posh and becks

We went to a piss up work do on Friday night. One of M's long-tome colleagues was retiring and the company credit card was put on the bar to bide him farewell.

They had lots of plates of nibblies passed around. There were yummy prawns and calamari and fish with assorted dipping sauces. There were samosas and spring rolls and rice paper parcels. There were sarnies and party pies and sausage rolls. They produced a couple of splendid fruit platters.

And there was beer.

There was also wine and assorted mixers, but I was mainly interested in the beer.

I very rarely drink and, on the odd occasion that I do, it is usually Export (Yes, I know it is gin's piss, but I like it. OK!). Even more rarely, I will enjoy the odd Captain Morgan. But, on Friday night, it was beer. Becks beer.

I don't think I quite drank the tap dry, but I gave it my best shot. I drank much beer. Very much beer.

They say that you don't have to be Posh to suck on a Becks. By the end of the night, posh was definitely one thing I was not. I can remember going through that nice buzzy fuzzy stage. I can remember getting to the bold and loud-mouth stage. I can remember sitting on Bruce's knee and getting D&M with Tina. I can vaguely recall telling sheep jokes to Kiwi Evan and groping John's arse. I can sort of remember giggling with Lyn in the dunnies, offering her my husband for an affair and realising I was totally maggoted. Sometime during the evening I acquired Pommie Evan's car keys and wallet but I have absolutely no recollection of how that happened.

This is why I so rarely drink. I like drinking. I like it way too much. I have great difficulty stopping at just one or two. When I drink I am inclined to drink lots. And I get quite untidy.

On Friday I was definitely pissed. (I had a couple of long conversations with the big porcelain telephone during the night and this confirmed my piss-ed-ness.) I woke up the next morning knowing that nothing but Macca's would cure what ailed me. A sure sign of way too much beer.

When I was younger, I used to party hard with no repercussions. I could tie one on and be up for work the next day, bright eyed and bushy tailed. These day, on the increasingly rare occasion that I indulge, it takes me a long long time to feel better normal again. I spent most of the weekend dozing and recovering.

We have another farewell dinner coming up and quite a few of the people that were at Friday's do will be there too. *cringe* I wonder if Pauline will have forgotten what I said about her husband's bum by then.