Rory rang me at 2.45 a.m. for a lift home last night. A taxi back from Chelmsford in the wee hours costs around £20. He knows I would rather break my sleep than him pay such an amount for a 6-mile journey.
I drove through the mist, still wearing my pyjama bottoms. At our rendezvous, he asked if I could take his mate Jake home as well. Jake jumped in, but in a few hundred yards Rory asked me to stop. “Can’t lie, I’m gonna puke. If you take Jake, I’ll wait here for you.” So I taxied the pissed stranger, and returned 10 minutes later to see Rory half running, half-staggering across the road to me.
Transpires that they had taken advantage of Wednesday night student prices in Wetherspoons. Eight WKD style drinks and multiple double vodka and oranges. Plus some spliffing. Halfway home we stopped again, for another stomach emptying. All I could see through the open passenger door was his arse as he added top layers to the grass. He could hardly talk, head lolling through the open window. But managed to relate that he had induced a minor puke after drinking, but before buying kebab and chips. Intriguing strategy.
Then he asked me to drop him off at the top of our road, where more grass would serve his eliminatory purposes. I waited indoors to make sure he had remembered the way home. In he walked, looking remarkably well, given the circumstances. Crashed out at about 3.40 and then hauled his carcass out of bed at 7.50 to shower before work.
That’s my boy. Josie and Lauren also enjoy ruining their livers, although on a less regular basis. Their mum could drink like a fish. I’m proud of them all.
The Biscuit Factory 