Hi, toots. Welcome back to the bar that falls in love every time you stop by. Let's get straight to the pint. Debs was by recently, and out of that fucking vodka-drenched and well-fucked mouth came a real pretty bit of gold. She pointed out between sips that Shady's become a real sunset charade, she digs him but there's no way he's going to live in her apartment and not be life and laughs and looks for the cool girls. No reason why they should suffer lonely just because they're lovely. Hey, Debs done a funny too. She found a postcard she'd written to a guy called Steve (mate of Shady's if the rotted net of this barman's memory is worth anything at all). Some pissed dreadfulness about how she'd been so busy buying into their dream life, getting the trappings of an affair laid out that he'd run off with the estate agent. It's almost cute, Debs. These wise guys don't buy a job lot of good life. It's already hanging around them and that's why they get each other horny. It would have been a nice epilogue if the shy postdude had read her postcard and they'd fallen in love.

Okey, let's do business.

The picture on the wall is a photograph by Oscar van der Velde. Congratulations to the Oxford hoods for sconces, tequila and that sort of caper. Cheers to Evil Friend and Quicksilver. A mean-looking Uma Thurman lounges on the bar courtesy of Australian correspondent, the furniture can be found at Wave's Bar in Texas.

On the jukebox this week we've had all sorts. The lost week turned out to be a fucked fortnight, but you don't take your leave of a foolishness like that without knocking over a few bottles. Lou Reed has been Ecstatic as usual, we even trawled Berlin. We've had Jimmy Rodgers yodelling a couple of afternoons, and it goes without saying that we tumbled into the Waits and Cohen party music briefly. Don't want to do these hard-working kids down, but I will, so here goes: Kings of Convenience album disappointed. Still, as the papers made clear the first song makes it worth a tenner. Let's not ignore the classics either- if you were professionally cool, you wouldn't be drinking at Mike's Place any which ways. Revolver by the popular beat combo The Beatles remains a half hour of pure sixties-suit cigarette sly. Be honest with your barman and all, toots. When did you last fill your room with Exile on Main Street? If there's an album to light up and pop the top of a jug of Jack Daniel's to, it's lurking dusty and neglected in your fucking alphabeticised record middle class bastard record cunt collection. Right you are, Pete: nearly done with the introduction. Guess you guys are getting restless.

A few nights ago, this guy came into the bar. Tart-chaser's suit and a face full of flopped dentistry. He says to me 'You know Mike, I look around this bar. You, Pete, Debs and Shady, and it's like going through a fucking photo book. Like reading a letter sent without a forwarding address that you just found in your pocket. You haven't changed or moved, just got more run-down, but I can't touch you. Guess we're still friends and that's nice and all, but don't you remember the good times like I do? How can you watch me come in here and not want them again?'

He finished his whisky, it grazed his lizard mouth and throat by the look of him, and off he went. I watched him walk into the block of sunlight we stack during the day under the neon come-on of Mike's Place. I asked Pete, 'Who was that cunt in the tie?'

Let's see who we have in the bar now. Pete, who's just intimated that if crosses the path of the crap villain who pissed on his great idea they'll come to blows. A Japanese lady sedate in Jemima socks and a smile that was unplugged while it was doing wistful. A couple passing a marriage between them like a colicky baby in the Oxford lounge. The wise guys, goons and old-style romantics threatening themselves with hard liquor. We got a lesson this week, baby. It's possible, even polite sometimes, to regret something you'd do again. So yes, a free drink to those few who have wondered why your barman approached them all keen and slunk off again, those who've watched their emotional conversations fall under the drinks cabinet and especially the forgotten kids who we meant to roll into again. Pete reminds me that we should rue the day we forced Quicksilver to exchange an alcoholic sidekick for a lady, but guess that it turned out for the best. Pete's also just reminded me to emphasise that he's talking fisticuffs, not making a candy-cane of the crap villain's cock. Oh fuck! Pete, I just been horribly reminded about the blood in the stool of Revolver. They let fucking Ringo do the submarine song!

