More to Life

Booze Cruising with the Colonel

reported by everyones favourite swinger…Maxwell Woodger Esq
Monday, 28 November 2005

Digesting a lovely vegetarian curry and smoking a fruity hookah pipe, I watched the screen with glazed eyes. A pile of dirty dishes were strewn between the table, couch, desk and sink, and ash had slipped and crumbled onto the carpet. In this decadent yet resolved décor, not much could bother me except the taxman or a sudden drop in body lotion stock.

However, the late night news report suddenly made the sweet fumes turn sour and my belly ache: Colonel Qaddafi was sitting cross-legged with a fly-swat in his hand brushing away all accusations of misdoings and general evil behaviour in regards the 5 Bulgarian nurses sentenced to death in Libya!

The dirty devil hid behind his counterfeit Dior sunglasses, and bad face-lift as the journalist pressed him for an explanation. Apparently the Colonel was slapping the blame for a botched bit of chemical skulduggery on these health workers from abroad. Libya was always a dodgy place to book a holiday, but these were members of an honest organisation- one which served and saved the People- Not some 18-30 Club Rep death squad.

So, what do you do?

This was one too many late night shocks for my liking, plus Khadhafi’s military outfit was far too loud for my flatscreen pixels to deal with. The World was going to shit with people dressed like that in power! Surely he was an open target with camouflaged colours like that? Unless the Colonel spent all his free time at carnivals and Mardi Gras conventions..? Ummm…

In any case, there wasn’t much I could do about it at this ungodly hour. I needed a drink! I grabbed my coat and hit the cold slippery streets. No-one around and no noise; just a dimly lit avenue with stray cats for company… Any serious alcky would be getting the shakes when left with these kind of prospects for a bevy. Heavy breathing and bloodshot eyes on a junkie for the tipple, as he stalks the streets armed with a scratched up lighter used to open many a bottle in the dark!

Of all my years frequenting the fountains of fermented fun in various pubs, clubs and bars, I’ve never understood the English way of handling this customer service. If they aren’t imposing ever increasing taxes, or revoking licences from family-owned venues, the fuzz is prowling the streets in huge armoured paddy wagons looking for an easy quota level of arrests to make! It’s shameful.

However, any foreigner will let you know that an Englishman cannot hold his drink (with the obvious exception being Americans who down Proof piss by the litre!). Plus, being the great socialite he is, anything that might enhance the Englishman’s bear hug grip of friendship on a stranger, or push him to prove the Eurovision judges wrong with his odes and ballads of football rivalry, must be stopped!

Last orders at the bar, mate! That’s right- Get outta my public house and go urinate elsewhere!

It’s a harsh reality every Englishman must face.

So, where does that leave me and the alcoholics, eh?

Well, firstly, I’m not an alcoholic… Just a man who is a little tired and emotional about Global affairs. And anyway, I know where to find the nectar of the gods if needs be: Libya.

Why of course! If Qaddafi can parade himself on 24 hour news networks dressed like Trinny or Susanna on ketamine, and falsely condemn innocent people of chemical injunctures, he must be sipping the right syrup. To my knowledge, the camel is King in the desert because it carries water. So, with his garish looks, enormous hump against society and desert storm dress code, Khadhafi must have something in his drinks cabinet..?

Maxwell Woodger Esq