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Ginny Jinker and the Gin Distillery

Photo by Jez Timms on Unsplash

The guests flashed their exclusive silver tickets at the door, took their seats before the stage, and waited for the magic to begin.

When the curtain was raised, Ginny Jinker was revealed. She perched on the edge of a giant gin glass and the crowd went wild with thunderous applause. She wore a gorgeous, silver sequinned ball gown and nodded her head graciously at the crowd.

“Welcome,” she said, as the applause dissipated, “to the legendary Ginny Jinker Gin Distillery. As the country’s most elite gin connoisseurs, I have invited you here to today to sample an exclusive new batch of artisanal gin.”

A pair of burly, handsome men, dressed in shimmering silver tuxedos, strode onto the stage and flanked the oversized gin glass. They each took one of Ginny’s arms and helped her hop down from her perch.

“Follow me to the mixing room!”

The crowd murmured with excitement as they trailed after Ginny and her aides. They walked through a series of narrow corridors which twisted this way and that, the smell of juniper berries growing stronger the deeper they wandered into the distillery.

And then they emerged into a room the likes of which they had never seen before.

“Welcome to the river of gin,” announced Ginny.

A beautiful waterfall roared at the far side of the great room, pouring its contents into a huge rock pool which was bordered with luscious grass and delicate wild flowers.

“This is not water, my friends,” Gin said with a smile. “This is my latest gin creation, mixed to perfection with tonic and chilled to the ideal drinking temperature. Go ahead — take a dip. Whenever else would you have the opportunity to swim in gin?”

The guests gasp and giggle and approach the pool. Ginny’s aides strip out of their silver suits and down to their boxers, then dive straight into the gin and tonic water. It isn’t long before the guests follow their lead, discarding their clothes on the ground.

Ginny observes with a hand on her a hip and a satisfied smile across her lips.

The event transcends into a thriving pool party and within a few hours, everyone is blackout drunk. Everyone, that is, except for Ginny.

She picks her way through the sleeping, snoring bodies on the floor, targeting the suit jackets and handbags which were so eagerly shed. She gathers wads of cash and stacks of credit cards, and slips away into the night while the country’s most elite gin connoisseurs snooze their way towards the morning.

But the worst part wasn’t the theft. When the guests came to with foggy heads and nauseous stomachs, they explored the distillery in search of clues as to the dastardly Ginny’s whereabouts. It was then that they discovered a mound of empty gin bottles.

They had been tricked. The G and T waterfall wasn’t filled with artisanal gin at all. It was bog-standard, white-labelled, budget-brand supermarket crap. And they hadn’t even noticed the difference.

The connoisseurs wept.