High Jinks

The Combo birthday has for several years been a 'must have' invitation and last night was no exception. The usual line of parked Maybachs and Bentleys, their uniformed drivers talking and smoking in small groups near their cars. Horribly inbred wall-eyed local peasants pressing their stinking rags up against the magnificent double gates over which is mounted the Combo family crest and motto Imbibo ad mortem, craning for a view. A string quartet sawing away on the main lawn. The chinking of £65-a-go Riedel crystal glasses as foaming Krug caresses expensive lips. Oh yes, no expense spared. Actually, Mrs Combo and I and the doggie had a lovely evening eating roast chicken, roasted vegetables and BOOZING*! Well, it's not often now, is it?

*One bottle of Pedigree, a half bottle of local white and a bottle of Monferrato Rosso (Cabernet Sauvignon, Barbera, Nebbiolo and Merlot blend). Oh, and a baby grappa afterwards.

The shame! The shame!

Oh God, I'm sitting here at my desk, it's early in the morning, my head spinning with hangover, my stomach sick with nausea. The hunting season's started and the fields around here are full of fucking barking dogs. There's sporadic gunfire. There's a thick fog and it's cold. Why do I drink so much? Why did I drink so much last night? And then to make things worse, why did I berate the people we had round for supper so badly? It started off pleasantly enough of course. I had the Italian version of Radio 3 on and they were broadcasting The Last Night live from the Royal Albert Hall. I'd started the evening in the best way possible with a pint of gin and tonic and then raced along with a lot of red wine. When it got to Land of Hope and Glory I was plastered. Truly trolleyed. Ratfaced. So I stood up and started singing. Then when it had finished I started shouting. Shouting with tears in my eyes. Shouting that this (Land of Hope etc) was the reason that Italians had identity cards and we didn't, that Blair should be impeached, locked up in the Tower of London, executed and have his stupid grinning fucking mug stuck on a pole on Westminster Bridge as a warning to all the other bastards on the Fascist fucking left.
I seem to recall that it all went rather quiet when I eventually slumped back down on the table.