I try not to drink too often with work colleagues. Most people that have witnessed alcohol pass my lips will know of the chaos, confusion, stupidity and self imposed misfortune that follows. Wisely I’d planned to keep displays of self destruction away from my fellow professionals… I failed.
On my debut drinking session with work I quickly learnt that it is unforgivable to simply buy a drink. The correct etiquette is to purchase a drink of choice AND a Jäger bomb with each round. It’s a recipe which soon leads to a black curtain encasing my brain and my body switching to auto pilot mode. Throughout that night I was spotted in various locations displaying differing behavioural patterns. The first sighting saw me verbally berating passing business men progressing down Chancery Lane and shortly after I was found asleep on a bench at Oxford Circus underground. A colleague fed me water and put me on the train. I soon fell back to sleep and travelled to the end of the line with no more trains running. Time to ‘one- ring’ my wife and request directions home. She failed to comply. It was at that point I decided to start a one man revolution against the repulsive invasion of modern technology into our everyday lives. With the form of a javelin thrower I launched my phone into the main road and instantly felt the comfort of knowing I’d made the world a better place. After about twenty seven different buses I made it home. Having originally set off somewhere between 9.30-10pm I didn’t arrive until gone 2am. Done correctly it should have been a 35minute journey door to door.
After a number of weeks I was surprisingly invited to drink with them again. We started in the work bar proceeding with the routine cycle of pint/bottle plus Jäger bomb. After persuading staff to keep the bar open for a further half an hour we moved to the Weatherspoons next door. I approached the bar and put in an order.
‘No, you’re too drunk.’
‘I’d like to speak to your manager immediately,’ I informed the po-faced waitress.
‘I’ll go and get him.’ She did just that.
‘Uuuum, I’m afraid your young waitress there has made a rather large judgement call. She believes that I am drunk when I have only had two drinks,’ I lied. ‘I’d like a pint of cider please.’
‘Yes sir,’ said the manager, pouring my drink. I shot the young waitress a look of ‘fuck you!’ and returned to my colleagues.
Shortly afterwards the manager threw me out of his establishment. I was soon on a stationery bus at the bottom of Kilburn High road desperate to get to Chicken Cottage at the opposite end. The bus driver wouldn’t move because two Chavvy girls were drinking alcohol on the back seats. Fuelled by my lust for cheap fried chicken I addressed the unruly females.
‘Get off the fucking bus you’re ruining it for everybody else.’
They responded in a language that can only be known as ‘Chav.’ We argued a little more before they finally made their way off the bus. In doing so they threw their drinks forcefully into my face. It felt like I’d been fucking Maced. Whatever pineapple concoction they were drinking stung me eyes like fuck. A sea of passenger hands come forth offering tissues to wipe myself off. I knew at that moment that heroes smell of Pinacolada.
When I got to Chicken Cottage it was closed for refurbishments. I knew I’d have to upgrade to a kebab, which meant I needed more money. I went to the cash point and somehow managed to put my card into the slot where the receipt comes out. My card was stuck. I kicked the cash point six times and told two approaching males that the ATM was out of order. I went home hungry, cardless and the following day played my worst game of football in years.
Only last Friday I went out for more work drinks. I was only meant to stay out for a couple and was mindful to pace myself at that. Several hours later, with my stomach swimming in shots, I found myself in a bar full of ping pong tables. My recollection of what happened halts, until once again I arrived at the bottom of Kilburn High road. It was then I suffered a rude awakening. Where was my bag? This was bad news. My wife had gone to Barcelona for the weekend and my keys, IPod, football kit and other such valuables were in my bag. My immediate thought was not to worry; I’ll get myself arrested and sleep in the cells for a night. I set about my fool proof plan by kicking over every bin I could find along the high street. The Police didn’t come. I pulled out my phone and began calling mates for a place to crash for the night. The only one that answered lived in Carlisle. He laughed down the phone for ten minutes before saying, ‘what would Orwell do in this situation?’
‘He would have at least had a pen and paper on him,’ I replied.’
I went to Chicken Cottage to help myself think. I didn’t even finish my ‘number 3’ meal because I was so angry.
‘I’ve lost my keys, I’m literally sleeping on the street,’ I text to my wife, ruining her pleasurable holiday. I went to my flat, hoping somebody would let me in so I could at least sleep outside my door. Nobody came in or out. I thought about smashing the window to my car or flat and flirted with catching a train back to Shropshire to sleep at Mum and Dad’s. Finally I went to inspect the vicinity near our bins, even the locked storage rooms that local tramps have been using for prostitution. Halleluiah! God had placed an assortment of saviours at my feet behind the large aluminium waste containers. I positioned the unwanted mattress up against a wall. Conscious that it might be soured by humans or animal piss I found a plush cardboard box to lay on top of it. As far as cardboard boxes went this was a fucking Hilton and even had a lid. There was also a duvet nearby that felt unreasonably dry. I crawled into my large box, pulled the duvet over me and shut the lid down to block out any light. I was five star tramping.
I slept from 1.50am until 6.05am, only woken by the haunting realisation of losing my bag. I had been warm and comfy throughout the night, my only concern being that I might be in somebody else’s bed or that a fox may poke its nose into my abode and bite off my face. I caught a train and bus to North Acton to knock on the door of friends unannounced. The door opened.
‘Sean, I’m thinking of giving up drinking, essentially it’s made me homeless.’
‘Come in,’ he replied. He gave me a sheet and I went into the spare bedroom. When I re-woke the house was quiet. I helped myself to the internet to message colleagues about the whereabouts of my bag and put my dead phone on to charge. The bag would be in one of two bars, abandoned on public transport, or stolen as I slept in one of the aforementioned. Eventually I worked out the name of the bar and phoned ‘Bounce’ in High Holborn.
‘Did anyone hand in a green and black bag last night?’
BINGO! They had it. I went to collect it in the afternoon and my belongings were still intact. I briefly checked into my flat for a shower and to take a photograph of my cardboard bed. Then I returned to the house in North Acton to drink. Carrying a black bag full of cider my transformation into a tramp was complete.
'Life's a shit and so am I' 