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In Sean’s Ph.D. program, there lives a British lad named Harold Thorrington, all of 22 or 23 years of age. Of course his name is Harold Thorrington, for he is so very, very British, and of course his mates call him Harry. Harry Thorrington looks like the cuddly-button love child of Tony Blair and Paddington Bear. Really, his name is just so terribly goddamned British — the very utterance of it makes me want to punch a crumpet.

Like many British blokes with few years and countless pints under their pudgy belts, Harry (who really is quite lovely and keeps me in stitches, I must say) only knows how to drink one way: More. Before the holidays, he confessed to me the three cocktails he’d ever consumed, at least to his recollection: a mojito, a Cosmopolitan and… oh, pish posh, I can’t remember the third. Doesn’t matter. The point is, I assured him he’d certainly had very bad versions of those drinks, wherever he’d had them, and I resolved to make him the World’s Greatest versions soon.

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