Drug Induced Meanderings of a Bored Mind

I actually set out to write what  Sharon would call a ‘fluff piece’
about twenty five random things about me to post on face book for all
the world to see and I had about as much enthusiasm for that task as I
have for pulling warts off a toad’s back.

I opted instead to delve a little deeper into the things that people do
know about me. Actually the only thing most people know about me is
that I drink too much! By that I mean way too much! As in I- went –out-
and- lost- my –car-the- way- you- loose- your- cell phone-on-the-rave-
too-much![Yeah I actually lost my car once. Just once though! Sadly
that and the escapades leading to the said loss are a story for another

That most people take it for granted that I drink too much or pay no
attention to it altogether did not come as clearly into focus as when I
bumped into a bunch of young people I can hardly call friends but maybe
merely acquaintances while watching soccer this past weekend . You see
I have in the not too recent past been forced to stay off the tipple
for the rest of the year for reasons best known to some hack GP I deign
to see once in a while but whom I must defer to lest I meet up with
Melchizedek a tad prematurely .

The interesting thing is that these are guys I see on three occasions
.The first is usually when am just setting about popping the cherry on
a cold sweaty whitecap, the second when the amounts of ‘alkoho’ I have
had ensure that I am not just on auto pilot but on the convenient mode
auto pilot which leads to the third time I meet these fine gentlemen!
When I wake up in the back seat of a car and they are all sound asleep
at funny angles all over the interior of the same car!

So when they ordered the next round of drinks I found a cold sweaty
virginal whitecap placed just within reach of the space where my warm
Fanta had been just moments ago. Here was my dilemma; this whitecap had
my name all over it! And I had not told these buggers I was off drinks.
Oh the agony!
By the time I got through the ordeal of telling these guys that I could
not possibly accept their generous gesture of camaraderie there were
three sweaty and one dry- as -a bone bottles of white caps neatly
arranged in a row in front of me and a bursting bladder at half time in
the middle of what would turn out to be a 4-1 annihilation of the big
red juggernaut that is man united at the merciless hands of a
diabolical Spaniard and his loyalist English poodles!

The next ordeal was looking at their distraught and quite frankly lost
faces as if they no longer knew what to do with their hands or wallets
now that I was not drinking. I remember faintly thinking that one of
the younger guys looked as if he had just realized one of his gods had
feet of clay after all! [There I have just used up my one pompous
flashback moment –every narrator is allowed one per story.]
Where were we? Ah yes !This confession of abstinence not only created
an awkward silence but also turned me into an instant pariah in the
world of underage binge drinking smoking and other forms of debauchery
that my erstwhile drinking buddies indulged in .I had managed within a
couple of minutes to ostracize myself . I quietly gave myself the red
card and moseyed on up the road to the next pub with the full intention
of imbibing my soft drink and watching soccer, without blurting out any
silly confessions of my recently imposed ghastly habit. The self
reflection that I indulged in between the two watering holes
[thankfully missing out on the humiliation of goal number three]
actually made me realize how large a role alcohol actually played in my
life .Indulge me.

Allow me to drag you down the rabbit hole that used to be my typical
week which starts for most decent hard working folk on Monday. Not
yours truly! I never work on Monday’s. My experience is that as a
salesman Monday is the most unproductive day of the week!

Justification [just in case my boss is reading and he cracks the
pseudonym I am writing under] everyone you call up is either “Catching
up” after the weekend, meaning they are still drinking one or several
hangover cures, or they are “completely swamped” [presumably in
hangover cures] and this is the best you will get “Let’s talk in the
afternoon” after the hangover cures have had a chance to kick in of
So rather than twiddle my thumbs whilst making friends with spiders in
the most southerly by westerly roof corner of our ‘abstract’ shaped
office I try to concoct a miracle hangover cure in the mornings from
the comfort of my own house [ Ironically If I were to succeed I would
have to sell it on Monday’s to make a killing! ] And then I would
twiddle my thumbs whilst making friends with the local gold diggers at
my local pub in the afternoon! This exercise I can actually justify as
research. Those girls could tell me to a cent how much money I or any
other patron in the place at the time was worth just by looking at us!
I later learnt how they did it so it was not all in vain.

By the time the advance parties of the thirst patrol checks in from
work complaining loudly of stress I am mellowed out quite nicely and
blissfully unable to relate to their whining in any way! At least not
until Tuesday when am in the office at the crack of dawn and one of the
stragglers of the thirst patrol trooping into the bar near closing time
[Yeah right! Closing time!] complaining about what a female dog my job
is and could I please have four cold ones on the trot please?
Wednesday is ladies night of course and all the fickle complaints of
Tuesday night are shrugged off after work and the mere prospect of a
long evening of looking sexy and pretending to listen to jazz or is it
the other way around? It doesn’t really matter since have been
‘listening’ to jazz at the same pub since 2005 and I can’t name one
jazz piece that is played there or a woman who actually thought I
looked sexy come to think of it !

