I have a sore bum.

Let me explain. A coupla nights ago, I was at a little drinking session at a friend’s place. I should point out beforehand that I never drink. Not excessively anyway. Apart from that one time I ended up puking twice and nearly passed out in a corridor. But that was a whole year ago.

Anyhoo, back to the drinking session. I knew my limits. So I stuck to little paper cups of vodka-soda mix. One after another, in rapid succession. It was not long before I finally came to realize something. I am absolutely pathetic with alcohol. Suddenly, I was surrounded by best friends. The only thing stopping me from throwing my arms around each and every one of them and laying on them a sloppy wet one was the fear of spilling my drink. Everything said that night made such sense. It was as if the secrets of the universe had been let loose upon our wee minds. I’ve since forgotten what they were, but I hazily remember vague remarks about Raphael Santi, Grantz, and irate neighbours.

And so the night wore on. A group of us sat in a circle on the road, singing along merrily to someone’s guitar. We sat there for a long time, interrupted only by the odd ‘excuse me, I’ve gotta go throw up’. Some people came by – we thought they wanted to join us in our deep discussion of the merits of the road as a bed, but no, they were only morning joggers peering at us with thinly veiled suspicion.

When we finally trooped off to bed, I was worried that I’d oversleep and miss picking my kid sisters up from school at three. Shouldn’t have bothered. I woke up at nine thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep again. Not because I wanted to get an early start on the road, but because I spent the next three hours with my head in the toilet bowl, hurling my guts out at every fifteen-minute interval. I puked till there was nothing left to puke out. And then I puked some more. And yet some more. My stomach felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. I hurled so much, I could feel abs starting to develop.

I finally admitted defeat at noon and had a friend drive me to the doctor’s, where I threw up another two times. He took one look at my tongue and pronounced me dehydrated. Woohoo. That didn’t sound too bad. I told him to give me some pills and I’d be on my merry way. Silly billy, he said. How did I think I’d keep the pills down long enough for them to work? No worries, he had just the thing. One jab and my face would finally have some time off from the inside of the throne. A jab? As in a needle stuck in my fragile flesh? Not on your life, mister. I was up and running in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. But before I could reach the door, I stopped short, the sudden motion upsetting my already rolling stomach. Big mistake, he mistook my abrupt halt for surrender and led (dragged) me over to his sickbed thing.

Fine. If I was gonna go through the ordeal, I’d at least do it with my dignity intact. I held my breath and rolled my sleeve up. At which point he gave me an odd look and shook his head.

Dr Evil: I need you to lie down.
Slightly Terrified Me: Why? Will that help?
Dr Evil: Not really, no. But I’ll be administering the jab on your tushie.
Definitely Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Fraulein Nurse: Listen to the doctor, dear. *Forces me down*
Very Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Dr Evil: *Jabs*
In Agony Me: *Howls*
Dr Evil: There you go. Run along now, you lil’ minx.
Still In Agony Me: I’m never drinking again.

Not till the next alcohol session, at any rate.

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So I was having toad-in-the-hole at the Bulldog today. Enjoying my food, admiring the keg tables and beer mats, when it suddenly hit me - holy cannoli, Batman! I want to work in a pub!

It's all the books I've been reading lately, I think. In the first few pages, there's usually a bit about the author which you can read to find out exactly how one gets to be a mad bastard/bitch. And the authors I read always seem to have gone through some dead interesting jobs. Which got me thinking - what sort of jobs will I get to brag about in the book I might write someday?

Well, I want one of them in a pub. So I asked a Bulldoggee if there were any job vacancies. There weren't, not for part-timers anyway. My heart was broken...for the two whole minutes it took to walk around the back to the next pub where coincidentally, one of the lads I was with knows the Owner. And there, surrounded by bar stools and pool tables, I had my first pub job interview.

So the Owner and I chatted a bit about the bloody long drive to where I live, how we both hate golf...y'know, matters of consequence. Anyways, to cut a long story short, he was undoubtedly overcome by my integrity and responsible nature as one can only quite naturally be cuz I got the job. I think. Which needless to say, is quite nice. Thanks of course must be given to CONDESCENDme for setting me up with the interview in the first place.

Now the only worm in my lettuce is how do I go about convincing my parents that working in a pub really is the best career move for me?

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After spending last night hugging the toilet bowl, I've come up with a list of things I hate about drinking.

The toilets
They never work. Never. I don't know if they ever have, but every time I use the loo in a club/bar, they won't flush. There'll be all sorts of shit in it (sometimes literally), but what choice do I have when I'm practically sweating beer and lack the necessary equipment to use the potted plant?

Puking
Especially in club loos (as opposed to the street outside). It's barely manageable when I have to pee, at least then it's my bum over the bowl and not my head. So that leaves the sink. Which is almost equally gross cuz there'll always be something left behind (especially after you've just had Italian). Anyways puking is never fun, unless it's onto someone's shoes. And you know it's gonna be a rough night when puke starts coming out your nostrils as well.

Stairs
I don't know who thought of making the loo accessible only up a staircase, but that's just plain cruel. Climbing up's bad enough, but staggering down again...it's best to just hang on to the railing and hope that someone'll break your fall. Mmmmm, make that a sexy someone.

Mixers
When I order a vodka lime, I expect a vodka lime. Not a lime vodka.

