25 August, the year of our Lord 2024: Forsooth, disaster! My vessel (a small inflatable device my chief mate calls a ‘lilo’) has moored in a city upon which a supposedly extinct volcano threatens to spurt its magmatic fluid with priapic propensity. The locals (a friendly yet fearful breed) refer to their province as ‘Dundee’. I know not when I will escape this land where ‘law’ means ‘hill’ and men with the sonorous tenor of Brian Cox besiege my senses. Such is my wont, I will log the particulars of every public house I imbibe in until I procure safe passage. 

41 September, the year of our Lord 2024: Forsooth, I enter Grouchos as parched as the Devil’s nether flappings. Staff tell me this vibrant space was once a highly regarded record store but is now an intricate bar and venue replete with music memorabilia, tunes from yesteryear and a diverse cocktail menu. Home sits a thousand clicks in every direction, and I don’t even know what a click is. I miss my dear wife Millicent and our Great Dane, Deborah, who is also my wife. The Espresso Martini I order (wittily dubbed a Coffee & TV) acts as a brief respite from my travails. 

89 October, the year of our Lord 2024: ‘Forsooth, Black Mamba!’ I scream, remembering my time fending off pythons in the Amazon (a warehouse I worked in for 12 days). My fears are allayed when I realise Black Mamba is a charming hybrid of gastropub and speakeasy with matching dynamic menu. Relaxed staff thaw the hoardings of frost in my beard as I suckle my beer, as cool to the touch as Deborah’s enticingly flapping ears. 

111 December, the year of our Lord 2024: Forsooth, I have procured a pump for my lilomatic flotation device from an Ahab-like man with a pegleg and a ‘Shed Rule’ poster staple-gunned to his forehead. 'The pain shows my dedication to the Tangerine Army', he explains. Presumably he's ex-military. Either way, escape from this blighted realm is in sight. My final port of call is The King Of Islington, an alcohol-festooned nook peopled by knowledgeable bartenders and a respectable guzzle gallery. Much like the other bars on my visit, there is an avuncular presence to this hole-in-the-wall supping station.

Surveying my journal, I realise this strange land has an emerging bar scene with forceful personality and punctuation marks of flair. As I sit astride my lilomatic flotation device by the salivating Tay and grab my throbbing oar betwixt both hands, I almost regret leaving.