1989 Christmas Day and I was working in a bar in Risør, on the southern coast of Norway. In Norway we celebrate Christmas Eve, so Christmas day I was at work and unsurprisingly not many people were out.

The cocktail bar was empty and I sat on a stool like a guest. The waiters from the restaurant underneath wandered up and we chatted aimlessly. We realised that is was going to be quiet so we closed early.

With the doors locked we had the place to ourselves and that is the most beautiful time of the day for a bartender. The ventilation shuts down with a descending whisper and the silence is a bath of spring water.

We had fallen into the habit of putting wet beer schooners into the freezer where we kept our Aquavit, vodka and bitters. At the end of a shift we would pour a ritual beer into a frosted glass and chase it with an ice cold shot of Jägermeister. On a good night we would repeat the process many times.

The privilege of sitting with colleagues in your own private bar is a joy. We would tell the same old stories and wind down after a hectic shift. I loved these sessions and dreaded the moment when one sensible spark would slap their thighs and suggest that we call it a night.

That evening we had watched the news that the Rumanian President and his wife had been summarily tried for their years of wealth and abuse. As soon as they had been convicted they were hurried out into the courtyard and executed by a makeshift firing squad.

We thought that this was a fitting end for the horrible couple and having not much else to celebrate, we toasted their fate with beer and chasers.

The night went on and I suddenly felt queasy. The floor rocked and the ceiling spun. I stcrambled to the toilets.

Inside a booth I stood and threw up. I generally don’t get sick from drinking but this time it snuck up on me.

My vomit was red, bright red and just liquid. Pints of it, a geyser that didn’t stop. In my stupor, I watched idle curiosity as the lifeblood poured out of me. Was this how I was meant to go? A ruptured gut, a punctured spleen?

I stopped spewing and seemed to be still breathing. I went to the basin and rinsed my face, dried it. I went back to the party.

“Are you alright?” they asked. I sat down and explained what had just happened.

“What were you drinking?” asked the waitress.

“Just the usual, beer and Jäger”.

“Ah, that’s OK then.”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s OK?’ “

“Jägermeister is black in the glass and red on the way up.”

So that is what I learned the night Ceausescu was shot, that Jägermister is black in the glass and red on the way up.