Ever felt car sick but you’ve been at the bar all night?
Gelatine legged I swayed, shivering slightly in the bleach of street light. The moon, a reluctant participant in my pool of vomit, freshly puked and steaming in the chilly night. Shards of glass littered the alleyway, broken promises. Each bottle held an escape, it was inside me but even then I couldn’t hold onto it, my stomach churning and queasing had regurgitated like a responsible bird of prey after the third bottle, severely unhappy at my liquid diet. The blistered pavement it’s precious young.
That’s the last time! As pathetically hollow as the scattered mosaic of bottles once were. A therapist has to be cheaper than this! But then, digging up old memories was such hard work, having some creaseless cardiganed graduate disgorging some bullshit with less stink and ceremony than what had just occurred. I know me, and so do you! Alcohol certainly had it’s charms. Distilled, well aged, well acquainted with ice – a touch of vitamin C doesn’t go amiss. Can’t say my diet is entirely unhealthy, lemons and limes certainly have their place, dutifully floating at the top of my drink. Entirely unnoticed on the palette by the second tipple, like some harmless malingering diplomat that serves no measurable purpose, yet who would be missed if their presence was no longer. You didn’t know why you were angry there was no citrus slice when stocks ran dry, but you felt justified in being disgruntled. It just didn’t seem right.
Those were the good old days. When drinking was a social event, not just another reason to get smashed. Badgered. Monged. Blootered. Wasted. Caned. Bladdered…I could continue. It’s amusing how ‘drunk’ isn’t even the first word to describe my unsteady malady. Vernacular drowned it long ago in a vat of whisky – the cheap stuff. The kind that gets banished abroad because foreigners won’t know the damned difference between a 12 year old malt and the colour exact impostor of Scotland’s national export. Still gets you pissed. Another word I forgot.
My liver and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms but not to the extent of my soon to be wife. We have two children. You’d be forgiven for thinking they had long flown the home. One of them, like me now, can barely talk. The other possesses a limited vocabulary and could probably say ‘vodka’ with its hard Russian sound easy to enunciate.
Still. I’m allowed to have fun aren’t I?
Continually wretching air, the moon disappeared from view, wishing to have no further part in my thrown up mirror. Rat arsed. There’s another.
Wanting to set an example and not wanting to be responsible is tough but someone’s got to do it. Me and the other millions. I imagine the disappointment and quiet fury that awaits back home, who I’d awaken from a sweet dream, to breath a cocktail of self loathing and regret upon while my tongue trips over the words ‘I love you’ as if they were as jaggy edged as glass shards.
Bring on the weekend.
Hell, if it wasn’t for genetic pioneers like me, my children wouldn’t even be able to handle the booze when they grow up, the gene that most Europeans possess which gives us stronger stomachs over other nationalities.
Always an excuse and more than a 40% chance of it all happening again. Raising a glass, is easier than raising children.