Doomsday Delights
I did
something today that I have been meaning to do for many a moon and now I have
finally got round to doing it I feel like a big weight has been lifted off my
shoulders. And yet the process of becoming unbaptised was so
simple. Unbaptism.org explained
that all that I had to do was to sign a simple Unbaptismal Certificate that
they provided to me and get my signature witnessed, which the Phantom willingly
did. And that was that. The website went on to say that if I
want to do a proper job I could frame the certificate and hang it on the
kitchen wall above the washing machine and/ or serve notice of my unbaptisement
on the church that originally made me undergo the baptism ceremony without my
consent, which I was of course in no position to give due to the fact that I
was a mere baby. Instead of willingly forcing defenceless babies
into being Christians it might be more beneficial to them to bless them with a
more practical privilege, such as making them lifelong members of the Camping
& Caravanning Club.
It
might be the case that my childhood baptism hitherto gave me the protection of
god, so now I am relieved of her/ his guardianship I could be in right
shtook. If my ailing car Pat, which has been giving the old death
rattle of late, packs up on its next journey then I will know that the almighty
is exercising her/ his celestial muscle to express her/ his displeasure at my blasphemous
action. I don’t think god will take such action as I do not believe in
the existence of the being of course, which is why I unbaptized myself in the
first place. After the unbaptisement I went straight to hell, well
hell on Earth that is, in the form of Primark Birmingham, to obtain some new
shirts as my errant washing machine ruined a couple in the week.
Unlike
the Frymaster General I did not ruin my shirt on Saturday night by spilling
curry down it in the Fluke restaurant, which we retreated to after a day out in
the Jewellery Quarter with Chilly Willy, Carla von Trow-Hell, Jolly D, Harry
Gout, Toby-in-Tents, Samuka Dudlovski, Jonty Von Rossi, Tom Holliday, Philly
the Gent and Desmond Dekka.
The Frymaster has strangely behaved himself every time we have been out
of late, which is highly unnerving, but I know through experience that he
always leaves his mark. He stayed at
Codger Mansions on Saturday night and on Sunday morning I offered him a bacon
sandwich, as a good host should and he answered, “go on then I’m starving as we didn’t eat
anything yesterday”, to which I replied, “we went for a curry you buffoon,
look, it’s all down your shirt.” Anyway,
the Frymaster must have slept fully clad as when I stripped the bed to fumigate
it after he left there was a curry stain on the bed sheet. And before you query the nature of the stain,
I am as sure as I can be that it was curry and not bum gravy. Jolly D was so lubricated on Saturday that
when we entered the restaurant he missed his seat and as a result of gravity he
fell to the floor, which is at least better than Sleepy Tom Parker’s usual
trick of passing out in his chicken tikka masala.
Despite
too many drinks being consumed on Saturday, Sunday turned out to be a highly
pleasant day which encompassed a fabulous family meal, bands and beer at
Wassell Grove and the usual Flagon visit.
Sometimes people think that the day after a heavy drinking session (which
I will call doomsday) is a living nightmare but it does not have to be.
Usually the only option on doomsday is to start drinking again and if you are
in this position you need to take action before 1600 hours, which is The Point
of no Return.
Failure
to play the booze card before The Point of no Return leads to a swift decline
into a horror filled abyss, which will overwhelm and terrify the patient.
Once you start to drink again on doomsday the alcohol will be introduced to the
drink which is already in your system and once old booze and new booze have
shook hands and exchanged pleasantries you will start to feel right as
rain. But you can’t rush these things and small sips are the order of the
day, it is a slow and steady process. Trying to force the pace can become
counterproductive and can worsen the patient’s condition as opposed to
enhancing it. So be warned.
I
actively enjoy drinking myself back to health on doomsday and such times
represent some of my favourite boozing days. A typical doomsday would see
me in the soothing environ of the Flagon & Gorses enjoying a palliative
drink with the Pirate or other Flagon dignitaries such as Paul Debilder and
Mother Teresa or Francine Jacks.
When
people say they are having a dry day on doomsday it fills me with a sense of
panic and deep dread, even though I am not in the person’s shoes. Such
drastic and ill-considered action often leads the patient to an interminable
day of agonies on the sofa, which to my mind is a waste of a day. People
often take this tack on doomsday through ignorance or lack of experience or, even
worse, piousness or guilt but it is without exception a grave mistake.
If one
steers the ship on the right course on doomsday and has a gargle to loosen the
chest and ward away the lurking devil then it begs the question what does one
do on the following day (post-doomsday), or as the Geordie Marcus Bentely would
say on Big Brother, “Day 3”? Stopping drinking suddenly on
post-doomsday could pose the same problems (albeit less severe) as coming to an
abrupt halt on doomsday itself. I always a favour a tactical withdrawal
on post-doomsday and I ingest a modicum of alcohol to ensure a terror-less
state and a night’s sleep of sorts.
On
post-doomsday if I do not drink at all I will almost certainly have a
re-occurring nightmare of mine (see Lowlife 21) as soon as I fall
asleep, so I need to drink enough alcohol to ensure that does not happen whilst
conversely drinking as little as practically possible in order to finally go
booze-less the following day. So drink intake on post-doomsday is a fine
balance and failure to get such balance right can lead to either me having
nightmares or having to drink again the following day, which is a rocky road to
be going down.
The
only low point of doomsday on Sunday was the “special” Szechuan I had from the
Rharely Peking Chinese takeaway which was only special because it seemed to
consist solely of rice and vegetables, so it lead to me sifting through the
dish having a game of hunt the meat. I
finally found a meat like substance which was masquerading as chicken but if the
creature it emanated from had ever clucked in its life then I am indeed a Chinaman. The Baby Faced Assassin got me again.
Willy
Mantitt and the Pirate both had doomsdays on Monday after returning
respectively from junkets to Berlin and Belgium. Mantitt decided to face the doomsday horrors
head on and inexplicably went dry but the Pirate predictably took the less fraught
route of a phased retreat and had a pint in the Flagon where he regaled us with
tales of his trip to Belgium, which seemed to consist mostly of him drinking
10% ABV beer.
On Tuesday I took the first steps towards testing my vodka and veggie
burger diet idea (which I have named the V&V diet – see Lowlife 34). Not wanting to rush into things I skipped the
veggie burgers and went straight to the vodka.
Vodka and tonics seem to have magical properties. I had two on Tuesday, as large as would be
poured by a Greek barman, and I felt physically and mentally chipper on
Wednesday morning or as well as I could be.
My pancreas was either having a long lie in or was unaffected by the
VATs. What’s more the VATs helped me to
sleep like a log, which is not usual, with me being a fretful sleeper. All I need to do now is get onto the veggie burger
bit and I’ve cracked it.
Mind you, I did treat myself to decent vodka, whose name I can’t
pronounce or spell as it is all in Russian.
When I switch to Aldi’s own vodka the experiment could well go
sour. I see that Tesco do a vodka in
their Everyday range, which basically
suggests that it is fine to drink vodka every day, which is a green light if
ever I have seen one. The other thing with the VAT situation is that on Tuesday
night I had a heavy cold and my nose was streaming like a tap but on Wednesday
morning I had a mere snivel. No wonder
the Russians drink Vodka by the gallon.
© Dominic Horton, September 2013.
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