You know that feeling. When it finally dawns on you that the jukebox you have been stuffing money into all evening is in fact a cigarette machine.
No? Let me explain. We have only gone and got ourselves a cozy little lock-in at the Clay Pigeon, a huge unlovely ‘Estate Pub’ near to the school we work at. It is an unheard of state of events, so we aim to make as much of it as possible.
But I am eager to warn my fellow revellers lest they fall foul of the same wicked ciggy machine trickery, but they seem a long way away, too far to hear me, they are enveloped in a thick fug (everyone is smoking … It may have something to do with all the packets I pay for while simply trying to get ‘The Tide Is High’ by Blondie on the ‘jukebox’).
Alarm bells should be ringing right now and indeed I do hear faintly what sounds like my Mickey Mouse clock tinkling away, but choose to ignore it and continue drinking and having a great criac.
We finally stumble out into the street at about 2:00 am
The following morning I have such a noggin on me, plus the sweats and the shakes, it is a blessing we only have to do a half day.
I swear when we get back into the pub that afternoon that I am going to cut down on the old falling down water and that I am getting too old for this.
And I do.
A few months later I realise why my tolerance to alcohol has become so weak, when it is confirmed that Mr. Parkinson, uninvited, has moved in to my top floor; which is a bit inconsiderate seeing as I am still living there.
It’s not that I am ‘not allowed’ to drink; it is just that it doesn’t do it for me any more which is perhaps just as well. Also, by the third scoop most alcohol starts to taste like aviation fuel anyway.
My Last hangover 15 years ago.
I don’t miss them.
© Andy Daly 2015