Monday, November 5, 2007

Me and my bladder....

Me and my bladder....

I have to share this short story with you, as at last I've found an outlet to vent my frustrations instead of trying to start WW III with every person who cuts me up in traffic. Last night was the last straw. I was out in a bar in town with some new work mates. Now I I have this issue, with regards to alcohol consumption. Or rather the lack of. Since I have ever known I have not been handle drink without forever ending up in the loo. Maybe that's why I'm more of a smoker than a drinker. I've never been patial to spirits, although there was a period back in the day, when I could succumb to the odd rnb (rum and black) but by an large I've always been a lager drinker. Even living in France with their vast quality of wine, I perfer the French beers and lagers. I like the taste, the way it goes down, so smooth after two pulls of a spliff. Travelling has enabled me to taste and aquire a love and variety of lagers I was never previously exposed to at the local offie. Which I'd like to add, I still frequent when back at Mum's.

Anyhow, back to my quandry. Basically although I enjoy lager, I have trouble drinking more than a few bottles without frequenting the 'big boys' room for the rest of the night. Others with this medical condition may sympathise, but when you are other side of 26 it less than a bubble. In fact it has got so bad that one of my new year resolutions, that you make in front of the kids, was to actually stop drinking. Not for any health or fitness reason before you ask. No. Only because, whenever I'm in company, I'm sick and tired of making excuses, four times an hour, in order to visit the person's lavatory. It gets worse. If I'm in a bar and enjoying the night away and get to the Wayne Rooney heights of EIGHT bottles. Then boy oh boy. The number of occassions I've been ready to leave a club or bar, gone to the loo at the last thing I do , only to hit the outside air and immediately be looking to find a bush, tree or a lamp-post. The countless occassions I've been in a taxi and begged the taxi driver to pull over prior to getting to my destination. But I'm grown now, have nothing to hide and made my first 8milllion, so I have the power to sue people who laugh in my prescence over my alcoholic medical condition.

So this was the situation I found myself in last night. Having a really nice evening, discussing with Guillum, the virtues of Spanish tortllla over hard-dough bread and trying to explain that you cannot use parmasan as substitute, when having bun and cheese. As the night worn on, the discussion became more graphic and sexual and the number of bottles on the bar meant I was in that zone where I like to be but don't really want to be in. I'd already made my excuses throughtout the evening on at least five seperate occassions and although my mind was telling my to stop and switch to something else, the 2pac in me was saying 'fuck it'.So I had the enevitable 6th and 7th bottles, before the barman threw us out. Complaing of the continous playing of the latest G Unit album, over and over again, So there we were, 6 ex-pat grown up adults outside the bar at 2:30 in the morning, kung-fu fighting as though we were long lost teenagers. After Hans slipped in the gutter and split his jacket and the subsequent belly-holding, the discussion eventually turned to how were we getting home. As I was the last expat to arrive, only two months ago, I was not on my turf. (I use coffee-shops as landmark and we were far away from any that I had visited in my time here) So not being in a position to offer any meaningful input to the transport proceedings, I stared blankly, absorbed the crisp air and counted down the time until I got home, to build one. Being in a some-what state of semi cormitose, one could only offer the sutle reply of "thats fine by me". The next thing I knew, we were all sitting on a bench waiting for the taxi's to arrive, when suddenly the cold air hit me like a Tyson uppercut. I then realised that I was about to get into a taxi with people who do not know about my alcoholic medical strangeness. I didn't know if I was sober, but I knew I needed out of there quicker than Theo Walcott. In times like this it's where people who do not understand or sympathise, can quickly go from thinking you're a decent geezer to someone akin to Hanibal Lecteur. I needed a sharp exit. And pronto. So using my blinding wisdom that I have been blessed with since birth, I told my work colleges that I left my keys in the office. "You're keys"? replied Hans. "Nee probo, you stay me". said Ravi. "Oh that would be nice, but I need to erm check something on one of databases". Before they could offer more resistance, I was hugging and air kissing and making a quick departure around the nearest corner. When I was out of complete eye view, I found a tree, watered and looked to the heavens. After surveying there were no Dutch police on their nightly visuals, looking to issue me with a 80 euros fine for helping trees grow in a time of global-warming, I realised I had no idea where I was. I was Euro stuck. Now I need to explain that I have been in this position before, and coined the term 'Euro stcuk' It comes with the territory of working in Europe. Being out of your trolley and looking around to see some KeiderStrasse's or KeiderStracht and something Plein and wishing you were back in Camberwell. I'm also one of those people that never uses or grasped the concept nor understanding of a map. The last A-Z I had in my car was back in 1992. I let my other half work out where we're going and I take the high responsibility of driving. When she becomes lost, I wind down the window and in what ever country we are in, explain in my best dialect, our destination. When this fails to work, I show them the map! I have travelled the globe on this concept and can verify that my success rate is very high. Needless to say I apply this mindset when abroad on my own, however with disasterous consequences that I will never admit.

I am resorted to finding someone and seeking directions home. But it's 2:50 in the morning. Not many people going to work at this time of night, Black guy walking around late at night, looking like Ronald McDonald, glazed eyes, swaying. I won't bore you with the details of the next hour, in trying to work out how I managed to get home, never the less, interruppted by the many alcoholic medical condition stops I was forced to endure. I eventually got home and managed a few hours, before I was back in the office facing the same people I spent an evening with, only hours earlier, who I then subjected to a rendition of OJ Simpson. I had it all planned out in SAS precscion. Avoid people until 11am. Keep your head down, pretending you are working. Answer the phone as many timesas you can, so not to be interrupted. Go through coffee withdrawl until at least 10:45. And what was this ingenius plan, this other side of twenty-two year old came up with? I was tell them that I was so dedicated to the new role that I personally wanted to see something happen on the computer at its scheduled time of 3am. The whole office was in hysterics after my explanation and thought nothing to ridicule this Anglo/Franco banana. But the day was saved when Guillum turned to me and said "If you're gonna steal the laptops, be careful of the cameras".

My secret is safe for another day at least..

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