I'm
a recovering alcoholic. What made me sit up and take stock of my
life was the death of the only taxi driver I'd ever loved. I'd
been out drinking, as most alcoholics do, except for those who
are just in it for the money. On my return home, the taxi driver
helped me inside; I slumped into his arms, and then slumped
further down, and further, until finally I was lying prostrate on
the floor. The closed circuit TV cameras I have installed in my
house tell the story of what happened next: his attempts to place
me in the recovery position were fumbled at best. He knocked my
knee, which led to the reflex action of my lower leg shooting up
in the air. My sharpened winklepicker pierced him through the
throat, and he slowly bled to death, bubbling silently through
the hole. We all make errors of judgement when it comes to
fashion; mine was an error which haunts me every day.
I
escaped a custodial sentence after turning up to the court drunk.
I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since the fateful day, but
eight months later there was so much alcohol left in my
bloodstream that I was still technically drunk. The judge took
pity on me when he saw despair in my eyes, and smelled the Bud
Light on my breath. I was free to go, he said, provided I
attended AA meetings - he reasserted that this meant Alcoholics
Anonymous, not the Automobile Association, which I was somewhat
upset about as I've always been a proponent of lazy humour. Upon
his descent from the bench to give me a hug (the acceptable face
of mob violence), he slipped on a slice of lime from when he'd
been surreptitiously doing shots of tequila, broke his neck and
died slowly and painfully. It turns out he'd been an alcoholic
for as long as he'd been able to burp at will, and apparently his
gavel doubled up as a salt shaker. Who are the sick ones in this
so-called society? Those who get caught or those who don't?
Nonetheless, his ruling stood, and I was (relatively) free to go.
I'll always remember his last words: "Oooh, my neck doesn't
half hurt."
There
seemed little point me going to AA as I didn't drink any more. It
would make far more sense to send my son to the meetings in my
place. We were both alcoholics, and we both shared the same name,
so it'd be easy for him to sign in as me, provided he remembered
to drop the Jr. from Junior Jr. At 12 it seemed like the best age
to nip his alcoholism in the bud. So off he toodled to the AA
meetings, detoxed, learnt to smile again, and found love with a
forty year old woman who was just using him for the sex. It all
seems so easy. Everyone's happy. Or so you'd think...
I
started drinking again last week. Just water at first, then on to
the harder stuff like orange juice. I had a spoonful of Bailey's
flavoured Haagen Dazs, and within twenty minutes I was comatose
on top of a circus big top, with eight acrobats standing on an
elephant trying to get me down. The public loved it. No-one but
those working in the circus realised it wasn't an act, and I've
been blackmailed into travelling the country getting drunk for
the amusement of people everywhere. I'd always presumed circuses
to be places of fun, laughter and animal cruelty. It seems
they're cruel to humans too. I need help.