Author: Gordon

Many people, myself included, like the taste of some alcoholic beverages but as alcohol comes in many guises learning which ones are good, and which ones are not, requires some trial and effort.

Heads up – coconut tequila; just say no kids, just say no.

I can remember my first alcoholic drink. A sip from a half bottle of vodka, purchased by an older friend (not that much older but he was taller), that we snuck in to drink during our duties minding the cloakroom as part of a Boys Brigade dance. I think. The details of why were there escape me, but that’s purely an indulgence of age and in no way related to consumption of said vodka.

I confident of that because I can still remember that first mouthful. Three of us were huddled out of sight round the side of the building, I was the last one to get passed the bottle and the only one who hadn’t already had been through this particular ritual. Without pause, for every 14 year old knows that face has to be saved at all costs, I up-ended the bottle just like I’d seen on TV. The (very!) cheap, clear liquid filled my mouth and as my taste buds started to process the flavour, I quickly swallowed. I wish I hadn’t but there is nothing worse than coughing and spluttering up your first drink in front of your peers, splattering their shoes as you try not to vomit.

Vile. Is the word that still springs to mind to this day when I think bit. A bitter acidic flavour, a burning sensation that felt like someone sandpapering the back of my throat. Why on earth did people drink this stuff?!

Of course what I said to my compatriots was how it was OK but I didn’t see what all the fuss was, which prompted the need to have another mouthful of said death liquid to prove just how little of a deal it was. Vodka? Pffffttt… I’m SO over that already! Thankfully that was all I had to endure that night.

Fast forward a couple of years and my first foray into a public house. I will leave the name out of this story so as to save any legal implications (although the establishment has changed owners/names since then).

It was a life changing moment, and I often wonder what my alcohol preferences would be these days if I had spent any time at all thinking through that evening before entering the pub. I was with a mix of people, most were older and perfectly entitled to be there, but rather than let them take the lead I, bold as stupid brass, marched up to the bar to help with the first order.

There was only one barman working (it was a Thursday evening in a quiet bar) and we had to wait until he served a man who had just arrived at the bar before us. I listened to their conversation intently, although I’m not sure quite why I paid it such attention (but I was glad I did).

He toddled off and then it was our turn. My friend ordered most of the round and then turned to me to ask what I was having.

‘A pint of heavy’ I responded, knowingly and confidently (fake it til you make it, right?).

The barman didn’t blink and started pouring drinks, plonking down a pint of dark liquid down in front of me when he was finished.

I had NO IDEA what I had just ordered and, for those not familiar with the Scottish vernacular, what I had done was order something akin to dark lager (English readers would equate it to a pint of Bitter). So there I was, with my weird pint whilst my friends were drinking lager, or cider, but no, not for me!

I’d had the odd half-lager at home but this was entirely less sharp, a dark balm to the throat, and once my taste buds adjusted it wasn’t so bad. And lo was my journey into ale began.

Side note: I drank in this bar for about 18 months, and celebrated my 18th birthday in it. I realise now that, when the bar manager spotted the cards on the table and asked me how old I was, he did so in full realisation that I’d been underage, but I still managed to scramble my brain to suggest I was 20!

It took a few more years for some other drinks to be discovered. Two were notably the outcome of my first ‘proper’ job.

I’m not sure if I had tried gin before but one Friday afternoon, on one of the occasional ‘shut the office cos we are all in the pub ‘ days (it was a very small company) we were joined by the wife of one of my colleagues. She was very particular about her gin and retained the slices of lemon between drinks. I asked why and she said it made a difference to the next drink. I was skeptical and so she said to try her current drink and then try the next one. It must’ve been during the summer as I remember how the cold, refreshingly sharp drink tasted and whilst it wasn’t an instant conversion, it was the beginning of the journey on the good ship Gin!

Alas the same place (literally, same company, same pub) was the scene of my worst drinking night ever. Not that I knew it at the time of course, but the next morning was not a fun one. At some point having had lunch, and then spending all afternoon in the pub drinking, it was deemed a good idea to have some tequila and then move on to whisky! And after that, when the pub shut, it was an EVEN BETTER idea to go back to someone’s house and drink more whisky (and some weird Dutch thing that was 60% or some such nonsense).

