Alcohol. What?

Alcohol doesn’t work for me anymore. Age. The romasomes in my brain have had it. So I’m not only perplexed I’m envious of the younger generation’s love affair with it. When I was young I used to play on the roundabouts in the park to get dizzy. The up and down five man horsie thing that would sling you off, break your arm and grind your leg to a pulp in its levers. Subtle techniques for getting as much air as possible under the other person’s bum on a seesaw. Not only fun, you learnt a lot about centrifugal force, momentum and bandaging. But nowadays fun’s not about bodily dismemberment it’s about mental impairment, about having good times you can’t remember. At least I’ve got the scars. Now it’s, “Good time?” “Dude it was so good I don’t know where I went, who I was with, I didn’t know where I was in the morning and, er, Dude, what’s my name again?” “Man don’t you remember, it’s Dude man, Dude.” “Thanks Dude.” Will their memories be working all week in a dead end job waiting for the weekend when absolutely NOTHING happened? But no. Mobile phones to the rescue. Writing this has made me realise why they take endless photos of faces pulling faces. “Oh look, I was at Plug with you and Sophie and that bloke who took his trousers down and sang the punk version of God save the Queen. So that’s where I was. Mental.” It will be a bitter moment when their hard drive goes down and their memories with it. “What did you do when you were young daddy?” “I, er, I… What’s your name again?”