Alcohol

We were driving through Woburn Sands one Sunday evening. Despite some cloud cover late afternoon, it was a sticky, balmy night; the type of night where you know that any sleep you actually get will be had without the use of even your thinnest summer duvet and that it will be just as hot in the morning.

Still, it was a pleasant enough evening for a social drink; not for us, however. With two little girls in the back of the car, both past their respective bedtimes and both out of sorts because of the heat, we were never going to partake in such a pre-children pastime, but as we drove through successive villages and small towns on the way home from the birthday party we'd been to in Dunstable, it did rather appeal.

As romantic and alluring as this image might well have appeared, it did provide a valuable lesson in how a pub's clientele can have a large bearing on how inviting your establishment might be to thirsty sun-worshippers. The pub in Woburn Sands is a large, distinctive building occupying a corner by a double roundabout, and whilst they've smartened up its exterior recently, it's always had the look and feel of one of those 'two meals for a fiver' kind of places; in other words, cheap and cheerful. But my impression was forever altered on that night owing to a group of well-groomed thirtysomethings sat at one of the outside tables sharing a bottle of red wine. In short, it created an image that appealed to me. It changed my perception of the pub from one of avoidance to acceptance since I could relate to the patrons; gone is the view that it's the kind of place where you can go and get tanked up on cheap vodka for a quid.

Further along the road we passed through Wavendon, a smaller cluster of houses mostly set away from the main road. Here too is a pub, a lovely old traditional-looking place that was recently given a new lease of life and makeover as a sleek gastropub. We've been meaning to go here for dinner for ages and the reviews have all been positive, but after passing by on that Sunday evening I'm no longer so keen.

In the precise mirror of the positive impression garnered from the gaggle of friends (weaned on Friends) outside the pub in Woburn Sands, the patron stood in the doorway of the pub in Wavendon served only to put me off and caused me to think that this wasn't a place that appealed to my sensibilities at all. He was a big, swarthy man, his expansive belly and man-boobs barely contained by his white wife-beater, from whose sides two flabby arms – covered in tattoos – protruded. In one huge hand he held a pint of lager and in the other a cigarette.

Now, I know appearances can be deceptive and he may well have been a perfectly nice individual. All I'm trying to say is that whereas the scene in Woburn Sands was inviting, something about this solitary figure was the opposite and I'd go so far as to say there was a certain incongruousness with what I know about that pub.

The purpose of this was to simply highlight that a pub's visible clientele act as a type of window dressing in much the same way that mannequins do in a shopfront display, and the way you dress your window can have a big impact on the way your establishment is perceived, irrespective of any preconceived ideas you may have about a place.

***

One of my colleagues is retiring, and my boss decided it would be a good idea – a nice gesture – to take him out for lunch to say thanks for his support over the years. Along with another colleague we went to a bar on the corner of Old Broad Street and Throgmorton Street called The Phoenix, which used to be a bank many years ago.

In as much as I barely ever used to go out after work for drinks before the girls were born, I used to find myself in The Phoenix from time to time for leaving dos or social drinks, but haven't been there for quite a few years. It was always popular since it had one major advantage and USP over any other pub locally – it was entirely non-smoking. Post the smoking ban that uniqueness has now gone and The Phoenix is more or less your traditional, Greene King watering hole. In the space of little more than an hour my manager – an overweight diabetic who is hardly the paragon of health and virtue – drank three pints of lager and spilt a further pint over the very person we were there to thank. Three pints would be challenge enough for me as I've never been able to hold my alcohol especially well, but he then went on to tell us that he recently met a friend after work and sank five pints in an hour. I thought his point was that this was somehow impressive; rather, he was trying to say that this made him a lightweight compared to his former, younger self.

After five pints – in fact, after two pints – I'd be a wreck, and it got me thinking about the embarrassing times I've been drunk, which I present here for everyone's amusement and to remind me of why I should never, ever, drink too much again. Please note that you will find no tales of debauched hedonism below, just pathetic drunkenness.

1. Just got dumped, Leamington 1994

A girl who I never should've got involved with dumped me unceremoniously on the morning of a work social event at a bowling alley in Leamington Spa. The way she decided things were over vexed me considerably, and I'd spent the afternoon listening to the same bleak Depeche Mode song on repeat. Fast forward to the evening and getting drunk with my colleagues and friends Jon and Steve seemed like a good way of putting it behind me. Little did I know at the time of booze's ability to make you really maudlin, or in the case of that day, to amplify how miserable I felt already that day. I recall Steve valiantly trying to cheer me up on the way back home and me telling him somewhat ungratefully that if he didn't stop I'd hit him. I've never drunk while depressed since.

