One of the glass collectors at the club had a bit of an accident over Christmas, which left him with a large cut on his totally bald pate. By the time he turned up for work last night, the cut had dried up and a large bruise was, instead, impressively spreading towards his scalp.
On the mic I spent the evening, cruelly but aptly, calling him Mikhail. He got the joke but the bar staff didn't have a clue.
The bar staff are all under the age of 26. One's age really comes to the fore when the last Soviet leader, as famous for his port-wine birthmark as for his reforms, is someone not even remotely on a grown-up person's radar. I'll have the bath chair now, thanks.