I should, at this point, pause and confess that by that point in the evening I’d already had a fight with my then fiancee (Louise) on the phone about how ‘of course I wasn’t getting drunk’ as we had plans that evening. Only to get on to get very drunk and decide that not going home was CLEARLY a good idea, just as it was OBVIOUS that I didn’t need to phone her again (in the days before mobile phones too). Top tip, it was NONE OF THESE were good ideas.

And so it was I woke up the next morning in a strange house with the distinct taste of whisky in my mouth, a taste that wouldn’t disappear all damn day and now, 20 odd years later, even the SMELL of whisky makes me gag.

I remain a beer and gin drinking for pleasure, vodka and mixer for those later night drinks. Aside from that there are various concoctions (cocktails, whatever) that re-surface from time to time. I am very partial to a white russian (Lebowski style) and can suffer the occasional Jaeger-bomb (ahhhh the wonders of saving face/peer pressure!) although I have to admit the most recent excursion into ‘donkey dropper’ territory is possibly a challenge too far (I had two just to confirm that theory).

Every now and then I try something new but I always come back to beer (lagers, ales, and stouts) and gin. I don’t mind some rums, and I’ve had some dalliances with Southern Comfort (always served with 7-Up… one for the Stephen King fans!), not to mention the Christmas bottle of Baileys.

But I still can’t drink whisky.

Picture the scene: It’s bedtime and I’m sat on the edge of my bed in my silk pyjamas*. I take off my watch and place it on the charger so it’s ready for tomorrow. I turn on my bedside lamp, pick up my phone and turn off all the lights in my living room and hallway. I then have a choice; take a 10-15 minute detour through social media (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram), or pick up the cable lying on the bedside table, plug my phone in to charge overnight and go to sleep.

Sound familiar? Which do you choose?

Most nights I opt for the ‘quick check’ on social media, and most nights it becomes 20 mins, or 30 mins, until I eventually put the phone down and restlessly try and fall asleep.

Then in the morning I don’t feel fully rested and groggily reverse the process, putting off getting up for just another few minutes, then a few minutes more.

Enough.

This past Monday I changed that. I’ve moved my phone charger to the other side of the bedroom.

So now when I go to bed I plug in my phone, then get into bed, switch off the bedside lamp and pick up my Kindle to read for a while. The difference is noticeable. When my eyes get tired, I put the Kindle down, and pretty soon I’m fast asleep.

No big surprise I know, reading helps calm my mind, switching off the ‘ohhh I must remember to…’ and ‘ohhh DID I remember to..’ and the usual gamut of ‘what ifs…’ that I still struggle to escape.

In the morning I’m forced to get up to silence the alarm, so I’m much less tempted to hit snooze, and less inclined to end and start my day with a myriad of disturbing thoughts (currently ALL Trump), kitten pictures, and all the other interesting things that social media flings our way that have me taking the bait and click click clicking into rabbit-holes.

So far so good, I’m not sure I feel particularly more rested when the alarm goes off but my mornings feel calmer and as a result my days have felt a little less stressed as well. In time, once it’s bedded in, I’ll add some gentle exercise to my routine as well, and zen my way through the day.

* I don’t actually wear silk pyjamas, but it’s that or picturing me naked, trust me, the pyjamas are the better option.

Recently a friend posted something on Facebook, one of those text based images that shows a well known phrase with a witty rejoinder. This one was about lemons.

I have been renting for the past several years, ever since my divorce. It’s a nice flat, spacious, in a good location, off-street parking, secure entrance blah blah blah. When I first took it on the rent was a little more than I’d planned but it was way better than the other tiny boxes I’d seen, the heart rules the head after all.

The flat was in need of some upkeep then and still is now. The fittings are all original from when the flats were built around 17 years ago and, as it’s always been a rental, it’s had plenty of wear and tear – a damp patch and two cracked cupboard doors in the kitchen, the gas hob fails safety tests as it doesn’t have an automatic shut off, the bathroom has a bare bulb and only got a new shower last year because the old one (finally)  gave up the ghost, the carpet needs replaced as it holds numerous permanent stains, and the walls need a fresh coat of paint – but the landlord has never seen fit to tackle any of these issues (and as I don’t own it, neither have I).

I had been pondering a move last year, grand plans of take some time to sort through my belongings, simplify and remove items I don’t need but as with all the best laid plans I never really got around to . So, with the renewal of my lease due at the end of March and another bump to my monthly rent imminent, I’ve decided I’m going to use this as an opportunity to move, to downsize, de-clutter etc etc.

