There are a few rules when it comes to drinking. With the past week seeing more alcohol then should be legal, I thought I should pass on my experiences when it comes to getting drunk, and rules that should not be broken (much like feeding mogwai after midnight).
Red and white wine
When I first discovered the joys of wine, and how drunk you can get on them, I let myself go one hot Sunday afternoon. It all started innocently enough. A barbecue in the back garden, a few stubbies to fight off the heat. After the main feast a bottle of chilled chardonnay was produced, and my mate and I sat there in a very civilised fashion, chatting about this and that, whilst we polished off the bottle. Nearing the end of the bottle we realised that there wasn’t enough to keep us “high” for the rest of the afternoon, and with the prospect of sobering up before bedtime, we leapt in the car and headed offy bound to buy a couple more bottles.
It was a hot day, probably one of the hottest of the year. As the sun’s heat subsided, and we had discussed and solved 3rd world debt and invented a new car engine that ran on nothing but cold damp air, we drew to the end of our third bottle of white. Now well on the way to the land of intoxica, we decided to take the dog for a walk and head back to the offy. This time the white was scrapped for red, because it was stronger and my mate assured me that red wine was so much more civilised in the evening.
Things get hazy at this point. I can honestly say I don’t know if we stayed outside, or if we went inside. I don’t remember eating anything more. I don’t even remember him leaving, or going to bed.
The next morning, and I have to walk my son to school. I remember that particularly well. If I’d had one kind of wine then all would have been fine, but the white was absorbing the red’s dryness, leading to a rather violent dry vomiting fit halfway to the school. Fortunately a parent saw me and offered to drop John on my behalf (I must have looked really poorly). I got home and went back to bed, where I stayed for the rest of the day.
Grain and grape
It was the first Sunday after Christmas in 1991, and a swift pint before lunch in my Dad’s girlfriend’s (yes another one…) local in Bushey near Watford was called upon. I was impressed because they had one of my favourite lagers, “Michelob,” in bottles behind the bar. The more experienced generation seem to know that sticking to one drink was a good idea. I, in the meantime, polished off my eighth or ninth bottle of beer. It came to afternoon closing at which point some bloke my Dad knew offered to take me to the Bushey Country Club (home of Roger De Courcey and Nookie bear). My Dad admitted he’d had enough to drink and they were going home, but if I felt I could drink more then I should go with his mate. I remember arriving, and being told that I wasn’t allowed to drink lager at that time of the afternoon. I settled for a large glass of white wine. Then another, and another.
I left about 6 (I think). To say I was drunk was an understatement. I was doing the “crab” walk up the hill. I was stopping at every lamppost to hold on so the world would stop moving. I got back to the flat, and after much knocking on the door (they were both asleep), I got let in and flopped onto the bed to pass out. Less then an hour later and I was talking to God on the big white phone. I remember as I arched my back in another upheaval hearing my father howling with laughter in the next room. His girlfriend was saying “Go on Aled, go and check on him,” but my father was too incapable with laughter. I can’t blame him. I slept until 10am the next day. I would say I felt fragile but in all honesty I still think even after being that sick and sleeping that long, I was still drunk.
So, why is it this week I felt the need to drink again? Will I ever learn?
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