worlds in the Galaxy, be they primitive or highly advanced, have invented a drink called jynnan tonnyx, or gee-N'N-T'N-ix, or jinond-o-nicks, or any one of a thousand or more variations on the same phonetic theme. The drinks themselves are not the same, and vary between the Sivolvian 'chinanto/mnigs' which is ordinary water served at slightly above room temperature, and the Gagrakackan 'tzjin-anthony-ks' which kill cows at a hundred paces; and in fact the one common factor between all of them, beyond the fact that the names sound the same, is that they were all invented and named before the worlds concerned made contact with any other worlds. What can be made of this fact? It exists in total isolation. As far as any theory of structural linguistics is concerned it is right off the graph, and yet it persists. Old structural linguists get very angry when young structural linguists go on about it. Young structural linguists get deeply excited about it and stay up late at night convinced that they are very close to something of profound importance, and end up becoming old structural linguists before their time, getting very angry with the young ones. Structural linguistics is a bitterly divided and unhappy discipline, and a large number of its practitioners spend too many nights drowning their problems in Ouisghian Zodahs.

Often, when I went out for breakfast on Sunday morning, at the Mediterranean place around the corner, I was seated by a dancer who’d been a year ahead of me at school and waited on by a painter who’d been two years ahead. At night, Don and I could meet Lauren for Thai food, or Leigh and Allison for gin and tonics at the Rat Pack–era bar on Bedford and watch an alternative circus, which involved one college friend of mine eating fire, another clowning in the style of Jacques Lecoq, another riding a unicycle and playing trombone. For me, this was heaven, heaven that could only be improved by Jenny moving in down the street. For Jenny, though, it turned out this was hell. She had cast off such childish things. Heaven was, she told me, eyes shining, driving to a large supermarket and unloading a week’s worth of groceries directly into her apartment from her designated parking spot.

Club" replies the seal. ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦ A bartender walks into a church, a temple and a mosque. He has no idea how jokes work. ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦ A baseball walks into a bar, and the bartender throws it out. ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦ "A bear walks into a bar and says, "Bartender, I'd like a gin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and tonic." And the bartender says, "Sure, but what's with the big pause?" ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦ A cable TV installer walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says, "You'll

For us moderns, a symbol is essentially separate from the unseen reality to which it directs our attention, but the Greek symballein means ‘to throw together’: two hitherto disparate objects become inseparable – like gin and tonic in a cocktail.

says, "Bartender, I'd like a gin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and tonic." And the bartender says, "Sure, but what's with the big

- Mas você não consegue escrever coisas compridas! Isso que faz é uma miséria. - Coisas compridas como? _ Bem, romances, crónicas autênticas, ensaios sólidos. - Não, isso não sou capaz. - Então vocês não é um escritor. - Pois não. Quem se atreveu a chamar-me tal coisa? - aí é que me ia encanzinando. - Não é ofensa, desculpa. Mas uma coisa comprida, por favor, não arranja? - Olhe, o mais comprido que tenho é isto. E já foi difícil. Quando as coisas vão a ficar maiores, deito logo fora. Compreende, não é?

I’m having a Lottalittle. Lotta gin, little bit of tonic.

Needless to say, the newcomer is not a pretty girl. In fact, he’s a bland-looking Asian guy, wearing chinos and a black compression shirt. This is not a good look on anyone, but this guy is too flabby to even make it look arrogant. He takes a stool two down from Anders, looks around, and then raps on the bar with his knuckles. Neckbeard seems to have disappeared. Charity is busy brushing Anders’ hair back from his forehead with one hand. Mr. Chinos raps again, louder. Charity rolls her eyes, steps back from Anders, and turns to our new friend. “What can I getcha, hon?” “Gin and tonic,” he says. “Not too much ice.” She turns away to make his drink. Anders is eyeballing Mr. Chinos. How many beers has he downed by now? Four? Five? His sandwich is only half eaten. A drunken Anders is a punchy Anders, and a punchy Anders is an Anders that I have to take to the emergency room because he broke his own fibula. “Hey,” I say. “You about ready to head home?

