(no subject)

[pallas_athena]

I'm back. Whitby was lovely: old friendships renewed, recent ones strengthened, new ones made. This October's vibe was especially good, I think. (Although I don't have the group photo to prove it, because the wind stole my copy and blew it out to sea.)

The nucleus of the weekend's loveliness was the flat I shared with speedlime and velvetdahlia, roommates extraordinaire; the only sad thing was the absence of the splendid pvcdiva. (Next time, eh what?)

Today I will write about a subject which is of great interest to all: drunkenness.

Most people who know me know that I drink but rarely, so I have to choose my occasions with care. However, I'd been virtuous all month and I was damn well going to have a drink on Saturday night at Whitby. My excellent cottagemates had quite sensibly gone home around midnight, and it occurred to me that I was on my own in the Spa for the first time ever. It felt tremendously liberating-- usually decisions are made in the Spa on the basis of where one's pack is, and there I was, packless.

"I'll go check out the band!" I thought, "and oh, the bar's closing-- I'll get a last glass of port." Only one of these decisions was sensible.

It was the last port that did it. I'd hitherto been pleasantly mellow, but that small measure of garnet-coloured Mediterranean nectar crossed some kind of blood-brain threshold and catapulted me straight over the horizon. All of a sudden, I was drunker than I'd been in years. Last time I was this tanked was, I don't know, late '90s? That evening when mothninja and I and another friend settled into Garlic and Shots and they eventually gave up pouring shots for us and just left the bottle on the table? Yeah.

I realised I had arrived at the I-fucking-love-you-man stage, and prepared to do my drunkard's duty by seeking out people I knew and telling them that I fucking loved them, man. However, while I'd been blissfully attuned to the music in the music-and-dance room, everyone I knew had left. So I joined the crowds exiting the Spa along the seafront road, alone with the god Dionysus using my braincells as a dance floor.

As drunkennesses go, this was a very good one. It felt sunlit and happy and infinite. I'm thankful for that, because I don't think I'd ever been this plastered when alone, and if it had been a negative drunk the result would have been terrible. What did I do? I stepped up on the grassy verge at the top of the hill by the arch of whale ribs, faced the sea and sang my heart out. The fact that I couldn't walk straight seemed no more than a minor inconvenience. (Not in years have I been so pickled I couldn't walk straight.)

So that was my experience of what is a routine occurrence for many, but a rare one for me. I can see why people do this regularly, why people (including some of my family) get addicted to this feeling, and why the Greeks equated being pasted with being god-inspired. Will I be doing this more often? Probably not, but it's educational to have been there.

Comments

[velvetdahlia.livejournal.com]

I have felt this though not articulated it as beautifully as you have-- it was usually after imbibing a whole bottle of pinotage in the dark den of Gordon's and then shouting to the Thames from the Hungerford Bridge. And then on the district line, rocking home.

Maybe sometime we can wade in the shallows of this feeling at garlic and shots, if not partaking of it full-on lest we become maenads and tear some poor busker to shreds.

Thanks for making the weekend amazing. I'm always in the I love you man! stage when you're around.

[artnouveauho.livejournal.com]

I fucking love you, man.

[fracture242.livejournal.com]

It could certainly have been worse. You could, for example, have gotten drunk and insulted the rugby skills of the English, been lifted over some big guy's shoulder and almost chucked over the cliff... ;)

[artnouveauho.livejournal.com]

It's true. Although my nation is unlikely ever to beat England at anything (except football which nobody civilised cares about), so I think I'm safe from incurring the wrath of Ork. You, on the other hand, are going to have to wear gravity boots or something next time you see him...

[esdi-leanne.livejournal.com]

Well I could certianly never allow my copy of the group photo to accidentally fall upon the scanner. I would definately never make a copy of a picture for a dear friend, and have never done so before. Honest. Sir.

[artnouveauho.livejournal.com]

I know... you're so pure, I can only envy your moral standards.

[artnouveauho.livejournal.com]

By the way, how would it be if I arrived at Manchester Piccadilly tomorrow at either 16.46 or 17.24? Either of those times suit you?