Friday, 29 April 2016
Hanging around in a pub by myself seemed weird when I was a lanky, skinny, underaged drinker. And when I first became age compliant. Drinking in the pub was something you did with your mates. Failing that, with equally desperate colleagues. Or your anyone sharing your house that wasn't likely to leave a still throbbing body on Woodhouse moor.
I had a couple of uncomfortable solo sessions in Leeds. Not that I told my friends. Or what I now realise were just the people too polite to tell me to fuck off. It never felt right.
When I extended my isolation to foreign off-fucking, I discovered the joy of solo drinking. No need to pretend to pay attention to your tedious companion. Just you, the bar, booze and, er, more booze.
The moments I treasure when travelling? When my belly and a bar battle guts. Scribbling notes on the back of my travel maps. Writing whatever bollocks comes into my head. The Laphroaig nightcaps. Yes the Laphroaig nightcaps.