Pink, Fluffy Treacle

You just can't work without your brain.

Apparently it's very important.

It helps you avoid having to ask embarrassing questions such as 'Where am I?' and more importantly, 'Where are my trousers?', when you awake in the morning ... or more likely, the afternoon ... after a good night out!

We've all been there, haven't we?  I know I have ... in my dark and distant past, that is.

You wake up in the morning (insert time of your choosing) and the synapse's, seemingly coated with pink fluffy, yet treacle like substance, bicker and argue as to which of them is responsible for accessing that fragment of memory that will fill in all the blanks of the previous evenings events.

Shame contorts the face with each and every recollection.

The traffic cone, for instance. Did it really fit into such a small hole? How on earth did I manage to walk home afterwards?

I remember ... although considering the amount of alcohol involved, perhaps I shouldn't ... when I was 19.  It was just a few weeks before Christmas, 1978.

It began, so my charge sheet said, with a drinking competition. It didn't say whether I won or not, just that I took part.  Such games usually involves drinking several pints of beer, each followed by a shot of something vile.

Afterwards, my charge sheet continued, there was a fight over a blonde woman with very few teeth. I have no idea who she was but that would explain my bruised ribs, black eye and very, very sore knuckles. My charge sheet clearly stated that I got my head kicked in. The military police appeared to have gloated over this fact as it was written in red ink and underlined several times.

My night ended, and the MP investigation began, with an irate German taxi driver throwing me out of his vomit filled vehicle into a snow covered rose bed outside the barracks main guardroom.

The bastards left me there for 30 minutes!

Anyway, they eventually dragged me in and threw me into a cell and got a doctor to check me over.

From that day on, having had to pay a large fine, damages and cleaning bills, having my Christmas holidays cancelled (after having paid for the flight home already) and 14 days day-on-day-off guard duty, I gave up drinking!

And I haven't drank since ... unless you count a glass of bubbly at New Year or a lager shandy with a meal as real drinking.

Since giving up real  drinking, I only have one regret.

I used to love a glass or two of Jamaican rum.

Now, after so many years of abstinence, the smell of it makes me feel ill.

But, when all is said and done, I do know where I am when I wake up and I never have to ask anyone if they know what happened to my trousers!