2. My eighteenth birthday, September 1994

For my eighteenth, I arranged drinks with various people who for the purposes of that evening were 'friends' at The Encore and then The Falcon in my hometown of Stratford. This being my first opportunity to drink legally in earnest, I recall not wanting to overdo it, and I probably had no more than three drinks – all cider – across the whole night. I use the word 'night' somewhat hesitantly, as I was out for no more than an hour and a half; at The Falcon, a girl next to me lit a cigarette, the smoke went right up my nose and I was sick all down myself, in front of those supposed friends and causing much embarrassment at school on the following Monday. I maintain that it was the cigarette smoke and not that I was drunk, as I'm sure I wasn't. I was home that night before my parents had even cleared the table from the birthday meal I'd enjoyed before going out. This was the first of three public examples I'll recount of embarrassment relating to alcohol, all of which I'm deeply ashamed of now.

3. Sick in my mouth, New Year 1994

I had a huge crush on a girl in the year below me in my last year at high school. She was a very sweet and innocent girl, and I would think about her constantly. To my amazement, she thought I was okay too, and we shared an awkward snog on the way back from the sixth form Christmas Party where she'd gone as my date. (This, I should add, was in defiance of the threats from her older brother – and the on-off boyfriend of the girl who dumped me above – to beat me up if I laid a finger on her; he was a stoner, and I didn’t feel especially scared.)

Fast-forward a fortnight to New Year’s Eve the same year, and I find myself at a party at her house with some friends. After a while, everyone gets a little restless, so we decide to order some cabs to take us into town and, while we're waiting, we go for a drink at the pub over the road. I down a pint too quickly because the taxis arrive earlier than expected, and I'm promptly sick in my mouth. I'm ashamed to say that I snogged her again that night, in spite of vomiting, and by the time we were back at school after the Christmas holidays, she'd gone off with the guy who took over from me as Head Boy, and I don't blame her at all. Second-hand smoke is one thing; second-hand vomit is an entirely different matter.

4. The first time I was pathetically drunk, August 1995

My first pathetic drunken experience came the summer before heading off to university. I'd gone to The Wildmoor, a nightclub just outside Stratford, and simply drank too much. No pretext, no particular reason, just good old-fashioned over-indulgence.

After doing that jejune 'can't get the key in the lock' thing, I walked into the lounge only to find my parents and sister still in front of the TV, and I hopelessly tried to convey a confident sobriety. I mistakenly recalled some advice about drinking milk to stop you being sick thinking that it worked after drinking, so sank a pint of semi-skimmed and was promptly sick in my parents' kitchen sink, apologising to my mum for some reason whilst doing so. To my eternal ignominy, my sister produced the same orange plastic bowl mum used to put by my bed when I was sick as a child and set it down in front of me where I was now curled up in a ball on the floor.

Laughing wryly and tut-tutting, my parents retreated to bed, leaving me uttering fraudulent assurances that I'd never drink again. My sister and I stayed up and watched a Wombles video and she nursed my hangover the following morning with the best omelette I've ever tasted.

5. The hangover at university that lasted a month, April 1996

Arriving at the University of Essex in 1995, I adopted a stance of enforced abstemiousness and for the first few months I avoided booze entirely. I was in that formative stage, forming new relationships and trying to find myself and my place in the world. My outlook and friendships coalesced toward the end of the first term and I let my hair down a little. By the second term I was living about as hedonistically as I ever will (i.e. more than I'd ordinarily been accustomed to by that point, but far less than most people). I don't recall the night that preceded my worst-ever hangover, but I do recall the hangover vividly because the feeling that I'd encased my head in a block of concrete during the evening's shenanigans seemed to last for weeks, during which period I couldn't face alcohol and the abstention returned. Not for the first time did I consider that I wasn't really cut out for that lifestyle.

6. Colchester Arts Centre, Valentine's Day 1997

My ex-girlfriend decided that it was perfectly acceptable to spend our first Valentine's Day apart; she wanted to go out with her friends in the evening to celebrate a birthday, so I decided to go into Colchester that night with my housemates Neil and Barry.

We went to a pub on the high street, stuck some good songs on the jukebox and I drank my way through several Moscow Mules. We then walked up to Colchester Arts Centre for their regular indie night. Within seconds of walking in there, I felt queasy and was promptly sick all over myself. Shameful as of course this was, I was wearing white jeans that night, which is perhaps altogether more embarrassing.

Neil decided to take me home, and we picked up a taxi from a rank on the high street. After pulling away the driver commented that he thought I looked like I was going to be sick and threw us out again, charging the full fare anyway. So we walked, or rather Neil walked and I staggered. Apparently I tried to curl up and fall asleep outside my favourite record shop, but I don't remember that.

