Away weekend. We were the New Labour new ruling elite, young, and enthusiastic. I was one of the few left over from 1994-98, with an (unfair) reputation for being a Maverick, Loose Cannon, Loony Lefty, Trot, Trouble Maker. Many of the new intake who didn’t know me, instinctively mistrusted me. And disliked me. Because Maverick Loose Cannons, Loony Lefty Trot Trouble Makers have no sense of fun or humour and no joie de vivre
We stayed in The Croft, where generations of the borough’s Schoolchildren had experienced their School Journey, for some, their first time staying in the country. But I doubt that the Croft had ever seen anything like us lot.
After dinner in the village we returned to the Croft, and the fun began. You can guess the details. About half the people retired to bed relatively early, the other half imbibed. And so the pattern was set for four years.
I was standing on the terrace above the elegant flower bed. Peter grabbed hold of Cruicky’s glass and waved it under my nose. “Smell this – this is what Mike’s drinking, it’s whisky, wine, beer and some other things.” With one heave the entire contents of my stomach were propelled by gravity in their technicolour glory over the balcony and into the flowerbed. Bizarrely, this demonstrated that I was ‘a good laugh’ and destroyed my Loony Lefty reputation. Although as many people remarked – its smell made Gert heave; Cruicky was drinking it…
I should have known better. I should have learnt eighteen months previously. It was just before Christmas. Non stop alcohol. Thursday night had seen me stagger out of the Dog Star at four am. Four am at the junction of Brixton’s notorious Coldharbour Lane and Atlantic Road. On Friday morning I rolled into work at half ten. And I left early. It was Helen’s leaving do in Vino Veritas. And someone else’s leaving do, too. Plus, two Christmas lunches decided to continue their festivities there. Everyone who was anyone was there (except for Helen’s luscious manager, but that’s a whole different story…). I was someone, I was an office celebrity All these men kept buying me drinks. Looking back now, maybe some of them fancied me. Or, at least, fancied their chances. Too blind, too stupid, too drunk to realise it.
Paul, the sweety, guided me into a taxi. Paul, the person who felt unrequited love for me for many years. He headed off back to East London
I don’t remember the journey home, but I must have got home, because I decided to have a bath. Hey, I was sweating alcohol from every pore.
Children:Never, ever have a bath unless your stomach is in tip top condition.
I threw up in the bath. Not just a trickle, not just a little undigested red wine. Full scale vomitus maximus in the bath. As I sat in the bath. I thought “Hmm, this is fairly disgusting. I am lying in a puddle of my own vomit.” Vomit was trickling off my breasts and stomach into the water. My hair was soaking in vomit…
You will remember yesterday’s saviour? My downstairs shower room. When you have regurgitated two nights of drinking and convenience food into the bath, you are grateful for separate, downstairs showers.