Double Denim

What's going on here then?

I strutted into the Bear-Man's shop, shaking the wet off my umbrella like an Irishman finishing up in a French brothel.

The Bear-Man looked up from a printout of many figures in bafflement.

What's going on? Nothing's going on?

He hurriedly bundled the printouts on the counter before him away out of sight.

I shook my umbrella once more and cast a vinegar eye at his shelves.

Don't seem to have much in the way of Dutch?

I chuckled at my little rhyme, perhaps I should do a rap battle with someone? Maybe wear some bling and carry a gun in my arse crack. Oh, and nylon, wear lots of nylon and shout five-star entertainment a lot?

Nah, fuck that. I wasn't that keen on nylon or sliding weapons between my buttocks.

Dutch? You mean Dutch beers?

The Bear-Man hefted himself out from behind his counter and pointed at a shelf next to me.

We've got the Brouwerij De Molen? Some lovely beers from them. You've tried them, have you not?

He looked pleased that he indeed did have some much in the way of Dutch.

Pfft. I mean proper Dutch beers. I was sent some you know.

I said, preening a little.

Sent some? Who by?

The Bear-Man turned from being fuddled to being suspicious as if I were a small fox wearing a hat made out of gammon attempting to sneak into his bedroom.

Oh, no-one you would know. They look very fine though. Very fine.

I continued to pace up and down his beer shelves occasionally narrowing an eye and mumbling something arcane at the odd bottle that caught my eye.

Eventually, I stopped and waved my umbrella in the air as if fending off an angry seagull.

You know, I think I will stick with the very fine Dutch beers I have in the house. I simply can't see anything here that I fancy this week.

I flared my nostrils as if I were a pig having jam rubbed into its testicles.

Nothing you fancy...

The Bear-Man looked a little sure of himself as he uttered this.

Nope, nothing at all. Maybe next week.

I fondled the haft of my brolly a little menacingly in preparation for going back outside into the Scottish murk.

The Bear-Man blocked my way and pulled a bottle out of nowhere and held it out at me.

Nothing for you... Not even some Double Denim... Smoked barley, virgin oak barrel-aged. Sure I can't tempt you?

I faltered, my bravado evaporating like cigarette smoke from a tramp under a bridge.

I looked at the bottle. Double Denim it proudly proclaimed, from my favourite brewery, Tempest.

Oh alright then. Give me it.

Double Denim eh. Like the eighties. I had better tell the Good Lady to get her leg warmers out of storage. Good times are a-coming!