It started out as a Friday thing. What is it about the Friday thing? Everything in the world would be fine if every day was a Friday. No more war, no more political unrest, no more murder – just change every day to Friday sit back and let the world do the rest.
Anyway, the week from hell had finished, and as long as you weren’t on-call that weekend, it was your well-deserved time away from the shit hole. Two days of luxury. It was really two days of doing very little when you think about it, but anything was better than work, including a Sunday lying on the sofa vomiting bile into a blue bucket that was last used to hold wallpaper paste.
So Fred, Pete and I would take our cars and drive to the pub. I would be desperate to get away anytime after noon, but the other pair were more responsible than me. Technically, we could only have two pints, but there were three of us? How was we going to work that one out? I always remember driving home in a rush because I was bursting for a piss. I knew I was over the limit as well, but I didn’t care. The police wouldn’t stop me and it’s not as if I could maim or kill a child crossing the street. The odds are outrageously in my favour that I will get home safely. I am actually more likely to piss myself than be stopped, or kill anyone.
I never even questioned the fact that I was having three pints. I didn’t hold that conversation in my mind. You know the one I am talking about, the one where you ask yourself if it’s acceptable, whether it oversteps your values and whether you give a toss. I just didn’t have that conversation. Instead I mindlessly ordered and drunk my three pints. Drinking does that to you. Fuck the law. The beer is boss. It was Friday though! That was my trigger. I was thinking about my three pints from the time I woke that morning. Man…it’s what dragged me through those lousy hours.
Then the trigger became Monday, and then Tuesday. Fuck it, why not go the whole hog. Why don’t we make it a daily thing? It’s a good thing anyway. It’s like a little team meeting. We actually get quite a lot done. Except, now when I get home I have the taste for it. I don’t want to go home and talk to my family about how shit my day has been. I want to go straight to the pub and sit at the bar with my mates. But how am I going to pull that one off? She’ll go mental. And if I do go straight home and she smells it on me again…there goes the inquisition. But what if I ring her and suggest that she meets me in the pub for a drink? That way I am being a great partner and if I time it right I can take a swig from my pint before she sees me, and I can lie to her, and tell her it was my first one. She won’t even know that I stopped off in the pub for three pints. What a genius I am! And if she turns me down she will probably tell me to have a pint myself, so that’s what I’ll do.
But there’s never anyone sitting at the bar? It doesn’t matter. I’ll sit there and talk to the barman. Funny thing is I can’t understand anything the barman says because he talks in the thickest Scottish accent I have ever heard. But that don’t matter. I’ll sit by the bar anyway.
I’ll have the taste for it by then and that’s all that matters.
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Photo Courtesy of CaptBrando (CC$Flickr.com).