Society
One minute I'm enjoying a Christmas drink; the next I'm accused of being an addict
Published 20 December 1999
It was supposed to be a Christmas drinks party for my department at the BBC, but after a mere five rounds at the Yorkshire Grey some people were already sagging. Mike was muttering about having to get up early the next day to edit a feature he was making for New Year's Eve on the ten great unkept resolutions of the first millennium, and Janet had clamped her hand on top of her half-full glass of Sauvignon with sufficient firmness to deter a team of safe-breakers.
I didn't need 20/20 vision to know that it was once again time for me to play cheerleader. I wiggled a finger encouragingly at each of the eight glasses on the table. "Come on everybody. It's Christmas. There's 20 quid left in the kitty and an hour and a half of drinking time. Who's for another round?" From the degree of anguishing this prompted you might have thought I'd issued an invitation to a class A drug orgy in the Outer Hebrides, but eventually four glasses were pushed in my direction. "So, three pints of Sam Smith's and a vodka and tonic."
"Just a half for me," said James.
It took me ten minutes to fight my way through the drama department that was camped round the bar. As I staggered back to the table with a tray of drinks, I sensed that the group had used my time away to hold an urgent house meeting. Janet had been elected spokesperson.
"Laurie," she said as I slid the drinks round the table, "you know, we don't all have to drink in the same way as you. Drinking with you is a ritual. You have to have your six pints or there's something the matter with the world. The rest of us might want to choose how much we drink without having it forced down our throats. We're not all addictive personalities."
I could tell from the way the rest of the company were averting their eyes that, although they'd prob-ably taken a vote on the matter, there was a general feeling that Janet had been a little too strong. It was worth testing the hypothesis. I lit another Camel Light and went for the jugular. "What do you mean 'addictive personality'? What sort of psychobabble is that? Supposing I said you were ritually addicted to moderation. That you spend your entire life saying 'that's enough for me, thanks'. That's enough sugar, that's enough cake, that's enough drink, that's enough sex, that's enough fun. I'll tell you something, Janet, you've had a hand clamped over the top of a half-full wineglass for most of your fucking life."
I might have won the day if I'd resisted that final "fucking". Without the "fucking", my little speech could have been happily passed off as another instance of the sort of dramatic tirades that young producers and researchers on Radio 4 routinely have to endure when forced to work with grizzled presenters twice their age. But with the "fucking" it constituted an assault on one of their number and there was instant solidarity. Drinks were either hastily finished off or pushed away, goodnights were muttered and, 15 minutes later, I was sitting entirely by myself, staring down at a full ashtray and what remained of the kitty.
There was nothing for it. I muscled in on the drama department at the bar, listened to a few dozen stories about the time John Gielgud said something terribly, terribly funny, and then staggered back home for Newsnight. "Your usual?" asked my partner, reaching for the malt whisky.
"Not tonight," I said.
"Sure?"
"Course I' m sure. What do you think I am? A fucking addict?"
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