Easter weekend: assualt of the liver

Emerging from the bank holiday weekend like a survivor of a nuclear attack, dazed, confused and fairly sure that my body has been poisoned, I am hereby swearing off even being in the same room as an alcoholic beverage for the rest of my existence. From now on I shall consume nothing but wheatgrass and vegetables handpicked by Jesus.

Trying to piece together what happened seems to be a fruitless exercise, but rummaging through the pockets of my torn, shit-stained jeans I can surmise from the comically lengthy receipts that I have spent this year’s bonus on lager, shots of sambuca and enough rum to kill a bull elephant.

One fuzzy memory to emerge from the whole debacle, like a wounded soldier from a jungle of pain, is stumbling into a bar in Soho that appeared to be run entirely by vampires. The tables were, I shit you not, fashioned from coffins, everything was painted dirty black and the toilets were an unspeakable horror. This hell hole of depravity was called Garlic and Shots, and was populated by Goths and various other sub-cultures who choose to make a statement to society about avoiding the mainstream and individuality by all dressing exactly the same and pushing lumps of metal through their face. So my falling into the establishment and, shouting over the death metal, ordering a glass on chardonnay in a posh, Surrey accent went down like a fart in a space suit. I can say with a degree of confidence that nobody had ever ordered anything close to wine in the place before. The look of the face of the bar maid was so confused it clinked.

At some point in the evening, one of our group bought a round of something called ‘blood shots’. This was a mistake of significant magnitude. Consisting of tabasco, chilli, garlic and alcohol, I am still struggling to comprehend how anyone could believe this would ever be purchased for consumption, as opposed to, say, military use. The thing tasted like a thousand poisonous ants had mistaken my throat, lips and stomach for a very serious threat. The burning was accompanied by an intense wave of nausea as lumps of garlic hit the congealed contents of my stomach, that had by this stage not received any form of sustenance beyond pork scratchings and cigarettes for days. How I managed to prevent myself from projectile vomiting over the table is a miracle to rival a resurrection.

So having learnt from this unholy episode and the chronic agony that has resulted from it, I begin a new chapter of innocence and purity. I will set my alarm for an early morning jog tomorrow and shall start injecting pureed super foods directly into my veins. This can’t possibly go wrong.