So, do we have a wake? The ahemophagous bat is already flitting rather maniacally behind the bar, setting up the not-quite-whipped cream, the not-quite-hot coffee, the various Irish offerings from Jameson to Powers with the Mist on the side, and hot water to preheat the mugs or make hot drinks. There are Long Spoons everywhere, there are clove-studded lemon wheels with the bitter pith removed, someone has sent the cream to Old Bailey where it belongs (man, those B52s have a lot to answer for). The usual (the word Normal almost appeared here, but thought the better of it) bartender is still unconscious, moaning vaguely in a corner.

Actually, there are a lot of people vaguely moaning in various corners, and who can blame them. Some are at the beach, so someone needs to make mai tais and Long Island Iced Tea for that crowd, yeah, let's have a luau too, roast a pig, bonfire, indeed! Ooh, méchoui! Mix our parties right up!

The first Irish Coffee is being brewed, for the bat, by the bat, so that being drunkenly alert for hours, like I think Gil the Arm said, shall not perish from the Tavern.

Who's having the next one? It won't be long, you have to drink it while it's still hot all the way to the bottom, or you can't cuddle yourself into the glass afterwards (well, if you're small enough to do that) till it gets cold. Our bat is willing to skip the cuddling part to make more Irish Coffees. Hot punch is also on offer. Or toddies, if you want some tea salvaged from the harbor, back when reason prevailed...