I'm off out to meet a former colleague for a drink this evening. It never is a drink, of course, but several drinks. The English and their euphemisms, eh? I'm sufficiently old and honest with myself to admit that I sort of dread events like this now. I used to love them, in my salad days. But latterly, I just want to have a couple of pints of an evening and cuddle up on the Chesterfield with the missus and episode of Inspector Morse.
I suppose this is simply an example of life preparing me incrementally of an eternity of oblivion. The avenues of pleasure become narrower and narrower as one ages, until eventually you lose the will to go on and willingly turn up your toes. A propos of this, I believe Kenneth Williams' last recorded words where something like "Oh, what's the bloody point?". Shortly thereafter he swallowed a heroic dose of prescription drugs and died. Whether this was by accident or design, we shall never know. But what is clear is that he was increasingly embittered by life toward to the end.
In order to cope with the contradictory demands of revelry and my increasing sociopathy, I set myself a limit of how much I can drink. This is fine if I know I can shift more than the other members of the party. Tonight, I can't rely on this physical advantage. My mate can drink, and quickly. I don't. In cycling parlance, I'm a diesel, not a sprinter. So I'm going to have to manage the situation using slight of hand and misdirection. Both of which I'm shit at, by the way.
I will only judge the evening a success if I don't have a hangover in the morning. I'll get back to you on that.
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