...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
Over the life of this column, Miss Quit has acquired somewhat of a drunkard’s reputation. I can’t possibly imagine why. Besides the fact that the existence of this column rests largely on the episodes of confusion, embarrassment, and general disgrace that are made possible by social lubrication, there is absolutely no basis for these heinous accusations whatsoever.
Oh alright, so it's true. Actually, I’m proud. That’s right, proud. Sporadic, intense intoxication is not something this writer is ashamed of. You try giving something up every week. It would drive anyone to drink.
Disgruntled and (shock horror) sober, I refuse to apologise for fulfilling my right as a free woman to drink wine. Wine is happiness in a glass.
Jesus liked it, for God’s sake, and therefore it must be good. (He liked it so much, in fact, that he gave it to five thousand people. For free. And he threw in some fish too, for when they sobered up a bit and needed to line their stomachs. Yet you’ve never heard of anyone ever putting a health warning on the Bible.)
As the phrase What Would Jesus Do? takes on scary new meanings at the hands of this week’s quit, the (il)logic of the avid drinker surfaces. Once again. (And profuse apologies for any offence imparted by the above comment. Jesus was clearly very cool and an all-round great guy).
The full effect of the disease that is Third Year (dun dun dahhhh) has finally come to a head for me. From under the Everest-sized pile of work, 9.15s, essay deadlines, dissertation research, postgrad applications, and other time and energy-consuming activities, the very small window of time open for drowning such realities diminishes before one’s eyes with increasing rapidity. So much so that, quite without any effort, I have now been alcohol-free for nine whole days.
Nine!
It would seem that (course)work is indeed the curse of the drinking classes. Oh Oscar, you have no idea how resonant your words have become. (Mr.Wilde was another awesome guy. Not that I’m comparing him to Jesus or anything. They were both totally mind-blowing in different ways. The words ‘digging’ and ‘grave’ are becoming increasingly meaningful to me and so I shall stop this chronic abuse of bracketing).
Everywhere you look nowadays, we are warned against the effects of liquid poison. Ok, so we all know binge drinking is not the way to live a long and healthy life, and we’re not completely ignorant of the massive social problems that exist in this fair-but-admittedly-flawed country. Its not as if we don’t know we shouldn’t drink, it just seems to be less of a concern after the third vodka cocktail.
‘Twas not so in times of yore: as Euripides reasoned, Bacchus the God of Wine (may he be praised) blessed mankind with the liquid gift so it may forget its grief, receive good sleep, and enjoy with oblivion the troubles of the day.
Ah, the Ancient Greeks, why can’t our society be more like theirs? Without the awful fashion, of course. A girl needs more wardrobe options than a strategically placed dishtowel after all. Though you wouldn’t always know it, especially when surveying most females on a night out ‘on the lash’ (however much I hate that loathsome phrase, it is fitting).
Wine may be good for the heart, but it's lethal for the sartorial judgement, making you believe you can go out in minus-degree weather with no more outerwear between your strapless dress and frostbite than a threadbare cardigan.
Clearly, judging by the bizarre turns this argument has taken, a light-hearted lifestyle column is not the place to pore over the socio-political tensions of Great Britannia. In the place of serious social commentary, therefore, I will attempt to express the mentality of contemporary culture through the lesser known medium of the birthday card quote: "My ten favourite drinks are five gin and tonics."
And therein lies the conundrum. For we, and by ‘we’ I mean ‘I’, do not drink to forget our woes, so much as to realise where our real problems actually lie. Peer pressure – it’s a terrible thing.
In times of adversity, one may seek solace in the words of an old friend. Or in this case, those of a dead Prime Minister (Sir Winston Churchill’s, no less): "I may be drunk, but in the morning I shall be sober, whereas you will still be ugly." Gotta love that man.
Now there’s a drunk you can believe in.
For no matter how much it may hurt the next morning, the short-lived feeling of sheer, superficial contentment that can be found at the bottom of a glass must be worth enough to have become a cornerstone of ‘civilised’ life.
You are free to make of that loaded last sentence what you will. As for me, I can’t even make out the words on the screen anymore. Must be all those shots I’ve been downing over the past half hour.
Oh, hello green fairy, can you show me the way to the bar please…?
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