Varna. Again. I need something better to do. I certainly need something better to drink, as the beer/wine combination isn’t working. A bar-keep friend waves me round the corner, whereby he cracks open a small bottle of tequila. Suddenly I’m having flashbacks, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place and he thrusts me a shot glass.
The drunkest I have ever been in my life was as a direct result of tequila. Wind the clock back some twelve years, December, and an after show party at the Citizens Theatre, Glasgow. As drama students, we had just assisted with a pantomime for the past few weeks, and they’d laid on a free bar to celebrate the close of the run. Therein lies their first mistake. Now everyone has a tequila story, and everyone who has a tequila story most likely, like myself, has never drank the god awful stuff again. Even the very name of this vile liquid tickles my sick trigger. Smelling it has me retching within seconds. My tequila story comes from lining up seven in a row at this free bar, then knocking them all back in one go. It is the only time in my life, I assure you dear readers, where I have fallen over under the influence. I staggered back in a heap in front of peers and prospective future employers, the idiotic smashed grin of the imbecile smeared across my face. I was lucky it was Christmas and I wasn’t alone.
So here was my friend holding out a shot of the devils own drink for me. Such is the damaging impact of not having anything over 20% for nearly a week (oh woe is me, cry me a river), I opt to put my bitter hatred for the concoction aside and indulge. It is just the one after all. I then spend the next few minutes gloating to people that I’ve had a tequila. The green faces of envy convince me that prohibition is squeezing, and the Czech Republic is in a stranglehold. “The more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers” said Princess Leia. It’s only a matter of time before the riots.
Tequila story
Varna. Again. I need something better to do. I certainly need something better to drink, as the beer/wine combination isn’t working. A bar-keep friend waves me round the corner, whereby he cracks open a small bottle of tequila. Suddenly I’m having flashbacks, I’m caught between a rock and a hard place and he thrusts me a shot glass.
The drunkest I have ever been in my life was as a direct result of tequila. Wind the clock back some twelve years, December, and an after show party at the Citizens Theatre, Glasgow. As drama students, we had just assisted with a pantomime for the past few weeks, and they’d laid on a free bar to celebrate the close of the run. Therein lies their first mistake. Now everyone has a tequila story, and everyone who has a tequila story most likely, like myself, has never drank the god awful stuff again. Even the very name of this vile liquid tickles my sick trigger. Smelling it has me retching within seconds. My tequila story comes from lining up seven in a row at this free bar, then knocking them all back in one go. It is the only time in my life, I assure you dear readers, where I have fallen over under the influence. I staggered back in a heap in front of peers and prospective future employers, the idiotic smashed grin of the imbecile smeared across my face. I was lucky it was Christmas and I wasn’t alone.
So here was my friend holding out a shot of the devils own drink for me. Such is the damaging impact of not having anything over 20% for nearly a week (oh woe is me, cry me a river), I opt to put my bitter hatred for the concoction aside and indulge. It is just the one after all. I then spend the next few minutes gloating to people that I’ve had a tequila. The green faces of envy convince me that prohibition is squeezing, and the Czech Republic is in a stranglehold. “The more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers” said Princess Leia. It’s only a matter of time before the riots.