“I got drunk and…” is the prelude to many a good drinking story.
I still look back with fondness on the time when at about 2am in the morning after a Saturday night out in 2002, part of it spent in Alberry’s, I decided to have a rest on a bench outside Barclay’s Bank in St George’s.
After a period of time, the length of which I have no idea, I was woken up by four grinning police officers, one of whom asked: “Have you got a home to go to?”
I had to sheepishly explain that it was in Dover Street next to the old William Hill there opposite what was then Bar Extreme – some 300 or 400 yards away.
Another time, I crashed on the sofa of a friend’s house in Wincheap and was told immediately in the morning that everyone was going for a fry-up.
With a heavy head, I jumped into the back of a car.
Upon arriving, I went up to the counter to give my order to a woman who bore a panicked almost frightened look. A few minutes later she came over and said: “You’ve got no idea what’s on your face, have you?”
A quick look in the cafe’s downstairs toilet mirror revealed the presence of a large black Swastika on my forehead.
Cue much mirth upstairs as I returned – particularly from a table of builders.
But news recently reached me of another astonishing drunken episode.
A friend went out in central Canterbury and returned home in high spirits, poured himself a drink and went on to the internet.
And before you get ahead of yourself, no he did not visit gentlemen’s interest sites. Rather, he was looking at property. Properties in Bulgaria to be precise.
“I got drunk last night and,” said the croaky voice on the other end of the telephone to me, “and bought a house in Bulgaria.”
I wish I could say that was the end of the story, but it’s not.
My friend went out on another night which ended in exactly the same way: with the purchase of a property in Bulgaria…