Saturday, 11 July 2009

24: A world without Beer: Weeks 3-4

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.

Well, I thought i'd combine weeks three and four so that there's at least one less post with me whining about wanting beer. Besides, not a lot really happened last week, as I'm so busy with work I almost don't have time to get blisteringly drunk. Not that I don't want to.

So, I'm now four weeks into this self-imposed exile, and I would willingly sell my left leg for a bottle of Chardonnay. Which I'll admit is bizarre as I'm actually choosing to abstain, and technically I could drink whenever I like.

It's not that I'm itching to get drunk as such, it's more that I'm just so bored of being sober. Me and my better half popped down to Exeter last Sunday to catch up with my sister. So we walked around the town centre for a bit, then went into a Wetherspoons for something to eat. So there's me on diet Pepsi, my sister on J2O (as she's expecting a wee-one), and our lass went for the Brown. Even then I wasn't that tempted to cave in and have a pint, especially when I looked around the pub at the slurring, giggling dickheads. (Note: I'm not condemning all people who drink as those dickheads, or even all W'Spoon customers, it just happened to be full of the kind of people that give daytime drinking a bad name). I'm not itching to break the fast, just for the fast to be over.

It's my lass's birthday next Friday, so I get to have share a bottle of fizz or some-such with her. I'm looking forward to that, mainly because it'll feel like the first time in a month I've actually relaxed. Another dry week to get through first though, and I may well end up killing someone at work in that time. What's the deal with smuggling alcohol into prisons these days? I know they say drug-use is still a problem, but I'd imaging a few grams of coke would be easier to get past security than three litres of Jack. I seem to recall Lizzie on Prisoner: Cell Block H used to be able to get her grog okay, but I daresay the methods of smuggling alcohol into a women's prison in 1970's Australia are somewhat different from those at Parkhurst.

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In other news, Oxford City Council have made me laugh out loud at work this week, as I read the following story:

"Suicides prompt closure of Oxford car park's top storey

Three people have died in the past 18 months after going to the sixth floor of the 100ft car park at the Templars Square shopping centre, in Cowley.
Barriers are now being installed to stop people walking or driving to the top storey, while there is also a sign advising anyone feeling depressed or suicidal to contact the Samaritans charity."

That sounds like a sensible idea, doesn't it? It's obviously distressing for people working and living around there, and if you can maybe stop someone from taking their own life just that one time, it may well be enough to delay it until they can seek help/guidance? It's not foolproof of course (they may well just decide to jump off the fifth floor), but the intention is there. I wonder where they've put the sign up?

OH LOOK! It's on the wall of the top level. The wall that someone will have had to climb over a barrier to get to. I think that after all that effort, they might just jump anyway.

These thoughts occurred to my cynical mind, but weren't the part that made me physically laugh out loud. The preemptive strike at people moaning about the shortage of parking spaces did though:

"However, these barriers will be removed at the busier trading times of the year, such as Christmas."

...words fail me. They obviously haven't had a conversation with the Samaritans that lasted long enough for them to be told that Christmas is one of their busier times, and not so much the height of summer. Still, if the suicidal community of Oxford would like to wait until December, maybe they could all go up to Level-6 together, hold a carol service on the ledge, then all leap off together singing the final line "...and a partridge in a pear tr-..."

I should point out that the venom of the last statement was directed at the fucking genii who thought up this life-saving plan, not those unfortunate enough to find themselves staring at the shoppers of Cowley from a great height, and don't have to worry about the choice between the stairs and the lift going back down...

And on that cheery note, I'm off to play Battlefront: Renegade Squadron with my nephew for several hours, so there will be carnage, even if it's not alcohol based.

A bottle of Brown, or an Imperial-issue Flechette rifle. Either/or, really...

• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

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