The kind of behaviour that would have The Felcher hissing Miss Manners gases from the ears, before flopping on the formica in a fit of the vapours. I’m alone at the bar with earbuds in. I can feel his thick digits, 96 miles away, twitching to rip, tear and toss them like tiny flailing bolas across the pampas of Orchard Street. But Gaucho Forajido, he ain’t here. Birgit Nilsson is. She growls ‘Muori dannato! Muori, muori ...’ like she has pebbles in her gizzard, and he is gone. Herring, Tosca, potato, Saturday night, 1968, shot of vodka, extrapolated downtown selfie. Together we quench his impotent rage.