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On my way back to the river I saw a poster by the cinema
advertising a film that was described as “stunning”,
“a gem”, “breath-taking . . . blazing with emotional intensity”

and I wondered how was it possible a film called “One Gin”
could live up to that flowery billing from national newspapers
and that maybe, in reality, it was just a wretched heap of rubbish?

Ralph Fiennes was holding a pistol and looking agonised
as though (I'm guessing) he was going to shoot someone who
suffers from ingrowing toenails or the crime of being a minor poet.

Naturally, there's a woman, Liv Tyler, who looks vaguely French
and (again I'm only guessing) plays the part of Ragtime Rosie,
lives with her drunk mother and has a lover pimping in Gin Lane.

I read further down the poster to read that this gin-soaked film
was based on the timeless masterpiece of love and obsession
called “Eugene Onegin” by Alexander Pushkin. I felt as stupid

as when I sang loudly at a friend's karaoke engagement party
“hit it baby from behind” then “let's pee in the corner” and,
as an encore, “there's a fat man on your wife” while people looked
at me and applauded as though I had drunk at least one gin too many.