Merrick

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One fierce cold Feb night, I was a t a loss as usual and decided to go and sing some jars,

Hadn’t been out for brews for a time and I’d build up a thirst, headed for a bar in

Brooklyn that had a jukebox, played the hit of the eighties

Sounded good

There was a biting cold and a wind chill factor to freeze your nuts off

The bar was warm, with even a real fire, logs blazing and the place was hopping, Bowie

in the juke with All the Young dudes

The bar man looked like a real dangerous bollix

Big, with a completely shaved head, arms on him that testified to real graft and he looked

mean, he was wearing a T-shirt that read

“Gun church.”

I managed to grab a stool at the counter and he stood before me, wiping down the place

in front of me, growled

“Get yah?’

Sounded like a grizzly with a bad hangover, I said

“Jameson, coors back

He smiled, no warmth in it but a sort of knowing, said

“Mick huh?”