For as long as I can remember I have drunk quite unfeasibly large quantities of booze. Wine is measured in bottles not glasses, cider in litres not pints and as for gin you can forget laughable pub measures - slosh the stuff in. Days without drink have become more regular in recent times whereas in the past there have been many years without a single dry day. Increased cost hasn't put me off, I just cut back on something else and bogus health scares about numbers of "units" of alcohol consumed and the danger of "binge drinking" are dismissed as pointless sermons from Puritan hypocrites. I drink a lot because I want to, no other reason. My liver is pretty much wrecked now and the battle to keep my blood pressure within measurable limits requires heavy medication. But it has been my conscious choice to lose a few years at the end in order to enjoy the ones I experience.
Over the last twelve months I have experimented with dry days. It's awfully hard work and strangely satisfying in a self-flagellating sort of way, as well as providing a much needed boost for manufacturers of high-juice orange squash. The last couple of weeks have been quite bizarre. Perhaps I have misbehaved in some way and require punishment, although I can't think of any particularly sinful activity that merits reproach, nonetheless six of the fourteen days have been dry including two in succession this time last week. Yesterday was a dry day and resulted in absolute proof that I must drink for the sake of my sanity because last night I dreamt of Gordon Brown.
So dire had public finances become that Gordon decided to convert 10 Downing Street into flats and I bought the basement flat (called the Garden Flat because that's what estate agents do). He stayed on at ground floor level and we had shared use of the garden. One sunny afternoon I was up a ladder cleaning a muddy gutter with my bare hands when the Prime Minister descended the rear stairs carrying a portable piano which he set up on my patio and then donned a flowery dress and proceeded to perform as Mrs Mills. It was all good sing-along stuff and he was at his very campest, even more so than in his recent disastrous YouTube broadcast on MPs' expenses.
What did it mean? I'm no expert on interpreting dreams but if truth be told I'm sure no one can be an expert because there is no way of proving one theory over another. Was it, perhaps, just a hope that Gordon will resign and turn to work more suited to his personal tastes? Did it reflect a previously unknown fetish for fat women with stubble? Was I displaying my desire to be Prime Minister and to not be scared of getting my hands dirty in the task of rescuing the country? There was an additional, and deeply worrying, matter. At one stage Gordon launched into a medley of George Formby songs and sang in a style more reminiscent of Rab C Nesbitt.
Actually, it's quite clear what it means. It means I should not upset my natural equilibrium by the irrationality of temporary teetotalism. I'll drink to that.
Over the last twelve months I have experimented with dry days. It's awfully hard work and strangely satisfying in a self-flagellating sort of way, as well as providing a much needed boost for manufacturers of high-juice orange squash. The last couple of weeks have been quite bizarre. Perhaps I have misbehaved in some way and require punishment, although I can't think of any particularly sinful activity that merits reproach, nonetheless six of the fourteen days have been dry including two in succession this time last week. Yesterday was a dry day and resulted in absolute proof that I must drink for the sake of my sanity because last night I dreamt of Gordon Brown.
So dire had public finances become that Gordon decided to convert 10 Downing Street into flats and I bought the basement flat (called the Garden Flat because that's what estate agents do). He stayed on at ground floor level and we had shared use of the garden. One sunny afternoon I was up a ladder cleaning a muddy gutter with my bare hands when the Prime Minister descended the rear stairs carrying a portable piano which he set up on my patio and then donned a flowery dress and proceeded to perform as Mrs Mills. It was all good sing-along stuff and he was at his very campest, even more so than in his recent disastrous YouTube broadcast on MPs' expenses.
What did it mean? I'm no expert on interpreting dreams but if truth be told I'm sure no one can be an expert because there is no way of proving one theory over another. Was it, perhaps, just a hope that Gordon will resign and turn to work more suited to his personal tastes? Did it reflect a previously unknown fetish for fat women with stubble? Was I displaying my desire to be Prime Minister and to not be scared of getting my hands dirty in the task of rescuing the country? There was an additional, and deeply worrying, matter. At one stage Gordon launched into a medley of George Formby songs and sang in a style more reminiscent of Rab C Nesbitt.
Actually, it's quite clear what it means. It means I should not upset my natural equilibrium by the irrationality of temporary teetotalism. I'll drink to that.
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2 comments:
I think it would be excellent if you were running the country while Gordon Brown sang George Formby numbers in a dress. It would be a darn sight better than we have now.
Chin chin.
Mr Bob
wv.bhead!
FB.. just brilliant!
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