Alloha Alcohol

Last night was filled with duos, don'ts, dunnos and a decision:

Alcohol, we've had a good run in the last year or more but I think we need to talk. It's nothing personal. We had some good times, and I'd hope we can still be friends. We'll hang out from time to time, and maybe hook up and fall back into old abusive patterns. Still, I don't think we can maintain this monogamous relationship any more. I'll always remember you....if not some of the things I've done under your influence.

Why? Well, that little voice in the back of my head has kicked in. The part that realises when you're doing such stupid things and yet is powerless to help. I see it as the alcoholic conscience. I have named him Jiminy. Jiminy Beam. Wee Jiminy had fallen silent, as if allowing alcohol into my life as a short-term fling.

"Go on kid, enjoy yourself! Get on with some necking....of those drinks".

However, I like to think that he has returned now, as would any good, vigilant friend, to warn me that maybe this one's not right for me. The final straw may have been when I started experimenting in threesomes, by forming one half of a drinking double-act. All very sordid. I need to play the field a little more, experiment with new vices. Jiminy's been near apoplectic in my skull, fighting to be heard again. Poor fucker, fighting that losing battle until today. The only sober voice at the party and he's had all the volume of a mime in a wind-tunnel. Still, we'll always have the memories. The sketchy, sketchy memories....

The vast majority of the posts in this very blog have been composed in scenarios such as this

That time I scared a woman shitless- drunkenly strutting home in the small hours with all the majesty of a drugged giraffe in a funk club (as I have been known to do on occasion), when from behind a telegraph pole loomed a young lady, scarcely out of her teens I'd wager. She was scared? Well yeah, and who could blame her? It's not often you hear a grown man squeal like an intense five year old girl when he notices your presence. A manly moment brought to you by alcohol.

Glorious recent recollections whereby I encountered an auld fella having quite the quiet chat to himself and so proceeded to have an intense, remonstrating diatribe at the bizarre state of someone talking to themselves. It then hit me that the lucky person I was ranting to about such things was....well, me. Alcohol, you did it again.

Are we familiar with the concept of gay chicken out there in reader land? The aim of the game is for two allegedly heterosexual sorts to approach one another as if to engage in a passionate clinch. The "winner" is he/she who last withdraws from the advance. While sober, I explained this to an amigo who had enquired. Still moderately sober I even demonstrated (within carefully controlled conditions) to the one man who has bested me in this pursuit. The questioner had a go. I emerged victorious yet virtuous. Celebratory drinking took me over the edge into that never ending pit of drunken doom and the night continued with *scene missing*

The next day it took three people two hours to convince me that in the blank parts I had even played gay chicken with a man of homosexual persuasion.
"Hilarious attempt at humour there kids. I wouldn't have sunk so low. If you're going to....wait....what's that photo....well shit"

The most depressing aspect? I won, at a canter. He backed off immediately, by all accounts terrified. Eye contact was difficult to maintain on future path crossings. A pox upon thee, alcohol!

Cheerleaders, limbo injuries, making mates with murderers (tune in next time) and flinging myself down staircases- alcohol the root of each of them. Well no longer I say!

Consider this- future blogs shall be composed in this far more more sedate style

Nothing like that sweet kick of milk- nature's alcohol, right?

Awkward Situations: A Guide to Entry and Extraction

So that Jesus fella turns water into wine and he's lauded as some breed of "messiah"? I turn my money into alcohol and I'm talked of in hushed whispers behind the doors of a rehabilitation facility? Well if that's not a case of double standards then I shall thank you to address me as Hugo Testicles from this point on. And thus I believe I have adequately explained my latest spell of internet inactivity. On with the piece....

Now that I have segued neatly from alcoholism to aliases, I would like to move on to the point of this post, and another word bearing the scarlet opening letter that is 'a'. That word- awkward. The purpose- guidance (for those linguistic scholars amongst you keeping a running tally, that one begins with a 'g')

Allow me to present

"Awkward Situations: A Guide to Entry and Extraction"

Scene #1:

A pretty lady/handsome gentleman of some description has wound up in the difficult situation of having to let you down gently, yet hopes to remain friends. You know it isn't easy for them. We've all been there. You've suspected it was coming ever since that time they accidentally stabbed you in the stomach with a fork and then absent-mindedly set about disembowelling you with a ladle. They take your hand and break the news.