The picture on the wall is a photograph by Oscar van der Velde. Congratulations to the Oxford hoods for sconces, tequila and that sort of caper. Cheers to Evil Friend and Quicksilver. Your poetry this week comes from behind the bar, I'm afraid. There's a bottle of Jack Daniel's or forty Lucky Strike cigarettes for the best poem we get in next month. Ah fuck it, shouldn't really be encouraging poetry. Okey, send in your Valentine's anecdotes instead. Bitter, wry, sexy and funny are more likely to get you pissed at the barman's expense than sweet, touching or beautiful, but I guess you knew that already. So, a little Valentine's pome, with apologies to Andrew Jenkins. Check out his much better scribblings at literary agent.

Or don't. It's not as though me and Pete give a fuck.

The Ballad of Billy the Cool

Let me tell you the story of Billy the Cool,
Street smart and sharp, he was nobody's fool.
Billy could juggle, blow smoke rings and dance,
He'd start off a joke to give the slow guys a chance
And all the young ladies would laugh in advance.

Billy had gorgeous cerulean eyes
Which set him apart from most of the guys
Down at Mike's Place, where we go for down-at-heel red,
Stained scarlet and smoky with tired yellow threads.
His body was shapely, wiry and taut-
Where did he put all those drinks that he bought?
Then I guess he only drank one of each two.
He'd look round for a girl and say 'This one's for you.'
They'd approach, melt and say 'Your eyes are so blue.'

He leapt on his stool with deniable grace
How I wished that he'd missed and touched down with his face.
I said to him 'Cool it, don't make such a din,
You're not the only one trying to do himself in.'
He wasted on me his best winning grin
And started his day with a neat double gin.

Billy came in Valentine's Day looking beaten.
At last it was raining in the lounge bar of Eden!
I said 'Hey Bill, what the fuck are you reading?
That'd better be gone when I open this evening.
The losers are all coming round to drink hard
The last thing they need's a Valentine's card.'
He said 'Cool it, Mike- I'll drink your top shelf.
This card's from my wife, but to somebody else.'

Billy joined in with my regulars all day
By lunchtime he'd started to swagger and sway
He forgot how to swagger, which made a nice change
My boys were suspicious but didn't complain.
He didn't point women out, or haggle or boast
Put his hand in his pocket for more rounds than most.
He even took pills with this sleepless old man
Who warned him it wasn't the wisest of plans.

Nearing midnight as Pete was pulling the shutters
And our less fortunate punters laid down in the gutter
I said 'Evening, Ma'am, have a seat, take it easy.
You're a little too pretty for somewhere this sleazy.'
'I'm looking for Bill,' she said, 'Billy the Cool,
My husband, my heartbreak and a cheap bloody fool.
He's found an old card, from years ago now
And when I got in we had a terrible row.
But I never sent it, I missed that romance.
When a cool blue-eyed teenager asked me to dance.
Whatever the other guy might have had planned
Went out of the door when I took Billy's hand.'

'He's sitting behind you,' I said with a sigh,
'In the huddle of smokers and old single guys.'
'Billy,' she shouted, 'I'm taking you home.
How could a girl who's got you start to roam?
Don't ever go drinking again on your own.'
They embraced, and the room collectively groaned.

So Billy went back with her and said 'My old strife,
This surely has been the best day of my life.'
His breathing was easy as he flicked off the light
And tumbled to sleep in the arms of his wife.

It was around 2am, I was cleaning the bar
And I came across Billy's Valentine's card.
It said 'I'm so sorry, I don't love you no more,'
And the name was the same as the one on my door.
I shouted to Pete 'We're not closing, wait!
I did get a card, it was just a bit late.
We're open all night and the drinks are on me.
It's Valentine's day and the whisky is free.'