Mistress Of Vices: Blame It On The Alcohol

I lost my job recently. Not lost it like I got handed a pink slip by some suit and offered comfort by way of an insipid farewell party. More like left it by the side of the road at the mercy of the lost and found. It has since been donated to another miserable sod. Hopefully the pink G-string I sacrificed to the college library reading room in similar irreverence didn’t meet the same faith. For obvious reasons, I didn’t fancy unraveling Victoria’s (and my) Secret by going back to reclaim it. After all, that wouldn’t have been as much fun as the process of leaving it there was. And they say bookworms are boring!

This hurriedly typed tête-à-tête racing against passing deadlines can be blamed on flutes of bubbly. Quick back-story – In ode to my current “free”lancer status, I decided to give up the tippling lifestyle. That resolution lasted all of three nights before yours truly decided to kowtow to Bacchus only on weekdays, in an effort to stumble and break expensive heels less frequently. But after careful consideration, better sense prevailed. We reignited our love affair, forgiving its tendency to loosen my tongue and cure memory losses of exes done and those I wish undone. All was well in lush land again.

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It also got me thinking, what’s the worst part about surfacing after a night of too much drinking? Wait, this is a men’s magazine – so don’t scare me with your answers. Let me just tell you mine. I’ve been in misfortunate situations where the unfamiliar surroundings of the room I woke up in and the cloudy sequence of events that landed me there made me think I was kidnapped. I nearly called the emergency number, twice. Now don’t pretend like that never happened to you!

Coming in close is realising who the occupant of said room was. Whoever said, “Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder” was obviously drunk. The morning after, I tried looking at some of them through beer pong glasses and it made me wish I wasn’t sober. I know you’ll say it’s my own fault for getting into it, but then how else will I dig deep in the closet to recall my misery, only for your amusement.

While on the cold brew, how about I let you in on a little secret. We know it ain’t the healthiest beverage but you can’t fault the poor one for trying to redeem itself. The pale lager and tap versions have a wonderful aftereffect of relaxing your jaw muscles. Reckon it’s the froth that does the trick. Never mind the reasons, all I can say is that it really helps you pitch better to hit third base. You can thank me later.

The spirits don’t always paint a happy picture though. Very often, too much of the good thing has led to some of the weirdest and funniest (in hindsight) encounters. Girls’ talk and if only bedroom walls could too, we would have a volley of reasons to petition for prohibition. Not for us, but for the men who don’t know how to handle their liquor.

I consider it my duty to ensure every lady gets what she wants after a session of good-natured drinking and ill-advised sack hopping. In fact, that’s part of my mandate in agreeing to write this column. So we’re sorry boys, but no one believes you when you say, “Oh this has never happened before.” And countless pegs of that rare single malt don’t validate you pulling a KLPD on us. It’s only funny when it happens to someone else, not to you!

A sampler of what one has encountered includes an impeccably handsome gentleman with wonderful potential who placed multiple orders of our favourite vintage at dinner and then fell asleep in the middle of his performance. What a waste. Sigh! Then there was the musician who challenged us to Jägerbombs, won and then spent his time with a porcelain companion while we played babysitter. But the pits, was the lad who insisted he was perfectly up to the task when he clearly wasn’t. Apparently he was also delusional.

Enough bashing, I admit to having messed up once in a while as well. For instance, I ditched my date in a foreign country, wandering off with the hotel keys and wallet. In my defence, that was the night he introduced me to absinthe. Safe to say, it wasn’t my last tryst with the green devil. But at my drunkest, I forgot convenient parts of what transpired between a fella and me until I was reminded about it months later. Rumour has it that I dozed off this time – damn you open bar.

After all this talk of its faults, we should advocate some virtues too. Especially the elusive OUI – Orgasm Under The Influence. It’s not a myth. I’ve been there and been done by that. Short of herb-induced spells, it’s some of the best you’ll get. Just remember there are ground rules. No mixing drinks and no mixers. Four glasses of wine, three of champagne and the same number of tequila shots work…. Separately, not together. Of course, there’s also the public service angle of getting ugly people laid. I’ve done my bit, have you?

Liver concerns aside, this piece solely expresses my opinion and no one else’s. So if any of it offended you, you know whom to sue while I raise a toast to a job well done. Cheers!

From the April 2011 issue of FHM India.