Even a precursory look around my flat suggests it is much needed. I have many things, but few possessions. I have expanded to fill the space I am in. I have bought on whim, rather than considered desire (and yes I have Marie Kondo’s book). A de-cluttering I will go!

Of course this will be a fight between my emotional attachment to some items and the need to ‘get rid’. I also need to balance my desire to have some level of homeliness remain for, as much as I admire the minimalist design ethics that can be found in Japan and Scandinavia, I have come to realise that I need some level of warmth to a room, some level of delight.

As an example I bought a decorative plate a few years ago. It wasn’t something I need but, having walked past it in a local shop window for some time, I found myself drawn to it time and again, so I bought it. I will keep it because I enjoy looking at it, it definitely brings me delight, despite having no function. I’m all for minimising my possessions but I don’t believe that means having little to nothing, instead I’m taking my interpretation to be to only have things that are either functional and needed, or things that I occasionally pause to look at and which make me smile. My ornamental silver owl will stay, the candle bridge that sits in a windowsill will go.

I’m aware I’m only really considering these things in sharp relief, that outside pressures have pushed me to bring my belongings and the way they exist in my living space into focus. It is easy to attest these things to fate, or karma, or some larger spiritual hand that is guiding me through life. From my initial thoughts last year that maybe it was time to move on to receiving the renewal letter, it’s easy to see how this could all be predestined in some way or another.

And perhaps it is in a way, perhaps the events that happen around us, the events that influence us are partly driven by some larger plan. Or perhaps all we really need to do is look at what is given to us and decide how to make what WE want out of whatever is thrown at us, decide to make the best of things we cannot control, decide to sod lemonade and drink tequila instead.

After all, life is like a box of chocolates and you can eat as many or as few as you want.

As they round the corner the pier reaches out in to the early evening gloom before them, colourful lights glow and flash, calling them forward; a magical wonderland of pulsing stars, glistening in the dusk. As they get closer the noise starts to build, the cheery organ music from the older stalls tinkles along over an electronic bass thump as the fairground evolves, new exciting rides sitting alongside tradition, wooden horses merrily going round and round whilst spaceships swoop and spin overhead. Laughter and screams, shrieks and shouts punctuate the thinning air.

They wander past the outer stalls, smiling as they are beckoned in for a quick game, an easy game of skill. Come on Sir, you look like you have a good aim, you can’t lose! Hoops, balls and targets, stalls lined with lavishly cheap looking prizes for the successful.

At the next stall there are yellow ducks bobbing on the slowly circling current, a weary teenager looks at them as they pass, his eyes full of all the hope someone who wishes they were anywhere but here can muster. She glances back then turns, tugging his sleeve. He glances at her and his heart melts all over again as her excitement bounces them forward. The stall teenager looks up as they approach and intones the price and rules of the game for the thousandth time.

They pay and both pick up their weapons, first one to get a duck is the winner! They laugh.

She was so excited, babbling about her own childhood memories, this first test of skill and achievement still vivid in her mind, brought to life for him through her smile, her wide eyes scanning the ducks as they drift past, choosing her victim carefully.

He lunges forward but misses his first few attempts, the ducks bobbing on what is suddenly a faster current than before. He doesn’t care; he can hear her beside him, laughing in her wonderful cadence, cursing as she too misses then, at last, a triumphant exclamation!

Turns out the ducks aren’t all yellow and she’s managed to snare a red one, a top prize awaits and she immediately points at the large teddy bear. Soon it’s in her arms; she holds it close like a child, a tender poignancy in her eyes as they softly close. It’s never far away, even on days like today.

Maybe the fairground was a bad choice, he thinks.

Her eyes open and she holds the teddy bear out in both hands, giving it to him. One prize she can give. The melancholy is etched on both their faces now as their hands touch and he pulls her in close, enveloping her and the teddy bear in a hug.

“It’s ok” he whispers.

“I know” she says, and turns her head to kiss his neck.

They set off again, quietly determined to have fun. The smell of hotdogs drifts over them and soon they are munching away as they wander. Later on they laugh in the hall of mirrors, scream on the ghost train and on the giant swing she closes her eyes as they spin higher and higher, a single tear rolling down her face, chilled in the evening air.

Candy-floss next and with sticky faces they head for home. Leaving the heaving sounds to the night behind them. They walk home in silence, holding the teddy between them, one paw each, swinging it back and forth.

