Like Clockwork.

Was chatting to a group of 'the young people' (yes I hate that phrase too) t'other week about social interaction/pubs/clubs and the like and how to navigate such things if you're Autistic and it reminded me of one of the probably only two occasions I've ever been drunk - I mean really, really drunk - in my entire life.

So obviously I thought I'd share it here because there aren't enough reasons to take the absolute piss out of me as it is.

Take yourself back, if you will, to the heady days of 1995...a pre-DX me has planned a Clockwork Orange themed night out for my 26th birthday to - hopefully - cap off a fairly eventful albeit slightly shitey year where a massive group of us Droogs (well 6 of us) were going to spend the nochy out for a slap-up pischa-fest followed by much drinking with a wee bit of dancing thrown in.

No Synthmesc or Drencrom tho' as I was booked in to work the next day.

This may be important later.

 

I must just add tho' that anyone expecting a drunken tale of ultra-violence ending with me passed out in a bin is gonna be a wee bit disappointed tho' as everything went amazingly - saying that we did all get turned away from a fairly well known 'rock club' for being 'under-dressed'(!) but luckily another - obviously cooler and more literature savvy - club let us in and even played The Universal by Blur at one point which was nice and made up for the lack of Beethoven or The Heaven 17.

Anyway, slightly tipsy and a wee bit worse for wear I rolled home around 3.30 AM with one of my mates in tow (they lived around the corner so we shared a cab) and proceeded to pop on a pot of coffee....next thing I knew it was 6.30 and I suddenly remembered that I was due at a fairly large scale balloon modelling gig at a big corporate opening at 8.30 for a 9.00 o'clock start followed - from 12.30 till 4.30 - with a massive pre-Christmas arts/play session with around 150 kids.

So I did what any sane person would do in that situation.

I kicked my friend out and proceeded to shower and shave whilst drinking even more coffee in the hope that it would both sober me up and keep me awake.

Grabbing my kit and costume I headed out for a cab, making it to the venue in record time I'd say I felt kinda invincible - but that's a different movie - I signed in and was shown to a room where I could get changed in privacy.

Or so I thought until I was halfway thru' changing my trousers when I realized that it had huge windows and they'd forgotten to close the blinds.

Luckily my underwear was clean and not wanting to appear like I wasn't a hip and happening modern guy I just carried on.

It was then I noticed that there was an oh so slight smell, almost as if someone had poured alcohol over the sofa and not washed it out.

Then it hit me.

To my horror I realized it was me.

Yup, I seemed to be seeping booze from every pore.

Spraying myself with deodorant to the point of choking I decided to carry on regardless.

Amazingly the morning went by without a hitch, sure some especially small people seemed to be staring at me oddly as did some of their parents but I'm kinda used to that plus I'd noticed as the day went on that my eye was feeling a wee bit sore and scratchy so thought maybe I'd banged it at some point and they were just concerned.

Or it might have been the fact that - I'd only noticed when going for a wee - that I was still wearing my - by this point a wee bit crusty - Alex DeLarge eyelash and mascara.

Phew I thought to myself, it should be OK seeing as the chances of any of these pre-teens having seen A Clockwork Orange and knowing who I'm copying are pretty small.

I'll admit that it wasn't till a few weeks later that although none of the kids would have clocked it there were probably a fair few parents scratching their heads that night and wondering why the place booked A Clockwork Orange balloon modeller and for that I can only apologize.

No caption needed.

 

As 12.00 o'clock got ever nearer I started to feel a little unwell, my stomach was churning and it felt as if someone was sticking a big pin into my - non crusty - eye so I reckoned that what I needed was more coffee.

Luckily the venue were really pleased with the event and offered me a cup before I left which I tanked down whilst plotting if I had time to go to McDonalds to buy more before getting another taxi to my next job.

The answer was surprisingly yes - so with two cups of hot Maccy D beverages in my sweaty palms I hailed a cab and arrived in plenty of time to not only drink both of them but order a couple more from the venue cafe before starting.

Sorted.