Thursday’s are what we call the pre-weekend thirst buster cum filibuster.

A couple of years back it would have been considered sacrilegious to
fly to Vegas watch the first couple of bouts then miss out on the Tyson
fight because you had to pee [depending on your timing this was known
to happen to a lot of front seat holders on fight night as Tyson’s
bouts generally lasted only a couple of seconds one round max actually.
{Afterthought to self; No wonder Robin Givens always looked so forlorn}
did I just put a bracket in a bracket back there? NICE!].

Missing out on the “Main Event” at my local on Friday was tolerated on
only two grounds. Death and or dismemberment leading to death .Partial
or full dismemberment that did not lead to death were inadmissible as
defense for the crime.

For the purpose of clarity I would like to make two definitions very
clear here and I will try to be as succinct as possible. The crime,
missing out on the “Main Event”, was described loosely as being
equivalent to treason, mutiny, heresy, sacrilege and blasphemy all of
which were punishable by death.
This punishment could be meted out in different forms. The first and
most shameful was not an honorable death as it was death by
dismemberment which was not in keeping with inflicting sufficient pain
in parity with the heinous nature of the crime. As such it was reserved
for the weakest members of the thirst patrol. It was considered the
most lenient since all you had to do was shut your mouth and bleed into
your pants silently and shamefully. Any sound as much as a whimper was
grounds for re-attachment and re-dismemberment. I have no desire to
delve into the other more primitive methods used to mete out justice.

The second definition is of the “Main Event”. Every day of the week
there would be small drinking bouts where various members of the thirst
patrol would challenge each other or total strangers to any one of a
variation of drinking contests. These varied from who could down a
bottle of beer faster than the other to more mundane affairs like who
could suck the most tequila through his nose without salt and his hands
tied behind his back and so on. These small contests were warm up
sessions leading up to the mother of all warm up sessions the Thursday
“pre-weekend thirst buster cum filibuster.” and of course the Friday
night “Main event”.

The main event participants were picked out from a point system based
on their performance throughout the week. The two people with the most
points got to face off at a couple of minutes to midnight as has been
the tradition of main events the world over. The objective is to drink
a five litre spittoon full of vodka in the fastest time possible. The
grand prize has always been a bottle of whisky.

Because this was strictly a time trial event anyone expunging the
existing record automatically won the jackpot which consisted of a
week’s supply of booze! A week’s supply was a beer a day not redeemable
for cash and only valid from the preceding Monday through to Friday
with no carry forwards all terms and conditions applied.

After the excitement of “The Main Event” Saturday was largely a
rather lethargic affair unless there was soccer on the tube which did
not matter much since we would pretty much watch anything from “El
classico” to a mouth watering encounter between “The Testicular
Wanderers and The Blushing Courtesans” . The most action we would get
was a bunch of out of the hood hoodlums trying to rustle up some
trouble at which point a simple demonstration on how elastic the
scrotal sac was depending on how high off the ground it was suspended
from the high beams we were seating under would discourage any further
trouble from the rabble raising outsiders.

Mass was held religiously every Sunday after church with the patrons
gorging themselves on the appropriate burnt sacrifices made before the
sun sunk below the western horizon and most people scurried home early
because the weekend was over and the next day was a work day! A concept
that was beyond my comprehension! Honestly I never understood it.

That’s a broad look at my meandering and overly embellished week as
seen through bleary eyes, analyzed by a groggy mind and slurred to a
hazy audience [read you] and that was the last bracket I swear!

For those of you who are wondering, your rather detestable
protagonist drank at least four beers a day because I only drink in
even numbers. Initially it started as a ploy to avoid drinking just one
beer and being dragged off to shop for the ‘ON’ switch on a busted
hairdryer because I should know what it would look like if we saw one.
But as soon as word got around there was rampant abuse of my ‘Obsessive
Compulsive Tendency’ there was always some joker who would buy me a
beer right after the idiot who had just bought me the sixth beer!

What’s the moral of the story? I still don’t work on Mondays, instead I
twiddle my thumbs thinking up fantastical hangover cures that will
never see the light of day hence ensuring that I will never have to get
out of bed on Monday morning and make millions of shillings from the
truly miraculous hangover cure I discovered quite by accident one sunny
Monday morning in April 2007 but again that’s a story for another day
and yes the other vice my friends know about me is that I lie through y
teeth without batting an eyelid all the while cursing like a sex
starved sailor on ecstasy .[It wasn’t the last bracket in the story
after all!]


About BMK

I have always been overwhelmed by the exuberance of my own verbosity and the fecundity of my mind's eye. View all posts by BMK

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