All my idols are boozers. Peter Cook, Keith Flloyd, Jack Kerouac, Dean Martin, Ernest Hemmingway - the list goes on. They're all emminently great drinkers and they're all seriously COOL! God, I mean, Tonight's the Night is my utterly faviourite Neil Young album - and they all recorded that, seriously pissed out of their heads at about 2 in the morning!
Booze has defined me for so long - it's been so integral to my personality. People find tales of boozy debauchery funny; and they ARE funny. Even to the person telling the story, who went through a personal hell at the time: "Yeah, and I woke up in the morning and I'd shat meself!" Ho fucking ho! Last week, I was suffering withdrawal so badly (I had put away over three bottles of wine on the Monday and was still suffering Wednesday) that I had to get myself to the pub at lunch (it was either that or check myself in to A&E; and, ironically, it was easier to get away with going to the pub for two hours than it would've been spending an afternoon away from work in hospital!). In 20 minutes I'd had two pints of San Miguel. After about an hour and half I'd had five.
What's the point of this? Well, as I was leaving (this was about 1.30 in the afternoon) I threw-up directly outside the pub on my way back to work! I've done worse, and have had what could be considered lower points (generally at a more 'acceptable' hour), but this felt pretty grim! Anyway, when I got back from work, the alcohol had obviously loosened my tongue (as well as my intestinal tract) and I decided to tell everyone about my lunchtime up-chucking. Everyone thought it was HILARIOUS! And there you go - that's the problem.
So, I suppose I may end up square; probably a small price to pay to get my life back (...look! see! I'm turning all bloody serious and earnest... Aaaarrrrggghhh!).
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