When I opened my eyes I found myself looking at shimmering golden biled water at the bottom of a china white eliptical valley, such beauty until I noticed the Royal Doulton crest and became conscious of the fact that I was dry reaching into the toilet. Usually I ensure that I have enough alcoholic drink the night before so as to avoid this body wrenching withdrawel process but fell asleep in my swivel and rock because I got the Ibuprofen mixed up with the Rohypnol. My body was locked in a long arched mid convulse which made my ears pop and my eyes bulge to the point of detaching themselves from their retinas, explosion was near and the only relief was a violent ninety second fart which woke Mrs Treadders. ‘Are you alright darling?’ The sound of her annoying Germanic tinged accent allowed me to complete my convulsion with the final heave and eject the last dribble of bile. ‘Does it sound like it you stupid cow! You must have poisoned me with your apology of a meal last night, phone work for me and tell them you’ve given me food poisening!’ I heard her get up and scuttle downstairs to make the call, sweat was pouring profusely from every pore in my body and I crawled back to bed to let the mattress soak it up ensuring I lay on her side of the double divan.
The house was dry of alcohol and I’d passed the point of no return, it was to my reckoning about six thirty and the fear was permeating my DNA to the extent I was fear, delerium tremens was only a nerve ending away. I was physically tired after my wretching and drifted into the first phase which was a conscious dream like state of sexually driven macabre hallucinatory surreality. I had carved off the outer labia of a huge pied sow and was trying to super glue them to my lips when Mrs Treadders appeared with a one thousand five hundred piece jigsaw of a Canadian sawmill, ‘Thought this would keep you amused if your going to stay in bed’, ‘I’d rather stick pigs labia on my face’ I replied, she looked slightly bemused and said she was going to get ready for the coffee morning she had planned for her dullard lame duck friends. Every time the blood pumped through my temples the bedroomed dimmed, I heard the door slam shut, when I looked it was open, auditory hallucination was paying a visit also. My mothers voice whispered ‘Gimble…….Gimble’ in my left ear while my fat robot secretary read the minutes of yesterdays meeting in my right. ‘This just won’t do’ I said out loud and trembled my way out of bed, put my dressing gown on and sat on the side of the bed to think of a plan. Alcohol was the only solution, the village shop was open at eight thirty, it seemed like an Everest away but it had to be done or else my mind told me I was going to die.
I had become devoid of all rationality and slipped my brogues on to my bare feet and left the house in my dressing gown on a quest to liberate myself from insanity. Booze was only a three hundred yard walk away, the normies where driving their little cloven hoofed offspring to school, there was a slight drizzle in the air and a cool breeze refreshed my bare legs as I staggered toward the shop doorway. ‘Morning Mr Treadmill, just got up?’ ‘No! just got ready for bed and forgot my nightcap, give me five bottles of Sherry and some pork scratchings’ I left the shop and ignored the middle class looks and whispers, judgemental bastards. I immediatly cracked open the first bottle and drank it while walking along the high street on my way to the deserted cricket green and made myself comfortable on a bench in the pavillion. Sherry is a good one to get started on, warming and nourishing, easy to drink and soothing to the sore rasped gullet that had been in a state of bodily fluid rejection earlier. It stayed down beautifully and after the third bottle watching the drizzle turn to proper English rain I was beginning to function again. I marvelled at the way I felt, happy, relaxed and in good spirits, so much so I thought I’d go home, have a bath and spend the rest of the day in an obscure pub where I wasn’t known too well and get right royal pissed, an unplanned day off, the best!
On my return Mrs Treadders said ‘Where have you been?’ in such an abrupt way I had no option other than to poke her in the eye. I apologised and said it was an accident as I took the keys to the V12 5.4 Jag and drove out for the day with two bottles of Sherry in the glove box for the journey. The horrors of early morning were all but a bad memory, the sun was poking its little head through the clouds as I drove off into the green and pleasant pastures of rural England with Jerusalem playing on my tape player. I sank back into the Antelope leather and promised myself I would never make the mistake of not having enough to drink again……..never again!
