My Approach to Drunkenness

The perception of we, the Irish, is so often one of a person who cheerfully consumes vast quantities of alcohol on a regular basis, often to poetic or musical effect.  

That wouldn’t be my perception of we, the Irish, and it certainly doesn't apply to me.

Around the age of 14, as is the norm, me and my classmates were encouraged to take ‘The Pledge’.  This happened as part of a religious ceremony where the priest called forth all the boys who wished to eschew the demon drink until they reached the ripe old age of 21. 


That happy cohort rose from their seats and enunciated ‘The Pledge’ while the villainous renegers remained with ass-firmly-in-pew. 

As I recall (I may be wrong) I was the only one in my class to not take 'The Pledge'.  As I also recall (I may also be wrong) I was one of a very very few who went on to not take a drink until I was over twenty-one.  This probably says something about me but I’m damned if I know what it might be.

If my relationship with alcohol was summarised in a Facebook page, it would definitely say, ‘It’s Complicated’.  Thankfully, though, it is not a tragic relationship, as so many complicated alcohol relationships are.  My family were all light or non-drinkers and nowhere in the closet lay the spectre of a relative damaged or destroyed by the bottle.

No, my complication lay firmly with the fact that I started working behind the bar at such a young age.  My friend's family owned a pub and we both worked there regularly.  It was mighty fun but I got to see an awful lot of drunk people while I was there and I think this coloured my own subsequent behaviour markedly.

You see, I like a drink.  I like many kinds of drink.  Sometime a beer is just Nirvana, a whiskey a treat and a glass of wine a welcome accompaniment.

But, here’s the thing, I hate to be drunk.  I really really hate it.

There is a brief magical thirty minute period which can occur about three drinks into a social occasion where I become 'Master of The Known Universe'.  My synapses weld together and connections and thoughts flash across them and out my mouth like a virtual wild fire.

Then that passes and I get drunk.

I’m not a sloppy drunk or anything.  It’s more about what’s going on with me than with what others are seeing.  I feel, inside, some abdication of control.  Whatever events might unfold over that subsequent few hours will not be manageable by me, someone else will have to do it.  And somewhere deep inside my haze, this disturbs and unsettles me.  I try to regain position but I know I am now hobbled and that it will be twelve hours or more before normal service is restored.

Nuh-huh.  That’s not for me.

So the upshot of this is that I have only been drunk about three times in my life.  A little buzzed?  Many time but drunk?  Not so much.

I remember, so well, the first time I ever got drunk.  I was twenty one, living and working in London.  One Saturday night, we went out in High Street Kensington and I had one too many.   That’s not an expression.  It doesn’t take many drinks for me to get drunk.  One too many will be fine.

I remember standing outside a pub, under a scaffold, with my friend who had best remain nameless as he is now a more prominent man than I am.  “Look,” the now-prominent person said, “A scaffold.  Let’s hang on it.”  So he and I jumped up, grabbed a bar, and dangled on the scaffold.  It was fun.  Long after he had fallen away and found something better to do, I was still dangling.

Then a girl I had known some years before appeared.  Her name was Grace, I’ll say no more, she might be prominent too.  I was astonished.  Is this what alcohol does?  Bring old friends out of nowhere on a Saturday night?  What a wonderful thing.

I conducted a jolly and effusive conversation with Grace who I noticed, even in my befuddled state, was not the least bit interested in reciprocating.  Looking back, I believe this is because I remained dangling from the scaffold for the whole time she was there.

After that some time passed, Dylan Thomas fashion, and I found myself alone in my shared flat.  Lord knows how I got there.  The other guys were not back yet so that explained the alone part.  I found that it was far too dark so I turned every light in the place on.  Then I found that I missed the gentle gurgling of my home-river so I turned every tap on too.

Then I sat on the couch and watched telly.  Fatima Whitbread was on.  She was talking about her javelin and running with some car tyres tied to her rear end  As I studied her face in close up, she slowly transformed.  She became bigger and more Neanderthal and, well, sorry, uglier (it was me, Fatima, not you).  Then I fell asleep and was found that way later – lights on, water running (no leaks) and Fatima long-departed in disgust.

So, these days, if we meet, don’t expect me to consume vast quantities of booze with you.  I will probably have two and be surprisingly altered by them.  Then I will either move on to soft drinks or simply pretend to drink more if required.

It doesn’t mean I don’t like you. 

Quite the opposite, probably.

Hard to Tell

Back in 1991, I worked with a team of Building Contractors in London. We spent several months doing up a floor of offices just off High Street Kensington. I was normally on the other side of the drawing board on these building projects, so this was a visceral, exhausting but highly-entertaining time for me.