Bad Idea:

With the best will in the world, you have proceeded to laugh it off. It's no big deal. You've shut your eyes tight to sell the illusion of whimsy. You open them. Shit. They look genuinely hurt. You check your shoes. This provokes surprise in the other party, but you need to be sure you haven't trod upon their puppy (Never a kitten. Nobody cares about kittens. They become cats). Clear. Your guilt levels drop moderately. You allow yourself a brief smirk. Shit. They've clocked that too. Also you've been oddly silent since laughing in their face. Your guilt has returned and is growing exponentially. You're sweating now. Wiping it from your brow before they saw was a smart move. Forgetting they were still clutching your hand and inadvertently using the back of theirs to dry that forehead has not extricated you from this highly awkward scenario.

Escape Route:

Drop their hand. Run.

Scene #2:

You've found yourself in a foreign country, attending a church service. This is alien to you and your skin is starting to burn. You're not sure whether this is the sunburn or the consequences of relieving yourself in that holy water. No time to consider that now, as the time has come for the congregation to hold hands, sing and sway.

Bad Idea:

Getting caught up in pondering why your skin is aflame and losing track of which side your girlfriend is on. The other hand you're holding is a stranger's. He is a 50-something, balding Mediterranean fellow of large personal carriage. By the time you've realised which hand you've been stroking, it will have gone on too long to pass off as anything other than a clumsy attempt to pick up a same-sex partner at a religious ceremony. He's winking at you. This hasn't put you any more at ease.

Escape Route:

Drop both of their hands. Run.

Scene #3:

Hey, there's that person you know. You were just on your way out of this narrow, claustrophobia inducing shop, but you've got time to talk. You're just here with your friend, exiting the women's section boasting the second hand wedding dresses that reek of emotional trauma (Emotional trauma and urine. It's deeply unpleasant). The newcomer is straddling the divide between the womanly apparel and the film memorabilia. It's conversation time. You realise soon enough that you've reached a lull.

Bad Idea:

Your eyes dart from face to face. Both of your conversational partners have picked up on your failed furtive looks, yet neither is doing anything to break the spell. You try to ghost past while carrying on the awkward small talk. This speaking group reached its peak almost two minutes ago. It's been all downhill ever since. Mentioning to your original companion that you should continue on your way to the tattoo parlour to work out the design you've been considering would be a pain-free way to leave. Saying, "oh hey, we've got to be at....er....that place" made it look like a desperate escape ploy. Oh crap! Did you just brush her boob with your hand as you tried to inch past? Continue to avoid eye contact and grab the nearest item to hand. An action figure of Alan Rickman from Die Hard? Hey this could work! You look up. They don't look pleased. Granted, you knew that second chest squeeze for certainty was a bad choice from the get-go.

Escape Route:

Drop that Hans. Run.

Scene #4:

Your niece/nephew/a wandering midget with mischief in mind really has taken a shine to you. You have, in spite of yourself, managed to enjoy their company while they've been to your house. And now that the time has come for them to make their exit, allowing you to bask in the personal pride you feel at having passed yourself off as a normal person with no fear of children/extremely short people. They run toward you to hug goodbye., with their parent/wrangler watching on. They run with all the speed and ferocity of someone who fears they may never see you again, and who has yet to grasp the ability to cease their momentum. You put out your arms to embrace them in return. Then it hits you- they're short. They're crotch-height short. Inertia is not your friend in this endeavour.
Bad idea:

Placing your hand on the back of their head. This will never look to be appropriate. Do you know what they do to people like you on the inside?
Escape Route:

Drop the hand (fuck it, you're not getting out of this alive anyway). Hobble uncomfortably away.

Yours in continued awkwardness,
Hugo