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It was a quiet Sunday in Casablanca during the summer of ‘82. Billy Hamilton was feeling like a zombie after eight pegs. The bitter-sweet memories hit him like a tidal wave. He, the Millionaire No. I of the 20th century would never see his fiancée again. Mona Lisa, the Parisian, whom he had considered his perfect lady, had had her oxygen line reduced to a string of bubbles by a barracuda off the Great Barrier Reef. And what he would never forget was that snake-in-the-grass, Antoine’s smile as he sneered, “Lucky dip, Americano!”
Uncle Sam Vanderbilt patted Billy consolingly.
“Sonny boy needs an old fashioned remedy to get him out of this limbo,” he thought.
Uncle Sam left the same afternoon for Los Angeles, traveling incognito.
“Mrs. Harvey Wallbanger is expecting you, Sir,” announced the butler at the door of the baronial mansion. The grand old Irish lady, widow of the Demolition Man, fixed Billy’s photograph with a gimlet eye.
“Why not?” she said at last with something approaching a smile.
On the evening of July 4th, Billy, in a mental fog, drove his Bugatti “82 through the London fog to Claridges to meet Uncle Sam. He cut a dashing figure in his white polo neck sweater, blue jacket and black velvet trousers, though his eyes were a trifle bloodshot. With his combination of classic good looks, the charm of Adonis and a Harvard college education, he was no Rambo but seemed like the answer to any maiden’s prayer.
On his arrival, Billy was escorted upstairs to the Paradise Ballroom where Uncle Sam introduced him to Mrs. Harvey Wallbanger and her niece.
“I’m Roberta Burns – Bobby Burns to friends,” smiled the American beauty. Her voice was like black magic and she was dressed in a white satin gown and silk stockings. The sweet girl, brought up in the lap of luxury, had an angel face as smooth as wax and the curves of a roller coaster. Billy could hear the melody of eight bells ringing in his head.
Uncle Sam chewed delightedly on his Havana cigar. “Absolute T N T – she’s a corpse reviver!” he congratulated himself.
Their wedding, held at Brooklyn, was almost called off due to a lover’s tiff.
“Billy! You prize idiot!” roared Uncle Sam. “Send her a peace offering – a Rolls Royce or a Bentley.”
The honeymoon was at the blue lagoon of a Hawaiian island.
“Whiz bang!” exclaimed Uncle Sam.
“Bully for you!” echoed Mrs Harvey Wallbanger.
And that was a happy end indeed.
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THIS IS NOT A COCK AND BULL TALE BUT A COCKTALE – EACH HIGHLIGHTED SET OF WORDS IS THE NAME OF A COCKTAIL.
- DISCLAIMER: This is only an example of creativity and is, by no means, encouragement to drink.
As a lecturer at a hotel management institute years ago, I happened across a couple of attractively illustrated books on cocktails. While idly flipping through them I was struck by the weird and wonderful names within. It was only natural that my wild imagination took over and the end result is published above. By the way I’m a teetotaler – who said teetotalers can’t have fun with the fizz?!
© Sosha Srinivasan
First he raised eyebrows by featuring in an advertisement for an alcohol brand. Now our “hero”, Mohanlal is once again mired in controversy for his remark in the context of the Kerala Onam festival celebrations (marred by several deaths caused by spurious liquor), that “all Keralites drink”. For more details click here.
Perhaps the majority of men belonging to the state do, but its women? I doubt it. Aren’t they Keralites too? It is this kind of sweeping generalization that makes my blood boil. The man does not seem to have stopped consider the fact that he may be a role model for younger Mallus. Has he ever seen families ruined when the “man of the house” takes to the bottle? I think not. His may be the face most representative of popular Malayalam cinema, but his is also the face of irresponsibility. A clear case of foot-in-the-mouth disease.
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