When the Puritanical hat slips…

I am rubbish at drinking. I do like to drink, in fact I love the idea of having a drink, I join in with all the drinking banter pretending I even know what Prinks are. But it’s all a cunning façade as I am pants at drinking. Believe me I’ve tried to be good at it. I’ve practised a lot over the years. But there is a Presbyterian puritanical gene that’s clearly been passed down from my forefathers which makes me all sensible where alcohol is concerned.  I realise now that this gene is there to protect me from myself and others from me when I’m drunk. It would help if this gene would also surface when I’m making much more significant life choices (like the time I married a psychopath, 1st husband, obvs!)

As such, I am genuinely terrified of going out to functions which require copious amounts of drinking; this is not helped by my other affliction of FOMO and the inability to say no, to anything (other than my husband). But my major problem is my inability to drink more than a thimble-full of Prosecco without making questionable decisions. Unfortunately I can’t blame Prosecco drinking on my choice of psychopathic husband as Italians hadn’t started sharing it with us way back then!

So, donning my Puritanical Hat (metaphorically, as we all know I look shit in a hat) I decided that on this particular occasion my pre-evening mantra was “I’m not drinking a drop until I’ve eaten the delicious vegetarian option that will have been lovingly mass-catered for me. Moreover, I absolutely WILL NOT drink Prosecco at ANY point as it’s the Devil’s drink and at best makes me vomit and at its worst makes me fling myself, limpet-like at people. In fact, I decided,  I’ll go one step further and I’ll make a puritanical vow to only let soda water pass my lips ALL evening as I am, after all, a paragon of sensibility (what with my DNA being all Puritanical Presbyterian ) and alcohol is the work of the Devil…

“Evening Bethan! Wow, I barely recognised you, blimey, I can’t get over how different you look out of Lycra, you look, well, so, erm, so lovely (roughly translated as ‘you normally look like a bag of shite!’) “What would you like to drink?”

Reminds myself of my Presbyterian mantra and how important it is I don’t succumb to the EVILS of Prosecco and inevitable demise into debauchery (including veggie-vomiting into closest available sanitary ware)
“Ooh, yes thanks, a bottle of your finest Prosecco for me please!”

God. Forgive me, for I have sinned (or am probably about to)

Some things that I dislike with a passion: dancing; xenophobic accent mimicking; Evangelical tambourine bashing; close personal contact; vomiting, either the doing of OR observing of; picking up dog shit

Some things the Prosecco made me do: Mum-dancing; Welsh xenophobic accent mimicking and banal story telling; Evangelical tambourine bashing while shouting ‘Hallelujah’; inappropriate personal contact piggy-backing; sink-vomiting; dog shit cleaning up (from the kitchen floor)

Timeline of my Prosecco-fuelled decline:

Text from daughter “I’ve gone home, please be careful not to take someone’s eye out ” it seems the Evangelical tambourine bashing while ‘Mum Dancing’ was a step too far

Message from work colleague “Wow, I never knew you were so Welsh; I mean, I could barely understand what you were saying your ‘new to me’ Welsh accent was so thick…but yes, I will visit Cardiff and your Uncle Maldwyn’s  textile shop (which you said isn’t actually there anymore) and pay homage to his services to the Welsh Textile Industry for which he was awarded an MBE (from the King, former that is, not ‘in waiting’) and then of course I’ll visit the National Library of Wales and see if the Bust of your Grandfather, the Welsh Presbyterian Minister is still there (it’s not) and anyway, weren’t you actually born in Macclesfied, in Cheshire?…”

Message from me to lift-home friend “Did you actually know that man who got in the car with us? Oh, you do, he’s your neighbour is he? The one whose back I leaped upon (marine mollusc-like) after first hitching my skirt up around my waist, then taking a running jump and then repeating over and over to him how lovely he smelled (well, he did and we Puritans must not lie!) as he carried me across the car park to your car. And was that his wife who was watching on? Oh dear God, it was wasn’t it…”

Why vomit down a loo when there’s a sink? Because the mass-catered vegetarian food bits don’t get stuck down the loo, that’s why! Thankfully husband number 2 isn’t a psychopath but is a very, very nice man who doesn’t mind unblocking regurgitated nut cutlets from plug holes….

And whose bloody idea was it to get a dog in the first place? And a massive one at that which means he produces log-sized poos. Oh, yes, mine! So, where’s the Dettox then, I think I can clean up poo with one hand while catching veggie-vomit in the other…

I think this is what my forefathers would have called divine retribution and what my husband calls “I told you so…” although he’s far too nice to say the words, he just gives me the ‘D for Disappointed’ look and reminds me that he didn’t quite manage to remove ALL of the nuts from the plug hole…oh and the dog’s just done another massive poo and seeing as I’ve got my shoes on…

A psychopath he is not, nor is he anyone’s fool…unlike someone else I know…





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