Mine goes to eleven.

The hard-boiled, investigative journalist sat with his legs up on the desk throwing grapes at the cat. His self-respect had taken a tumble. Where had his critical eye gone? Had he lost control? Become feeble?

That last chapter had had a strange effect on him. A stubborn subconscious thought had made the laborious climb up the soul’s slippery stairs and tried to attract his attention. Why was everybody so excessively positive to the vodka? As soon as anybody opened their mouth a torrent of words and tirades of empty advertising rhetoric buzzed around the ears like flies round a cow’s arse.

In pure defiance, he went over to the wine rack and uncorked a Rioja, full to the brim of esters and other rotgut, which is taboo in the production of vodka. He poured a healthy glass and sat ruminating.

Every writer with self-respect must safeguard against being manipulated. It came to him after a few swigs of wine that he had actually persisted in asking about the projects teething problems and other mishaps. The mistakes they had remedied, but it was essential that he had taken a critical stand and not just soaked up all PR bumf that was thrown at him.

This must be examined in depth, he thought. It must undergo some kind of personal field study. He picked up the phone and dialled the numbers to two of the craziest party animals he knew. They both had sophisticated tastes and styles as well as being nigh-on impossible to drink under the table. The writer has tried on countless occasions and always failed miserably. They would be perfect for his investigative task. He reached for the phone.

“We’ve got to have a drink,” said the writer. “It’s on me.” The same procedure was repeated and they fixed a date. It was two days until then. When the field study was over his conscience and night’s sleep would be saved.

The writer sat waiting in one of Stockholm’s most exclusive bars. His fingers drummed in tune with the laid-back music that streamed out of the speakers. He guzzled on a glass of juice as he suspected that the evening would be a tough one and he needed all the vitamins he could lay his hands on. His face lit up when he glanced over to the entrance.

Charlton Heston and Harry Connick Jr had arrived at the bar right on time. One of his friends was the spitting image of a young Charlton Heston and the other one had a vague resemblance to Harry Connick Jr. They looked happy and expectant. And elegant, confessed the writer. The young Charlton Heston wore threadbare Pepe-jeans, a white t-shirt and dark Corneliani blazer. Harry turned up in a waist-length leather jacket and a pair of in-your-face checked trousers.

The writer signalled to the bartender and ordered three shots of the sparkling vodka. He then got himself into a position where he could observe their expressions when the shots were squeezed out of the machine on the bar.

A broad grin quickly spread over the face of the young Heston.

“Cool!” said the Connick Jr look-alike.

There we had Charlton Heston, Harry Connick Jr and the hard-boiled investigative journalist, each with a shot of Camitz Vodka CO2 in their hands.

“Down the hatch!” said the writer as they downed the shots in one swift movement. He placed the glass on the bar and observed them carefully. The young Charlton Heston and Harry Connick Jr looked as if a meteor had fallen out of the sky and landed right in front of them.

”Christ almighty!” said Charlton.

”I have to have another!” cried Harry merrily.

They got themselves a table and before long had a gigantic dish of oysters, and a full bottle of Camitz CO2, complete with ice bucket. They munched on exquisite nibbles, sucked on oysters, and after every third one they toasted each other with the sparkling delight. The writer looked on with glee at his friends and then laid the cork on the table and made a few notes. A feeling of serenity came over him. He hadn’t sold his soul to the advertising pimps after all.

The festive atmosphere went up a notch, they became warmer, shirt buttons popped undone and the jackets ended up on the back of the chairs. People stopped momentarily at the table, others pulled up a chair and joined the merry trio in taking a swift swig. Before long the bottle was on the wane. Blurred desires about Russian blinies with soured cream and whitefish roe found their way to the writer’s ears. Glancing at the empty bottle he waved to the waitress.

“Fuck it, bring two more bottles.” Martin Luther is dead! Everyone was happy, they were on the fast track to ecstasy. He heard singing. He laughed, ate Russian blinies, drank vodka, but somewhere far in the distance he had a vague suspicion that the whole thing was beginning to go off the rails. The oyster shell he held in his hand reminded him of a Frisbee. Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, he heard a voice but couldn’t make out the words. Charlton Heston was dancing. Harry Connick Jr was kissing someone. If you looked close enough the bubbles were as big as footballs. The writer got a nipple in the eye. The head waiter was dancing with Charlton Heston. Or was it the doorman escorting Heston out of the restaurant? Where are they going? The investigative journalist was in need of a call of nature. Strange, paving stones on the floor? Suddenly the paving stones flew up and hit him in the face.

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