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It's 7.30 on a gorgeous evening in April. I've just finished work and I'm going out in a bit and I could murder a glass of white wine. A regular came in and spent all afternoon in the pub so I had someone to talk to. He told me all about the time he stabbed someone and then drank three shots of aftershock, one of each kind. Life's rich tapestry, I guess. Don't get the wrong idea about him though. It was a long time ago and he only had a knife because he'd just nicked it from a restaurant.