Happy hour?" Jason says. "It's barely noon, Grams" "Oh, shush, you. You'll have some, yes?' "Well"-he smiles slyly and wiggles his eyebrows-"if you insist". Every time, it's the same thing. Leaning in, he rubs his hands together expectantly. The drinking age in New York State was raised last year, so technically, I suppose, this is still illegal for my grandson. But the Jews didn't spend forty years wandering the desert so that I could forfeit a gin and tonic with my progeny...

capable heart. As has happened countless times, he lost me for months on end and not only never complained, he immersed himself in the story, escorted and supported me, provided me with endless pots of tea and emergency gin and tonics. Sorry for the nightmares. Wendy Holden

one of the most deliciously atrocious writers around

She watched with envy as dancers bobbed and swayed to the raging music like an undulating wave in an angry sea. Pungent odors of sweat and incense mingled with the less obtrusive smells of whiskey and flash pots from the stage. Laser lights and strobes flashed like lightning in time to the thunder of heavy bass and drums. The whole place thrummed with energy as if on the brink of an explosion. Any other time, she might have felt out of place in her conservative cream silk blouse and knee-length taupe skirt amidst the metal-studded leather and ripped denim. The women frowned at her attire while the men gave her a wide berth as if she might burst into religious sermon if they came too close. With a resigned shrug, she raised a hand to pat the sleek French twist in her hair lest one of the unruly locks escape its prison. Satisfied that every hair held its place, she turned her gaze to the crowd around her. “Hey there, pretty girl.” One of the bartenders set a gin and tonic with two slices of lime in front of her before she had spoken a word. She tried to hand him a ten-dollar bill but he waved it away with a shrug and a wink. “Your drinks are on the house tonight.” As he returned to the other end of the bar, her gaze followed him. This particular broad-shouldered bartender was the reason most females came to Felony, and she was no exception. His name was Jack. They had a passing acquaintance limited to brief discussions of the weather and sports, mingled with occasional flirtatious remarks. Although she had a huge crush on him, she’d never admitted it to anyone including herself. Jack represented everything that was absent from her life; spontaneity, promiscuity… adventure. He was the green grass on the other side of her self-imposed fence, a temptation that she coveted but would never taste.

Are you Russian?” “To the core.” “Well then, let me say at the outset that I am positively enamored with your country. I love your funny alphabet and those little pastries stuffed with meat. But your nation’s notion of a cocktail is rather unnerving. . . .” “How so?” The captain pointed discreetly down the bar to where a bushy-eyebrowed apparatchik was chatting with a young brunette. Both of them were holding drinks in a striking shade of magenta. “I gather from Audrius that that concoction contains ten different ingredients. In addition to vodka, rum, brandy, and grenadine, it boasts an extraction of rose, a dash of bitters, and a melted lollipop. But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda . . .” Shaking his head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “Excuse me for expounding.” “That’s quite all right.” The

This body is built by yoga, lots of laughs, a balanced diet, and by finding ample joy in simple things. And gin and tonics,” she adds with a wink.

She steps inside my proffered hand and draws me to her in a one-armed hug that lasts long enough for me to learn that she’s been drinking gin without much tonic and that her breasts are not original architecture.

Adevărul doare

All Brewton belonged to them. Crump wanted to stay around and cash in on that fact but Santo talked him into driving him and Mary Tate and Craig back to Birmingham. Willy, Ruben and Pi did stay. The last Craig saw of them they each had a gin and tonic in hand and were chatting to interested little groups of Brewtonites. This was at Seymour Hanes's barbecue after the rodeo, in honor of Santo-Crump. 'Stay hungry,' Santo told Willy as they were leaving. Willy was unhurt except for a bruised tail and a few glamorous abrasions on his face, but he looked like a different man. The clown had told Santo at the rodeo that Willy had wedged his hand under the rope with the left-hand glove. 'I love you,' he told Santo. 'Hang in there,' Santo said and poked at his belly. 'Peace,' said Pi. Ruben smiled. They took ten slabs of barbecue ribs in a sack and ate them in the car. When Mary Tate finished hers she leaned against Craig, tucked her legs under her and put her left hand up high on his leg. Her face was flushed and beautiful. 'I loved you today, Swamp. You had fun, didn't you?' Craig's head was already beginning to buzz. His thoughts were going soft and he wanted to sleep. She kissed him slowly and quietly and he saw a thought distract her, saw it ripple over her eyes. 'How come that boy said he loved you, baby?' she asked Santo. 'Huh? Oh. He didn't mean me exactly,' Santo said and went back to talking rodeo with Shorty Crump.

aprovecharme de ello. Me mira y sonríe tímida. Puedo ver la tristeza en su mirada. Alejandro le ha hecho daño y un gran sentimiento de culpabilidad me invade por completo. Somos

