This being summer and with Rolling Sloane being a surprisingly popular wedding guest (apparently the desire for gifts more than outweighs the hefty bar tab), a fair bit of this past weekend was spent in the back of various taxis. In spite of being a bit of a drunken ass (as my grandmother once told me: “well, you can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning” –I’m still that not sure if this was lifestyle advice or criticism), by making use of taxis all day I was being a (shockingly) responsible adult. Sure, the man in the red trousers may have upset some exes (think Hugh Grant’s character at the Scottish reception table in Four Weddings and Funeral only completely lacking any decorum or possessing even a modicum of tact), told some girl that she would have been much more attractive had I been blind or her eyes not been brown (whilst dipping her on the dance floor nonetheless), promoted the use of a sink as a urinal to prevent some clearly unnecessary queuing in the men’s room (basic logistics really, no thanks necessary), and performed what could only be described as a bit of an involuntary Dudley Moore impression (all while thinking I was bit Roger Moore as 007). One ex-girlfriend commented that I obviously hadn’t grown up. While not really wanting to delve into that subject, I can say that my love of an open bar (especially in awkward situations) has nothing to do with any perceived lack of maturity (that would be my not wanting children and the inherent ability of men to lead a prolonged adolescence relative to women- it must suck that nature somehow saw fit not to grant women this frankly awesome trait of getting more attractive to the opposite sex as we age, but men cannot achieve multiple orgasms-). Drinking heavily when the booze free or cheap (basic economics dictate a rise in demand when supply is unconstrained- hence my ownership of a kegerator/end table) and enjoying the odd cigar is just me doing my part to help out with natures grand plan (or I possess some sort of major character flaw –well yet another one- which can be masked by my general cheapness –or manifests itself in the corner of a room between two sofas because of it). However, since I didn’t just have a couple of glasses wine before getting behind the wheel of a car, I was a model citizen compared to those “pariahs”.
Ok, so this is not going to be an attack on the draconian drink-driving laws around the world, but I will say that for any motorist who values their future ability to drive (really the ability to be able to get insurance which one can actually afford) to not bother attempting to circumvent said laws (however unjust and scientifically wrong they may be). I know (although, not through first-hand experience) that it is just not worth it, so take a damned taxi when you drink. I took three of them on Saturday; a comfortable newer people-carrier taxi, the second I don’t particularly remember, and one, which was basically your classic old cab. Some were nice, one of the drivers was particularly chatty, and all were better than a ride to jail in the back of the Paddy Wagon (there may have to be a guest review covering that subject, since I have somehow missed out on that life experience -so far). Suffice it to say that it is better to be sorry for your actions than because of them. It’s not like I didn’t wake-up with a good-looking blonde and a slender redhead in the bed with me; two golden retrievers wanting their breakfast is a far better way to start one’s Sunday than coming-to in a padded cell (or so I’ve been told). Rolling Sloane is going to be back on form later in the week with a review of the excellent new Jeep Grand Cherokee plus an editorial on the parallels between Swedish cars and safer sex.