Meeting family (kinda) there
I bumped into my cousin's girlfriend last night. Whom we've had dinner with at least four times already. Usually, I'm terrible enough with names and faces. So when I'm off my head, the Prime Minister could be prancing around naked on the dancefloor and it still wouldn't register. Well, maybe the nekkid bit. Bleurgh... *Awful mental image* Anyways it's very embarrassing to have my name yelled out and be hugged and kissed, and then have to have her remind me exactly who the fuck she is and that we might be related someday. I couldn't do anything the rest of the night in fear of the next family gathering.

The morning after
I wake up desperately hoping not to have to go in for a rehydration jab. Puke a couple more times, and spend the rest of the morning trying to avoid all thoughts of alcohol. Even sparkling grape juice. So of course I end up trying to recall the night before. Which makes for more quality time with the toilet.

The things I put myself through. I swear not to touch another drink...today.

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Life is bleak. The sun gives me no warmth, meat turns to dust in my mouth, and a fry-up breakfast (with OJ) holds no appeal for me any longer.

And all it took was a late-night phone call.

Once upon a time, a phone call from my dad at that hour would have meant that he was missing me. Once upon a time, it would be to say goodnight to me. But now...now it's just to say things like, "I'm still not too keen on you working in a pub."

Now he calls to crush my dreams to pieces (or to remind me to buy more dog food in the morning).

Because of that one sentence, I'll never know the joy of mixing flash drinks at the bar. I'll never be able to control a pool table for a whole night. I'll never be able to remark offhandedly, yet undoubtedly impressively, that yes, I actually do work in a pub.

Was it the bar peanuts? Did my dad not like the Kilkenny he was served? Were the bar stools too tall? Why why why?!

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It's been about a day since my last pool game, and I'm still preening over pocketing three shots in a row. Yes, I think I'm entitled to considering that this is the same person who once brought the cue down to line up a shot, but missed her hand completely, hitting the table instead and sinking an enemy ball on the rebound.

This warm glow of pride reminds me of another pool session:

//cue rapid rewind-action flashback effect//

I'm playing against Hustler Michael and I'm doing alright. He's leading by a bit, but he's a MUCH better player (not that that says a lot) and he's already had two beers to my lonely one.

It's a Sunday night, so the pub's practically empty. And that's good because I don't like an audience. A peanut gallery is very, very welcome when I'm doing something I'm spectacular at, like colouring within the lines or performing open heart surgery. Not when I'm playing pool, dancing, or opening a packet of peanuts.

So with a signifcantly lower number of potential screwup witnesses, I'm pretty relaxed. Shoot. Sip. (Accidentally) Nudge Hustler Michael's cue. Shoot.. Yeah, everything's good. Especially since I'm not betting anything on this round.

And then it happens. A watching friend (an audience of one is tolerable) leans over to whisper confidentially, "I just bet 200 bucks on you to win." Hustler Michael is on the job tonight after all.

I turn around and blink at her. Then blink at the table. There're three stripes and one solid left. I'm stripes (naturally).

"When?"

"Just."

Blink.

"How MUCH have you had to drink?!"

"Some. No pressure, yeah."

I answer by promptly sinking the cue ball.

Her jaw hits the ground so hard that my beer takes a suicide leap off the table.

In hindsight, my comment could probably have been a bit more sensitive. "Glad it's not my money."

Five minutes and (-)200 bucks later, I'm playing around with the leftover two balls (POOL balls, just so we're clear). I sink one, then line up the last one. And it must be something in the beer because Hustler Michael suddenly drawls, "Tell you what, we'll call it even if she puts this one in."

I cringe. It's at a weird angle, and any little confidence I ever had in my pool abilities has been shot down and stamped out by my earlier performance. I sigh in exasparation and shoot.

And fuck me, it DOES go in. I am a goddess. People must worship me. My back-in-the-clear friend agrees whole-heartedly.

"You are a goddess. I worship you."

Quite naturally.

And the bartender lets me pull my own beer from the tap.

It doesn't get any better than this.

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Something I really didn't want to hear right outside my window at 12.15 am:

Matt: JOAO, STOP PEEING IN PUBLIC!! IT'S DIRTY!

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Dear Red Bull,

Students all over the world have sung your name in praise. Shrines have been built to honour you, dissertations have been prefaced with pages pouring gratitude to you, and epic poems have been written to glorify you. Truly, you are a friend to the procrastinating university student.

But not to this one.

Red Bull, I hate you.

No, that doesn’t look right. Let me try it again.

Red Bull, I HATE YOU.

I try to stay away from you because god knows, I love my sleep. But sneaky bastard drink that you are, you worm your way in anyway via a glorious marriage with vodka. Vodka Red Bull, tastes so good and is yet so evil. Drink enough of them (without puking after), and you DESTROY any chance of sleep.

I went to bed at 3am. And stared at my ceiling in sick fascination till 7am. It’s now 10am. I’ve abandoned all hope of ever falling asleep. Ever. I had the entire shitty experience of drinking too much without the comfort of falling unconscious and sleeping through the hangover. I am literally trembling. Buzzing. I would go out for a run and work it off, if not for the fact that I would break my face on the first tree or parked car I come across. Because I am too lightheaded from exhaustion to process anything but my hatred for you, such is its passionate strength.

Red Bull gives you wings? I want to dig a knife into my shoulder blades, rip them out and stuff the feathery fuckers down the throats of the people who created the cursed drink.

So Red Bull, dear Red Bull, trust that I really mean it when I say that I completely and utterly LOATHE you.

Sincerely,
Me

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Oh tequila, you evil, evil drink.

I was sick so often last night that I think I may have developed abs.

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