Asking her to squeeze on the lime would be too adventurous i think.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. I mentioned I’d been in contact with her mother. “Oh crikey, that sounds dangerous!” “She’s a feisty woman, isn’t she?” William giggled. “Granny’s great fun after a few gin and tonics.” “Sh, William,” Diana said, giggling too. “My mother’s been a tremendous source of support to me. She never talks publicly; she’s just there for me.” “And what about William’s other granny?” “I have enormous respect for the Queen; she has been so supportive, you know. People don’t see that side of her, but I do all the time. She’s an amazing person.” “Has she been good over the divorce?” “Yes, very. I just want it over now so I can get on with my life. I’m worried about the attacks I will get afterward.” “What attacks?” “I just worry that people will try and knock me down once I am out on my own.” This seemed unduly paranoid. People adored her. I asked William how he was enjoying Eton. “Oh, it’s great, thanks.” “Do you think the press bother you much?” “Not the British press, actually. Though the European media can be quite annoying. They sit on the riverbank watching me rowing with their cameras, waiting for me to fall in! There are photographers everywhere if I go out. Normally loads of Japanese tourists taking pictures. All saying “Where’s Prince William?’ when I’m standing right next to them.” “How are the other boys with you?” “Very nice. Though a boy was expelled this week for taking ecstasy and snuff. Drugs are everywhere, and I think they’re stupid. I never get tempted.” “Does matron take any?” laughed Diana. “No, Mummy, it gives her hallucinations.” “What, like imagining you’re going to be king?” I said. They both giggled again. “Is it true you’ve got Pamela Anderson posters on your bedroom wall?” “No! And not Cindy Crawford, either. They did both come to tea at the palace, though, and were very nice.” William had been photographed the previous week at a party at the Hammersmith Palais, where he was mobbed by young girls. I asked him if he’d had fun. “Everyone in the press said I was snogging these girls, but I wasn’t,” he insisted. Diana laughed. “One said you stuck your tongue down her throat, William. Did you?” “No, I did not. Stop it, Mummy, please. It’s embarrassing.” He’d gone puce. It was a very funny exchange, with a flushed William finally insisting: “I won’t go to any more public parties; it was crazy. People wouldn’t leave me alone.” Diana laughed again. “All the girls love a nice prince.” I turned to more serious matters. “Do you think Charles will become king one day?” “I think he thinks he will,” replied Diana, “but I think he would be happier living in Tuscany or Provence, to be honest.” “And how are you these days--someone told me you’ve stopped seeing therapists?” “I have, yes. I stopped when I realized they needed more therapy than I did. I feel stronger now, but I am under so much pressure all the time. People don’t know what it’s like to be in the public eye, they really don’t.

In the end, the decision had been obvious, though sad. And so here I was, on another plane. Wheels up. Thirty thousand feet. Another gin and tonic, and another bad airplane meal

Some of the best romances of my life, all started by mistake. You belonged to another, I was free, chained to my life of imagination, but you wanted reality to come take ahold of me. You grasped me with a grip meant for Swisher Sweets and steering wheels. I'm a loose cannon, I'll blow you up and away without concern, but I will cry over your loss and empty myself for days. I'm not worth a prayer or even a drop of tonic in your gin, but I'll get under your skin the way you bedded yourself into mine.

If your crackling is not crisp enough when the meat is ready to serve, don’t worry. Simply cut the crackling away, return it to the oven and cook it for a further 15 minutes, while you have a gin and tonic to begin your meal. After this extra oven time, your crackling will be sure to crack like glass.

la mia salivazione dev’essersi temporaneamente alterata, certo, non può essere altrimenti, per via dei due gin tonic bevuti a digiuno e per il fatto che è da stamattina alle nove che non mangio, e infatti ho una gran fame, condizioni alle quali si è aggiunto lo stress di questa inverosimile serata. Fatto sta che io non sputo mentre parlo. Cazzo.

Y todo el mundo quiere llegar a ser rico. Todo el mundo. Pero cuando la gente se da cuenta de que no va a poder llegar a serlo, y te ven a ti jugando al golf o subiéndote a un cochazo, todos empiezan a despotricar. Unos hipócritas, eso es lo que son. Matarían por estar donde tú estás ahora, cariño. Con ese gin-tonic en la mano. Acostándose con mi hija.