One of the guys, Richard, seemed to provide the bulk of this entertainment. He was a mid-twenties Cockney guy who seemed to constantly challenge his environment on every possible level. Everything was a Federal Case to him.

One Saturday morning, coming up to tea-break. Richard announced he was going out to the shop for some apples. Apples were a significant departure from the stodge we normally shoved down our necks but, Richard being Richard, nobody questioned his decision.

"The front door is locked," said Denis, the foreman, "so buzz the intercom when you want to come back in."

"Right."

"Oh and Richard," said Denis, "don’t piss around, get right back here or we may fall out."

You didn’t want to fall out with Denis. His type of fall out was more of the nuclear kind than the emotional.

Richard left and we all sat down for tea on the floor of the big office with the windows open onto the street six stories below.

Our conversation covered all kinds of topics over the next fifteen minutes, including The Arsenal’s chances of a draw in the afternoon and the likelihood of Rambo having a positive impact on the worsening situation if he were to be parachuted into Deepest Iraq.

After a while, all topics were exhausted and we sat quietly with our thoughts and our tea. Denis suddenly looked around angrily.

"Where the hell is Richard?"

He didn’t actually use the word ‘Hell’.

That fall out was coming…

Richard was, in fact, down on the street, six storeys below, looking up at our open windows so far above.

The electricians had disconnected the door entry intercom for reasons known only to themselves. Richard could buzz that button all day if he wanted, nobody on the sixth floor was ever going to hear.

He wasn’t getting back in.

Richard soon realised that the intercom was a futile exercise. He paced up and down the street, glaring up at the windows, wondering how on earth he could get back in. The phones were all disconnected up there and the only mobile phones in those day were the same size as a concrete block and were not generally owned by angry foremen.

He tried shouting.

"Hey!", he roared, "Hey!"

Back up on the sixth floor a colossal wave of post-prandial torpor had set in. We all lounged around dreading the call back to work.

A discordant tone drifted in the window.

"Did you hear something outside?" Someone asked.

"No," someone else replied, "it was the radio, now shut up."

Back at ground level, Richard threw his hands up in exasperation. Then he remembered the paper bag in his hand.

The apples.

A wild idea formed in his fevered mind. If he could take an apple, a single apple, and throw it though that sixth floor window then his cohort within would be alerted to his situation and would get up off their arses and let him bloody in.

But the window was six storeys high. It was a long way up. A legendary effort would be required on his part.

An impossible throw.

Denis stretched and raised himself off the floor. It was our signal, the call to action. He hardly needed to speak but he did anyway.

"Come on men," he said, "one more time before the weekend."

Just as we were getting up, something strange happened.

A bright red apple sailed in the window and landed on the floor.

Richard stared up in disbelief, arm still extended. He had done it, he had accomplished the seemingly impossible feat. Songs would be written about this, stories would be told. He did a little impromptu dance on the street, then looked up and waited.

The apple bounced impressively, rolled across the floor and stopped at the toe of Denis’ boot.

"Where the hell did that come from?" somebody asked.

Denis thought about this for a long moment.

"Who the hell cares?" he said, "Let’s get back to work."

* * * *

I did a follow-up to this post which you can have a look at here if you like.

Music and Driving

There is no doubt that the heady combination of music and driving can embed memories which are not easily put away.

Just a few minutes ago, a song came on the radio – ‘Where the Streets Have no Name’ by U2.

A good song, a long guitar intro, a catchy Edge riff, lively all-in-all.

But for me… well, it never fails to transport me. Back to 1991 Kensington, London W8.

Unable to get employment in my chosen profession after a year away in Australia, I went working as a builder’s labourer on an office-refurbishment project. Our mission was to rip out the third floor and put it back in differently.

It was a Saturday afternoon and me and the three other guys had worked hard, beating down plasterboard stud partitions with sledge hammers. Dusty, blister-inducing work.

We should have gone on until five but the boss had headed for Romford so we packed it up at 3.30.

I was heading for High Street Kensington tube to go home when Terry offered me a lift.

The other three were heading east and they could drop me off easy at Hyde Park Corner.

We piled in the car, me in the back, turned on to High Street and off down past the Albert Hall, Hyde Park sitting airy on the opposite side.

And then the radio came on and that U2 song was just starting and the lights were all green in front of us and all the Saturday-afternoon shopping people looked so good.

We cruised down along the park, sun shining, windows open. A hard days work done, money in pocket, and the prospect of Saturday night in London stretched out promisingly before us. And we smiled.

And that was it.

I’m sure they dropped me at the station. I’m sure I got home, showered and ate. But I don’t know.

All I know is the song and the drive and the feeling.

And it comes back every time I hear the song.

I guess it always will.