Copenhagen is a great place for the dipsomaniac visitor. The mood for our recent visit was possibly set when we were handed free Baileys at about 8am at the airport heading out there. That’s where it all started. After that, I tried to take a photo of every round of drinks. Some we bought. Others were curiously delivered to us free of charge by a Danish landlord. On our way somewhere on Saturday afternoon, we stopped at the first pub we came to for a swift half litre. The pub had a pin billiards table, and draft Tuborg. We stayed for a few rounds, and then were befriended by a succession of Danes.
The free drinks commenced at the landlord’s request. He reasoned that everyone in the pub should get a free drink when Denmark scored a goal in some national football match. A combination of Saturday’s voracious thirst, and the landlord not counting on the Denmark football squad’s tremendous ability to score goals, left the pub out of draft Tuborg in no time. I was mildly disappointed myself, given that I had given up my lager abstention specifically for the Copenhagen trip. Lent could wait, I was in the home of Carlsberg, where Special Brew is made by appointment to the Royal Danish Court. This was a country that knew its pils from it pills, and I was not about to miss out on the yellow fizzy stuff of legend.
Harmony with the local Danes who had tought us Danish billiards and brought us ‘Fish’ led us to stay, despite the Tuborg shortcoming, at least until the end of the football match, we reasoned. Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all that. Besides, there was bottled lager. And more ‘Fish’. Fischerman or ‘Fish’ is a liquorice based spirit, foisted on us by our new friends. After necking several free shots provided by the landlord during an unprecedented streak of Danish scoring, we were told that it wasn’t required to put the Danish delicacy down the hatch in one swift motion. But it was too late. The shots were away. Given that food for the day had consisted of peanuts from the bar and the odd tiny toasted sandwich (ham and cheese – natch), given that Denmark were scoring faster than a sailor on shore leave, and given that we had done nothing but drink since 3pm, I was feeling rather worse for wear after about four hours of the relentless onslaught. When Denmark scored us a fifth free drink, I almost couldn’t bear another Fish.
After the football game and my liver had finished, our friendly Danish pub mates had informed us that another tradition was to smoke hashish outside the pub. Luckily for us, (for anyone of any sense knows that uninterrupted lager quaffing over a six hour period followed by hearty joint toking will lead to confusion at best,) we had been informed the previous day that the Danish dealers had downed scales, and were on strike. Saved? Not really. Danish Brian insisted on giving us a lump of hash anyway which he sent someone to procure at short notice from a scab dealer. He then proceeded to invite a friendly hippie over to roll us a fiendishly strong joint. Against better advice, joints were partaken of, toilets were collapsed in, and lampposts were clung to for dear life.
Though I think not looking a a gifthorse in the mouth is fine in theory, next time I’ll try to check the teeth of any Danish Hippies bringing spliff.