(Twist In) My Sobriety

I am currently being tortured by a medically enforced ban on drinking alcohol. Bloody antibiotics. This is the longest time I’ve gone without a beer since I had Glandular Fever and although my liver is doubtless breathing a sigh of relief at its recent lack of pickling, my mind is starting to go a little mad.

It’s been a challenging week – the highlight of which was a trip to Lounge. A sober trip to Lounge, with a group of pissed up lezzers. What fun! Actually, sarcasm aside – it was eye-opening. I particularly enjoyed the in-house cage fighting display, courtesy of a large and unruly pack of middle aged Wah Wahs.

I thought I was dreaming when I heard someone yell, “fight!” but no, sure enough, when I turned round for a Butcher’s the fists were flying. Two particularly aggressive and burly looking ‘ladies’ were being separated by the almost as aggressive and burly looking bouncers (who, thankfully, were male and thus strong enough to successfully intervene and sufficiently unlezzery to be totally impartial). Guess someone put their hand on the wrong arse. At least now I know what the ‘suited and booted’ bit of the ‘sophisticated night of tomfoolery’ is all about (Lounge’s words, not mine). Haw haw haw…

Eventually the sobriety made my patience evaporate (just after 12, so not bad going) and I dragged my pleasantly pissed girlfriend away from the tomfoolery (or what was left of it, post-brawl) and made a break for K-Town. Which lead onto the next non-alcoholic treat – a sober Nightbus ride home. This was a novel experience, but not one I intend to repeat any time soon. Drinking clearly does something strange to my senses, because I never realised quite how bad even semi-enebriated people smell. (Except my girlfriend, who despite operating under the influence, didn’t smell bad at all). For all the other Filthy Fuckers I have just two words – chewing gum. Or mouthwash perhaps. God, I hope beer doesn’t do that to my breath…

And another thing I seemed to have missed on every previous Nightbus trip is the obligatory wanker that gets on at every stop. If he (and as far as I can tell, this seems to be the preserve of blokes) doesn’t sit on the lap of the nearest (apparently) single girl, he will either fart, drop slithers of sweaty kebab meat on your shoes or do sick-burps as he slumps with his head hung forward, perilously close to where you are sitting, or more likely, standing. (Guess the girl equivalent is the obligatory pack of hens who insist on caterwauling a cappella Abba songs while fiddling with the g-string that’s ridden to full visibility above both mini skirt and muffin tops).

Fortunately, on this particular ride home I was looking distinctly un-single and thus avoided any such undesirable attention. Unfortunately, the poor girl in front of me wasn’t so lucky, and had to put up with some pathetically pissed man staring at her, mouth opened, as he swayed back and forth, all the way home. Nice. Happily there were no hens out that night. Oh, I can’t wait to have a beer.

That said, there is a small silver shimmer, which could almost call itself a ‘lining’. In case you were wondering what the ‘twist’ in my sobriety was (geddit – Tanita Tikaram?), when I woke up on friday morning I felt great. Unlike, I suspect, all those other drunk Lounge Lezzers. I’d especially hate to be the one with the black eye who was last spotted being fireman lifted down the fire escape stairwell, still kicking, still screaming…


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