Whoa! I've just stumbled back onto this thread, (with much amusement) and would like to stand up now, tall and proud, stiff as a guardsman, and say "Hi, my names H, and I'm an aspiring alcoholic!".
I've never really understood why it's called the Demon Drink. Is it because of the Demons that you're drinking with, or is it because of the ones that come out of your bottom the next morning? Legion are the times I've embarrassed myself and others horribly, since starting out on this foamy road. Getting into bed, stinking drunk and naked, with my parents (who were up until then blissfully sound asleep) after a session at The Dolce Vita (ten strippers for the price of one, every alternate Wednesday) was probably when it all started. There was also the time they found me, and this must be a common tale, in the morning, sitting bolt upright on the sofa clutching a knife and fork with the contents of about six curry containers spread uniformly from my forehead to my bollocks, culminating in a chilli riddled puddle between my feet. Now that we're grown up though, things are different, aren't they?
A good adult game, if I remember correctly, is to visit a boozer (what the hell was the name of that brewery where 'Old Sphincter' was the premium ale?) with a 14 pound sledgehammer, reach Himalayan heights of inebriation, then try and hammer the parking meters outside into the ground. I can speak from experience here, and let you know that it guarantees a night on a very uncomfortable bed and an unearthly timed morning reveille. I also spent a similar evening retired dressed in a lime green, slightly see through nightie and very questionable underwear. Somebody surely has more facts than me on this one, but I can't find them.
I have to say though that LM has only limited opportunities for 'Oh crikey, the vicar' moments. I think this is because so many others are filling the lanes on the highway to oblivion. Why we get allowed back into the same hotel on Sundays every year is beyond me, and a testament to the tolerance of our French hosts. When the owner and his missus have to get up at about 3 am, dressed in their nightclothes, and carry you unconcious from the foot of the stairs to your room, then I think it reasonable to assume that they won't exactly be pleased to see you next year. But no! What on earth they think when they see us drive off, tooting and waving, 4 hours later is a mystery.
One of crew, Wor Geoff, managed to clear a large space around him in the grandstand, just as the cars were crossing the start finish line at the start of the race. People actually left their seats rather than stay and watch the pinnacle moment of the weekend. Now that has to be impressive. And I too would have been full of admiration had I not known that he was spending the weekend with me in a very small tent.
I'm always keen to discover something new though, and after a couple of years of Kir Royals on the first night I understand some rough cider is being considered for next year (normally I only use this stuff to keep the compost heap ticking over in the winter), and it would seem churlish not to get a couple of packs of Grimbergen in, if only so we can see Wor Geoff wrestle with Mr Arse again in the morning.
They're not kidding when they say motor racing is dangerous...
H