He can remember it all to this day, the excited buzz of the crowds, marvelling at the strongman as he bent an iron bar as thick as his arm, gasping as the latest greatest ride rocketed people around the sky in spinning circles, up and down, higher and higher until their delighted screams became one, and the lights merged with the stars above them.

They didn’t go back to the fairground again. Life moved on or rather it moved on around them. They remained where they ended up, stuck, lost, unwilling to change, scared to let go of their grief.

Sitting on the edge of the bed he realises he is crying, silent tears drop to the floor as he clutches the rediscovered teddy bear in his arms. He had made it through her clothes and belongings, through well-meaning friends and old photos. He didn’t realise the unspoken memory was waiting here all along.

She is gone and he will be soon. Gone from this house at least, the last vestiges of their belongings being boxed up, shipped up, thrown out, moved on. He found the teddy on a high shelf at the back of the cupboard in the bedroom, out of sight for so so many years and as soon as he reached for it the memories were quick to follow.

He knows he has to let go but he’s so tired of all of this. Tired of going through it, tired of putting on a brave face. It’s only stuff, they say, things that don’t have value, and anyway you’ll still have your memories, they say. He doesn’t want to tell them that the memories are fading, he can’t hold on to them long enough when they arrive, and they are nothing but blurred, grainy, over exposed photos that fade further day by day.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, holds the teddy out at arms length for one last look, then drops it in the box marked Trash. It falls back and looks up at him. He turns away, everything is past now.

Later that day he sits and waits for them to pick him up. They arrive on time in their fancy big car, all emblems and corporate imagery. They’ve sent two of them as if to remind him of his change of status. His place in the world is different now; he is no longer the key-holder and feels small and weak as one of them lifts his suitcase, the other his arm to help him out to the car. They fuss over his seatbelt and throw his suitcase in the back. He doesn’t complain, just stares out the window at the home he’s leaving, the life once lived.

As the car pulls away his eye catches the pile of bin bags and boxes lying on the pavement, ready to be collected. The final parts of his life. A sorry pile. Next to it is a box marked Trash. He can see the ragged ears of the teddy, its face tilted to the sky, glazed eyes raised to the heavens.

My breath fogs the air as I walk across the car park. I dare not look back, I must leave this behind. I take the car key from my pocket, a push of a button, hazard lights blink their location. I get in and start the engine, listening to it purr and tick as I apply buckle to clasp and turn the heating up. Sitting in the car, the world diluted by crystals, the cold distance is to be savoured before the wounds open and the truth starts to flow. Life starts its ebb.

It’s colder than I realised and without noticing I find I’m rubbing my hands together to warm them, enjoying the building friction of skin on skin. Flashback to hands grabbing my arms, pulling me closer, skin on skin. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them the windscreen has cleared.

I sit for a few seconds longer, my mind still racing through last night. I feel spaced out and emotional. I put the car in gear and start to drive. As I pull out of the car park it’s only my internal auto-pilot that turns me homewards.

The coast road is quiet, sunrise is only just creeping towards the horizon and I lose myself in the curves of the road, a billion tiny sparkles picked out by the morning frost, dazzling tarmac shouldered in rhinestone, headlights billboard the road signs. Mesmerising.

Suddenly a red eyed cat flashes at me as the kerb leaps into the road, I swerve and catch the car before it can skid. My heart races, I grip the steering wheel, knuckles as white as the hotel bed-sheet. I am suddenly focused and very alive.

The sunrise is in full flight now, a blushing pink sky reaches up to caress the last embers of the night. The road is dull by the time I reach my home town, the frost migrating from street to shrub.

As I reach my neighbourhood I turn the car into our street, the slide starts. I try to catch it but it’s too late, that moment has passed. The steering wheel spins in my hands, the brakes lock the wheels and nothing. I am lost to the momentum and seconds later a dull crunk echoes out as a wheel catches a drain then rocks the car against unforgiving concrete.

Dammit.

Out of the car, breath rising as I look down at the front wheel, askew, out of kilter, broken. I give it a kick for good measure.

My home is only a few minutes away so, leaving everything behind I start to walk. The sun dances low in the sky, hiding behind houses. The pavement is patched with line after criss-crossed line of spearing crystals, puddles on hold.

My hand moves to the gate, red wooden lines edged in silver ice. Pushing it open, I walk up the path, up to the front door and she’s there already. Sitting on the bottom step, red eyes lined with tears, face set. She watches me as I approach.

“Everything is broken now”, she says.