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.

Between volunteering for, and beginning, this stint I thought I ought to do my homework, and find out the meaning of Ubi.

By pressing that magic google button, I found an ubiquitous Software/Games firm but also a few other clues.

• The Union Bank Of India – Good People to Bank With
• Unione Buddhista Italiana, which was founded in Milan in 1985
• Upper Bann Institute of Further and Higher Education – Focus on Your Future
• Ralph’s Useless Bits of Information
  

  In the Middle Ages, the Islamic sect “Hashishiyun” was made up of men who smoked hashish before fighting. This is the origin of the word “assassin”.

• Zanggroep Ubi Caritas – they’re a Dutch singing group
• The Ubi 1™ Nanomechanical Test Instrument is the newest member of the Hysitron family. It is a cost effective dedicated scanning nanoindenter.
• Universal Basic Income – in New Zealand, it seems
• United Bicycle Institute
• L’Unione Bonsaisti Italiani – dedicated to Bonsai. In Italy.

And best of all, Ubi Caritas – a blog by

Catholic. Progressive/liberal/radical/activist. Feminist. Bisexual. Recent college grad and now elementary teacher in NYC for Teach for America. Aspiring political pundit, aspiring politican, world-changer, do-gooder, conscience-follower, truth-seeker, lover and affirmer. All the news analysis, political opinion and religious analysis that you can handle. All in one place: Ubi Caritas Deus Ibi Est…because truly, “Where there is love, there God is.”

Yesterday, he wrote interestingly about how he came out to his priest and parents

I know, I know, I’m supposed to provide links, but you know how to Google, if you really must…

The village we live in at weekends has a curious layout. Sited on a sharply rising hill, the streets are arranged in a broadly circular fashion, with spokes running off at various angles. Posher houses towards the top, more affordable houses towards the bottom. And right in the middle of the village, dividing our lane on one side from the main village thoroughfare on the other, are a small cluster of tree-lined fields and paddocks.
One of these paddocks lies directly opposite the front of our cottage; it can be viewed, through a gateway, from our sitting room. During the winter months, it lies empty; during the summer months, it is home to a small number of pedigree Gloucester bulls.
Gloucesters are an ancient, rare breed; there only around 700 left in existence. They are also exceptionally handsome, with a gloriously dark, sleek, chocolately colouring. The farming family who rent the field take great pride in them – even going so far as to lend us a whole book about the breed, after K expressed a passing interest.
A couple of weeks ago, shortly after the bulls had been returned to the paddock, K ran into the farmer in the village pub. During their conversation, he mentioned how pleased he was to see them back again.
“So would you like a bit, then?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Shall I put your name down for a piece, for later in the year?”
We shall spend all Summer admiring these creatures. And then, come the Autumn, we shall eat them. This is a novel proposition, to say the least.
Whenever we explain this to one of our city friends, the information is almost always greeted with a shudder, and a somewhat stricken look. How could you?
Whenever we explain this to one of our friends in the village, the reaction is invariably an envious one. Oh, lucky you. They’ll be absolutely delicious.
As for us, we have absolutely no qualms. If you can’t deal with the fact that the meat you eat comes from a living, breathing creature, then maybe you need to re-consider your position as a carnivore (and I speak as someone who was a vegetarian for about eight years). And bearing this in mind, what would you rather eat: a choice piece of free-range steak, or a processed sausage from a supermarket? (Now, there’s something to make you shudder and flinch.)
Besides, as the farmer herself pointed out, the only way to save rare breeds is to eat them.
We’re doing our bit.
No need to thank us. Virtue is its own reward.
With a peppered sauce, and a nice salad garnish.

It was just a normal week night. The evening was taken up with a Council meeting. Or was it Labour Group? Afterwards to the Fridge Bar – next to the Town Hall, and with a three am licence. Most people stayed for just a drink or two, the Usual Suspects stayed later. Cruicky and I achieved the Holy Grail – being asked to leave, being the last two in the upstairs bar at silly o’clock.
You should always go the loo before leaving a bar. My bladder was full of Bacardi Breezers. But the loos were downstairs, in the bar with the weirdo grungy types. And there were always men in the Ladies.
Miraculously I didn’t have to wait long for a bus, and it flew up the Hill, empty of traffic and nearly empty of passengers.
I crossed over and then it hit me. I really needed to pee. Five minutes walk from the bus stop. Not far. Don’t go through the passage – muggers’ paradise at 3.30 am. Walk up the road. Jig up the road. Dance up the road. Bounce up and down up the road. Walk with your legs crossed. Hold deep breaths. Flex those pelvic floor muscles.
I’m in my drive, I’m on my path. I fumble for my keys. I fumble with my keys. Nearly there. Home. Open the front door. Trip over the post, bang past the computer table, through the back room, through the kitchen, thank the lord for a downstairs loo, into the shower room. Only need to undo a button, and a zip and pull down trousers and knickers. A routine I have done hundreds of thousands of times.
Agh! Too late, I’m peeing into my trousers, warm liquid flowing down, momentarily pleasant and comforting, and the relief of releasing my bladder. Then cold in the cold air. Drunk as a skunk I sit on the loo still fully clothed, relieved only that I made it home…

Hello Uborka people. Borks? Cucumber lovers? Whatever!
I’m guesting this week with the divine Troubled Diva. I’m honoured, and nervous, and it’s like playing tennis with Martina Navratilova.
Now I’m off to look for inspiration. Plants and cuddly toys. Yeah, they’ll be novel blog material.