Carnage
This weekend has been spent catching up with old friends. As is the sacred, immutable tradition of time immemorial in England, this re-acquaintance was facilitated by lashings and lashings of alcohol. The clear advantage of getting absolutely hammered is that the entire evening is nothing but a pleasurable blur and nobody need ever think of anything new to say since it will all be forgotten by the morning.
Naturally, there will always be casualties. There can be no pleasure without pain. Friday night was unusually violent though. It was an evening which confirmed to me that, whilst we are all in the gutter and some of us may indeed be looking up at the stars, there is a whole other class that is face down in a puddle of their own vomit. It is to that latter class that my friends and I undoubtedly belong. Having briefly considered such fashionable haunts as Brixton, Clapham and Old Street, we plumped instead for the Weatherspoon's at Elephant and Castle. The Met Bar it was not. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing in retrospect. I doubt the staff at the Met Bar would have watched Paulo vomit explosively over himself and the table with an air of such sanguine resignation. Sadly the Stella-Sambuca depth charge had proven to be the straw that broke the camel's back and poor Paulo had to stagger off to the tube station covered in vomit and shame. The remainder made it to the Ministry but by morning the other two had also succumbed to rebellious bellies so that only I had not seen the inside of toilet bowl at close quarters that night. Natural selection, that's all I'll say.
On Saturday, we had cocktails at home to honour the return of Benhamino after so long an absence. This time it was the Pink Psychiatrist who took both barrels of the alcohol gun squarely in the face. In three hours, the three of us munched our way through 1 bottle of vodka, 1 bottle of cointreau, 1/3 bottle of gin, 1/3 a bottle of rum and 1/4 bottle of teq
uila. The Pink Psychiatrist slipped off to the toilet near the end - ostensibly to put his face on - but after 20 minutes I began to suspect that it was not a natural calling that had summoned him to the bogoir. I found him collapsed by the side of the toilet with dysconjugate eye movements and a distinctly unpleasant pallor. He managed to bounce off the walls into his room before collapsing face down into his bed and lapsing into a stupor. Instinctively I took this to mean that he would not be accompanying us to Heaven after all. Benhamino and I went and had a good time all the same.
Charming weekend. Just a shame they go so fast.
Naturally, there will always be casualties. There can be no pleasure without pain. Friday night was unusually violent though. It was an evening which confirmed to me that, whilst we are all in the gutter and some of us may indeed be looking up at the stars, there is a whole other class that is face down in a puddle of their own vomit. It is to that latter class that my friends and I undoubtedly belong. Having briefly considered such fashionable haunts as Brixton, Clapham and Old Street, we plumped instead for the Weatherspoon's at Elephant and Castle. The Met Bar it was not. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing in retrospect. I doubt the staff at the Met Bar would have watched Paulo vomit explosively over himself and the table with an air of such sanguine resignation. Sadly the Stella-Sambuca depth charge had proven to be the straw that broke the camel's back and poor Paulo had to stagger off to the tube station covered in vomit and shame. The remainder made it to the Ministry but by morning the other two had also succumbed to rebellious bellies so that only I had not seen the inside of toilet bowl at close quarters that night. Natural selection, that's all I'll say.
On Saturday, we had cocktails at home to honour the return of Benhamino after so long an absence. This time it was the Pink Psychiatrist who took both barrels of the alcohol gun squarely in the face. In three hours, the three of us munched our way through 1 bottle of vodka, 1 bottle of cointreau, 1/3 bottle of gin, 1/3 a bottle of rum and 1/4 bottle of teq
uila. The Pink Psychiatrist slipped off to the toilet near the end - ostensibly to put his face on - but after 20 minutes I began to suspect that it was not a natural calling that had summoned him to the bogoir. I found him collapsed by the side of the toilet with dysconjugate eye movements and a distinctly unpleasant pallor. He managed to bounce off the walls into his room before collapsing face down into his bed and lapsing into a stupor. Instinctively I took this to mean that he would not be accompanying us to Heaven after all. Benhamino and I went and had a good time all the same.Charming weekend. Just a shame they go so fast.
posted by The Venial Sinner at 2:37 pm
1 Comments:
Won't somebody think of the livers!
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