... of my life, for the five billionth time.
And what better time than when your long-lost childhood friend appears from nowhere so you head for the bright lights of London where you don't just drink him under the table, you manage to knock back a small distillery's worth of booze without flinching while he spends the dying hours of the evening with his fist down his throat in a vain attempt to vomit it all out.
My Evening's Substance Abuse Tally
Whiskey chasers (neat): 4
Whiskey and cokes: 3
Strawberry beer: 1
Snakebite & Black: 1
Unidentified shots: 1
Cigarettes: 30 (approx)
Now don't get me wrong. I am not proud of this. My tally is not meant to be an idle boast, but a worrying indication - as I shocked myself recalling this list - that I should probably buy a puppy and spend all my money on dog food instead. Not only do I find this record vaguely disturbing, I'm also concerned by the fact that after I chucked it down my neck or up my nostrils, all I suffered from was a mild slurring of speech. I am also pretty sure that I was undoubtedly a devilishly witty raconteur and bon vivant to all who encountered me last night.
This morning, Steve and I went to a cafe for breakfast. While I threw an omelette down my gullet, Steve held his head in his hands and apologised profusely for his state. I simply pointed at his untouched toast and asked him if he wanted it.
He then ran out of the cafe and threw up behind the Qantas building.
Steve did say he enjoyed himself, once he regained his equilibrium. Apparently, he barely drinks now that he's married with two kids, and wants to do this again immediately. I tried to remind him that I'm not living in a fantastic bachelor's paradise and that I actually want to change my ways.
But that's really not going to happen, let's be honest. Basically, I need a meet a woman to retrain me. I am quite happy to submit to whatever she wants, churn out a small family of whinging bastards, then die.