Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Demon Drink and Me

Why is it that I can't drink? It's no good, I have to live with the fact that where alcohol is concerned I am a lightweight, an ingenue, a total donkey. Other people can sit there with a glass of this or that and behave themselves. They drink away and manage to stay upright, compos mentis and dignified. Not so me! I fall down stairs, throw up, do 'sexy' dancing , snog people and generally make a total arse of myself and I haven't even mentioned the incessant talking and repeating myself.

I always plan to go out and watch the rest of the world make fools of themselves while I pretend to drink but you know what they say about the best laid plans . What I've noticed is there are some common elements that lead to my nights of debauchery and subsequent mortification. Usually I am tired, often I am nervous about the company sensing myself slightly inadequate or inferior, quite often I haven't eaten. The result, I drink far too much for me (given that I have the alcohol tolerance of a gnat that has taken the Pledge) and end up feeling 'ill' and picturing in my mind the dreadful and utterly embarrassing things I just have done (almost always nothing really dreadful, I am a nice, kind drunk if a silly and vomitous one).

The good news is that I rarely drink, perhaps the reason for my lack of aplomb in the quaffing department. It's not unusual for me to go a month or more without one alcoholic drink. This, combined with my lack of tolerance for alcohol, means that I am hardly in danger of becoming an alcoholic yet I would like to be able to drink with style.

This week I am curled up with embarrassment about a visit I made to a friend's house, well mor accurately room. Stressed from Flora's two weeks in hospital, tired from trying to hold down a job while the family crisis was going on, a bit nervous and with very little in my stomach, I was a sitting duck as I glugged down a few too many glasses of white wine. Added to this I felt like the most suburban, boring and uncool person in the room. The fact that inside I'm Andy Warhol, Studio 54, Oscar Wilde and Alison Goldfrapp all rolled into one doesn't matter, the demon of low self-esteem reared its ugly head and soon I was puking like a good 'un.

I will of course recover from my embarrassment, you always do, but for the moment I am reliving every moment in technicoloured mortification. I told a few people about my experience and very kindly they have furnished me with their own dreadful drinking stories. Throwing up in people's shoes, waking up and realising they've done a No 2 in the bed, insulting VIPs - they've done it all. Makes me feel quite normal in a sort of abnormal way.

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