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.
8 comments:
Good boy. Are you up early because you never went to sleep or because you wet the bed? I too watched the Last Night of The Proms with tears in my eyes, but because it reminded me of you and I tipping-up for our three quid's worth of promming, and on finding out it was going to be Schubert's Unfinished Symphony we said "Oh good, we'll be able to get in the pub earlier".
Ron, you did the right thing. Who amongst us has not, at some time or another, behaved badly whilst mad with drink? As it's now lunchtime I imagine you have sought solace in The Hair Of The Dog. That will surely help.
Yours, in comradely guilt-stricken anguish, Fred.
One of the more positive aspects of my co-habiting with the last but one member of the Unmitigated England Netball Team, was that hangovers were treated as if they were proper, accidental illnesses. No berating each other and saying things like "Have you any idea what you did in the wardrobe last night", just loving care and mugs of Bovril.
Oh my God. Is this the maelstrom of alcoholic abuse I am chucking myself into later this week? I’ll drink plenty of milk this week in preparation. Line the stomach, as my Dad used to say. Does that really work?
Yes it does. And Actimel Multi-fruit and flat Coca-Cola for the morning after, followed an hour later by a pint of London Pride in a spotlessly clean glass, drunk whilst the landlord fusses around his pub, early doors, and you're the only one in there. Make that one more one landlord, and have one yourself. Did I ever tell you about my mate Ron; lives in Italy? You think I'VE got a problem! Well, there was this dinner party, see, and .....
Now that truly is a dinner party...consider yourself invited to inbibe if ever in Napa.
Wow...I wish I'sd been there.
The love of wine can almost defintely bring on shame at some point, in an earlier post of mine i admitted to crying when the bottle was empty.
It was a very good bottle of wine though.
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