That ultimately, all mamas are not superheroes. That becoming a mum doesn’t automatically confer sainthood if you were a dick before you pushed a baby out of your bits. That ultimately, all mothers are still just people. Some of us are kind and gentle and endlessly giving. Others, resentful and frustrated and increasingly convinced they’ve made a terrible mistake. Some will be getting through each day and doing their best, while others just go through the motions waiting for the 7.30 p.m. gin and tonic. There will be some mums out there who thought they were going to hate it and have surprised themselves, and others who thought they’d love it and simply don’t. Some of us are wonderful. Some of us are wankers. Most of us are a mixture of all these things on any given day.

This question came from Elon Musk near the very end of a long dinner we shared at a high-end seafood restaurant in Silicon Valley. I’d gotten to the restaurant first and settled down with a gin and tonic, knowing Musk would—as ever—be late. After about fifteen minutes, Musk showed up wearing leather shoes, designer jeans, and a plaid dress shirt. Musk stands six foot one but ask anyone who knows him and they’ll confirm that he seems much bigger than that. He’s absurdly broad-shouldered, sturdy, and thick. You’d figure he would use this frame to his advantage and perform an alpha-male strut when entering a room. Instead, he tends to be almost sheepish. His head tilted slightly down while walking, a quick handshake hello after reaching the table, and then butt in seat. From there, Musk needs a few minutes before he warms up and looks at ease.

Important Bridesmaids notes: Harrison only allowed one beer before the service and one whisky for courage before the speech. When drunk has a tendency to a)Ramble b)Do the robot dance c) Take off his shoes and swing them around his head by the laces. Michelle only allowed one glass of champagne before the service and one gin and tonic for courage before her speech a) Slur b) burst into a spontaneous rap c) Prank call her boss pretending to be Kermit the Frog

I know. I miss you. I miss us—ABN us. It’s weird, not having you there, and not to be a total drunkle, but what are you doing here, babe? Working for The Goddess Effect?” Behind his haze of several gin and tonics, I saw genuine concern.

Allow me to make myself clear. I don’t give a pickled fuck how or why we came to be married. You are my wife. If you need some fun, you’ll call me. I’ll be the one taking care of you. I’ll give you anything you want, including a properly prepared gin and tonic. If you can’t accept that, you’re welcome to divorce me now.

But even though I had stopped drinking after that last gin & tonic at the bar, I kept getting drunker on Sam anyway, like they were seeping steadily into my bloodstream with each open admission of vulnerability, each shy smile, each horribly belted song.

He was looking like he felt quite sorry for himself, but happily so, and found a waiter to order more drinks from. He asked for a gin and tonic with those same elaborate instructions he had tried giving in Marianne’s earlier. It had to do with lemon wedges.

Prue loves her garden. I am up for the mowing and heavy lifting, but otherwise my finest moment is when I take the gin and tonic out to her on the stroke of six.

British control of colonial India required the ability to combat malaria, so Brits in India consumed powdered rations of quinine in the form of “Indian tonic water.” By the 1840s, British citizens and soldiers in India were using 700 tons of cinchona bark annually for their protective doses of quinine. They added gin to the liquid to cut its bitter taste and, most certainly, for its intoxicating effect. And the gin and tonic cocktail was born. It became the drink of choice for Anglo-Indians and is now of course a universal staple on bar tabs worldwide.

Angela cursed her gin and tonic. It was impossible to look wise, and to project an air of disinterest in various earthly disasters, while using a straw.

Poor old Sheba regarded Connolly with much the same amazement and delight as you or I would a monkey who strolled out of the rain forest and asked for a gin and tonic.

Hugh Hefner described the consummate playboy as one who “likes jazz, foreign films, Ivy League clothes, gin and tonic, and pretty girls,” with an “approach to life” that is “fresh, sophisticated, and yet admittedly sentimental