7. Drunk at The Peveril Hotel, July 1999

I graduated from Essex in 1998 and my then-girlfriend and I moved away from the brick and concrete topography of the campus and all that went with it. I wanted to cut everything from that period off, she still wanted it, and so we wound up going to the University summer ball in 1999. Dredging up the past and witnessing the simpering idolatry my girlfriend proffered to her old University friends prompted me to get hopelessly inebriated, and I was subsequently violently sick in the bathroom at our hotel. I believe this was the first time I lost my stomach lining and I felt sufficiently rough on the following Monday to have to take time off work with, ahem, a stomach bug. That’s the one and only time I’ve missed work through being hung over.

8. The Friday before we moved house, March 2003

The third of my 'public embarrassments' and the one I'm most ashamed of. Unusually, I found myself in a bar called 1 Of 2 (now The Wall) next to our offices on a Friday evening; I don't recall if there was an occasion, but I do know that it was ill-timed, as it meant Michelle was at home packing up for the house move we were undertaking on the Monday. A colleague plied me with pints of Kirin, and got me so hammered that to this day I don't know how I got back to Moorgate for the Thameslink train home.

What I do know is that I was standing by the doors of the train opposite a couple of Chinese tourists and just after we'd stopped at Kings Cross I threw up on the floor. The Chinese couple gasped in horror and I think moved away from the wino prone to public vomiting. I call this my absolute rock bottom with drinking, and since then I've never had more than one drink at work functions for fear of making a drunken arse of myself. So utterly shameful.

9. After my grandmother's funeral, August 2004

My maternal grandmother passed away in August 2004 and I decided to do a reading at her funeral, out of a sense of guilt at not having seen her for a long time rather than duty.

Afterwards we went to a golf club for a reception and I spoke to my cousins for the first time in years. I was so absorbed in reacquainting myself with them that I didn't notice them continuously re-filling my wine glass. Unusually, for me, I didn't feel the slightest bit worse for wear... until we left the golf club, stepped outside and the fresh air hit me. I passed out in the car, woke up again when we got to my parents', was sick in their bathroom and spent the entire afternoon slumped over a chair on their patio, totally out for the count. To my chagrin, I found myself hugging the porcelain telling my mum that I was sorry, just like I’d done nearly ten years before.

10. 'I did not piss in a bin!' Prague 2003

My wife and I went to Prague with Steve (he of the post-dumping efforts to cheer me up) and his girlfriend Tina just before Christmas in 2003. We stayed at the Corinthia Towers hotel and, because of their business running a successful online travel agency, we had rooms on the executive floor; this allowed us access to the executive lounge, which provided access to free drinks and canapés in the early evening. We made good use of this while we were there, but I made rather too much use of the drink one night before we headed downstairs for dinner. Midway through the meal I staggered to the gents' where I swear on my life I saw another hotel guest taking a leak in a bin rather than a urinal.

Rushing back to the table, my inability to describe this guest and the fact that I was the only person to emerge from the toilets leant credence to the fact that in fact it was me who took a leak in the bin; for the rest of the meal and the trip I was forced to emphatically state that it was not me. Even now Tina still insists it was me.

Just between you and me, I'm not so sure it wasn't me, but don't tell Tina.

05/11/08 : Taking the girls to London

Growing up, I yearned for my parents to take my sister and I to London; in the midst of the IRA threat hanging over into the 1980s, I can understand their apprehension. A similar feeling of nervousness pervaded our plans to take Seren and Freya to London today - since July 7 2005 I have used the Underground daily, but the prospect of taking our two precious children onto the network somehow still seems a difficult decision, even three-plus years on.

We make an annual pilgrimage to Harrods, simply to visit the Christmas department. Seren came with us for the first time last year, and this year it was Freya's turn to see the magical pinnacle of festive commerce (at eight months it doesn't make sense, but that's not the point). The destination aside - it makes me feel like I'm a short-sighted tourist - I'm keen that our girls experience London regularly from an early age, and if that means starting with an obvious place, so be it.

The day in Knightsbridge's biggest draw provided three, perhaps obvious, conclusions.

The first is that threats of Tube terrorism as a reason for not using the Underground should be secondary to the actual act of traversing London using a transport system that is far from buggy-friendly, unless you wish to carry your pushchair up the numerous steps you walk down every day as a commuter, but which are nigh on impossible with small kids. With a heavy double buggy, it's even harder. But we managed it, and I even got a minor work-out too. It was worth it anyway just to see the look on Seren's face as we whizzed through tunnels. Furthermore judging by the smiles she and Freya were receiving from the other passengers, it's made me realise that kids aren't loathed on the Underground after all.

The second conclusion was perhaps inevitable : kids love toy departments and Christmas decorations. After being stuck in her buggy most of the morning, Seren was in her element running round and picking object after object up squealing 'Look at this mummy! Look at this daddy!'. I've never seen her so excited. They say children make parents feel younger, and that was certainly the case here.

The final conclusion came when both Seren and Freya fell asleep in the taxi back to Euston : London is tiring. Even as a commuter, making the trip to London most days in the week, I was shattered at night, and we'd only actually been there for a few hours.