Booze, glorious

If I don't have a drink on Friday night something must be very wrong. I think the last time that happened was the week after that session where I'd sat in front of the tv on a saturday night, watching the test match, the nailbiting ashes match which England eventually, some would say fortunately for the game of cricket and the sake of meaningful competition, pulled off, drinking martini after martini. I think I downed five before I could no longer continue, and they were tall martinis too, 3 ounces of gin each go. When I woke in the morning, about 8 hours after I'd collapsed on the mattress, everything was on: my jeans, the television, the laptop was flipped up. My hangover wasn't so much nauseous or headthumping as exhausting. Even though I'd slept eight hours, or at least been unconscious for eight hours, it really felt like I'd been up dancing all night. Speaking, eating, concentrating, these things were tremendously difficult. I realised that if I'd vomited in my sleep it would probably have been lights out, goodnight forever. I actually did vomit in my sleep a few months later but that's another story. Anyway, after the ashes sesh I vowed never to touch spirits again. I didn't even drink a beer for a week or more after that....yes I think it was two weeks between drinks of any kind. Needless to say, the vow didn't hold, but these days I limit myself to two martinis, absolute max, on fridays or saturdays and no more than one at any other time of the week. Every beast needs to be grabbed by the tail sooner or later and subdued, if it's ever going to live comfortably with a human.