him about the proposed change in name. He thought it sounded like nonsense then and hadn’t changed his mind yet. ‘To answer your question though, I think it will depend on how many other crimes they are able to sew up with this discovery. All the different piles of goods in there might each represent a separate reported theft. They could clear a list of crimes and, if they are finding fingerprints or other physical evidence, they might be able to catch multiple criminals. They’ll be trying to find Karl Tarkovsky, but I doubt he’s in the country. I reckon he took the van full of Stilton and fled, getting across the channel before anyone even had a chance to report the van stolen, let alone the cheese.’ ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dave agreed. ‘It’s a shame for the festival. And for the dairy, but they’ll recover sure enough. The insurance will pay for it and it’s not like suppliers can go elsewhere to get it. Stilton isn’t Stilton if it’s made by anyone else,’ the security guard said knowingly. He lapsed into silence and neither man spoke for a moment. It became an awkward silence after about ten seconds, at which point Dave said, ‘Well, must be off. Goodnight.’ ‘Goodnight,’ Albert called after the man as he vanished into the dark again. It was good of him to check on Oxford, especially given the day he’d had. Albert watched the police working in the lockup for a few seconds as he continued to chew over the misalignment of clues in his head. The counterfeit note didn’t fit. In fact, the only way he could make it fit, was to assume it appeared in Karl’s room out of pure coincidence, and he didn’t like that at all. Unable to shift the feeling that he was blind to the truth, he turned around and started back towards the pub. Perhaps a gin and tonic to help him sleep was in order. The imagined taste hastened his steps, but he might have walked faster yet had he known what waited for him in the bar.

3. burn, baby, margarita burn Avoid phytophotodermatitis, aka margarita burn, aka what happens when you gallantly make lots of gin and tonics on a sailboat, inadvertently squeeze citric acid on your skin, and spend the day in the sun, inviting a low-grade chemical burn. You can skip this very specific seasonal hazard by always washing your hands after playing beach bartender.

She was clearly reluctant to tell me just how bad the encounter was, not meeting my eyes when she explained they initially slammed the door shut when she told them who she was. She didn’t leave though, and eventually they let her in and coldly disclosed that they knew all about me and my ‘ghastly’ mother. My ears started to buzz as I let that sink in, and I scratched at my neck, waiting for the lump in my throat I knew would appear any second. They knew about me from the start, Helene explained, when their ‘poor’ son turned up unexpectedly late one night and, pacing the living room, confessed that he’d got into some trouble. According to Jeremy, who did most of the talking while Kathleen sat rigidly on the sofa sipping a large gin and tonic, Simon had asked how he should tell his wife, Janine, and told his father that some financial provision would have to be made for me

The deafening sound of music recedes as the door to the ladies' loo swings closed behind me, but I can still feel the heavy bass vibrating through my body, beating in time with the miniature drummer in my head. A few years ago, I could have put it down to a dozen or more gin and tonic and the start of the inevitable hangover, but I rarely drink these days

Over-familiar, the music has become a kind of audio-Valium, background music rather than something I listen to actively and attentively. A gin and tonic after a long day. A shame, I think, because while each note remains the same, I used to hear them differently. It used to sound better.

Afterwards, over drinks, one of the barbarians asked me what I dreamt of. I, of course, was taken aback. They say barbarians don't dream. But I told him... "I dream of tangible nothing," I said. "So you mean nothing as something, then?" the barbarian replied over the rim of his gin-and-tonic. "I mean unity, dissolving into non-self," I said, just to be confusing.

Same hour, same set-up: woman plus tortoise, tortoise plus hibiscus, man plus gin and tonic. "To arm myself against the evening." She had found it perplexing, a man who feared the evening because he feared the night.

It's too warm for red wine; now I mix gin and tonics instead. I find they make the ordinary sensation of living lighter, less ruffled.

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This question came from Elon Musk near the very end of a long dinner we shared at a high-end seafood restaurant in Silicon Valley. I’d gotten to the restaurant first and settled down with a gin and tonic, knowing Musk would—as ever—be late. After about fifteen minutes, Musk showed up wearing leather shoes, designer jeans, and a plaid dress shirt. Musk stands six foot one but ask anyone who knows him and they’ll confirm that he seems much bigger than that. He’s absurdly broad-shouldered, sturdy, and thick. You’d figure he would use this frame to his advantage and perform an alpha-male strut when entering a room. Instead, he tends to be almost sheepish. It’s head tilted slightly down while walking, a quick handshake hello after reaching the table, and then butt in seat. From there, Musk needs a few minutes before he warms up and looks at ease.

Helen poured us some drinks. I remembered the carnations in my satchel, which I’d left at the front door. I had meant to present them to her on arrival. It seemed to me like the moment had passed. If we were now to drink gin, then The Kissing was imminent and the flowers were no longer necessary. I knocked back the gin and tonic she had poured for me. I winced at the sharp taste. I then realized why my parents sipped at their alcoholic drinks.