Well I was till my work colleague (and friend who to save their blushes - and mine - will remain nameless)* slowly looked me up and down and said "You look like utter shit, go and have something to eat." before sending me back to the cafe for soup and bread.

Amazingly this seemed to work and I suddenly felt fine, no more than fine, I felt great and jumped into a huge amount of runaround tag games and the like before around 40 minutes in getting really, really tired, eventually spending break-time with my head lolling about like a particularly cheap nodding dog.

And with that my friend got someone to drive me home(!) under strict orders to put on a pot of coffee for me, put me under a blanket, lock the door and pop the keys thru' my letterbox.

Which at the time I found utterly mortifying but now think was utterly fab.**

And with that I ended up dropping off to sleep only to be rudely awakened not by the dustman but by a couple of friends around 9 o'clock at night who'd turned up to take me out as a surprise because they'd missed my birthday.

Not realising (till at least last year, yes I know) that you can actually say no to stuff I shambled around getting ready and was soon heading into town with no idea where I was going or why.

But at least my tummy felt better.

Anyway cue a couple of hours of pubs and drinks before hitting a club (as the kids say) which oddly was the club we'd been knocked back from the night before but heyho, them the breaks and by this time I was feeling not only very tired but very, very bloated.

You see I've never ever gotten really drunk before - or since, well maybe once - because I have a cunning plan in place to stop that happening, for every pint/short I have I follow it with a Coke which seems to counteract the alcohol.

If I ever miscalculate the amount I'd drunk I'd then just buy a huge bag of  peanuts, partly because the salt seemed to sober me up but mainly because I have a slight peanut allergy so I'd end up totally emptying my system of everything booze an' all.

Tho' to be fair it did mean I'd end up looking like Pete Burns for the day afterwards but it was/is a price worth paying.

"Please help! I've gone out to celebrate my birthday by mistake!"

 

Tonight tho' neither of these things helped.

You see the club didn't sell peanuts and I'd been drinking Jack Daniels which meant that the folk I was with assumed - after seeing me with a glass of Coke that I was drinking it mixed, so I ended up with a Russian Roulette style table of tumblers of just Coke and tumblers of Coke and Jack.

The only option was to grab the nearest one then run off and hide somewhere in the hope that someone else would drink the rest.

The night was about to take an odd turn tho' because as I was wondering around I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the mum - and stepdad, who I bizarrely knew from The QM at Glasgow Uni - of a kid from one of my groups.

"Hiya Ash! Fancy seeing you here! Out on your own?"

"Nope, out for my birthday - just been for a wee!"

"Oh congratulations mate! - What's that you're drinking?" - he grabs my glass and sniffs it - "Jack and Coke? Be right back!"

And with that he stomps off to the bar and leaves me with his missis who goes on to tell me how much their daughter loves me and thinks I'm great.

Which comes as a surprise seeing as she's spent the last 6 months utterly ripping the piss out of me with her pals and generally being a total Heather.

Seems that this was, according to her mum, her way of showing folk she gets on with them.

Fair enough.

So step-dad comes back from the bar with THE biggest tumbler I have ever seen and thrusts it into my hands with a huge grin and cry of "Happy Birthday!" to which I mumble a thank you before making an excuse that I need to find my mates cos they'll be worried before tottering off to a corner where I plonk myself down and start crying.

Proper sobbing, wailing cries - not big burly manly drunk tears that is.

Well as I'm sitting there cradling my drink a girl came over to check if I was OK.

"Are you OK?" she asked (see told you).

"Um, yeah, it's my birthday..."

"Oh fuck are you out on your own? Shit that's awful..."

"No, I'm out with friends, it was actually my birthday yesterday but they're still taking me out...I'm crying because they keep buying me too many drinks and my stomach is full."

And with that she quickly pulled away, gave me a very odd look and beat a hasty retreat.

You can draw your own conclusions from all of this because frankly it's still confusing a quarter of a century on.

Thanks for listening.

*Oh go on it was Kelley.

**No seriously, thank you.