I have noticed of late that the club has been singled out by the nosy media as being an establishment where too much drinking takes place. Who is to say what is too much and what is not? The criticism is especially rich coming from so-called social commentators, several of whom I know for a fact have not drawn a sober breath in years. Bah!
I am sure my loyal readers know that I stick to a rigid formula of a mere five martinis a day, come what may. No matter what the world throws through my window, I never surpass that number, even when a jury of my peers would agree that stress can be a bit much in this life. Did I mention my wife’s cats, Pericles and Bertram? However, when a brave little bottle of some interesting wine is put before me I see nothing wrong with giving my much sought-after opinion, which requires one or two glasses just to get a feel of the thing. I don’t think that counts, do you?
However if I am fair, there is a chap here who does stretch the limits of imbibing, one Monty Black-Out. The man makes my modest daily intake of five silver yum-yums appear like that of a paid-up member of Women’s Christian Temperance Union. He usually shows up just before lunch looking like he has been thrown from a truck because of the previous day’s excesses, but he visibly brightens after the first bottle of a burgundy. He surges into the memorial dining room in search of a scotch and soda, of which there will be two or three before his lunch concludes.
Now a club is a club because this is where we can mingle with our own and not feel some sort of pinching political correctness about it all. Here at the home of homes one can loosen one’s belt post-raisin pie and not seek excuses as to why. You are at peace as it were.
However Monty draws speculation to himself as he opens his trousers, showing his flamboyant Stanfields with the threat of much more. Mrs. ffrangington-Davis and the rest of the distaff side openly abuse him for this habit in the form of a hail of peanuts. Black-Out just waves for a cold Chablis, with a look of “leave the bottle please, waiter,” and carries on.
Monty’s afternoon passes pleasantly enough, consisting of one or possibly two more bottles of the white stuff while giving his thoughts on the news of the day to a few of us in the nearby green wing-backs. That’s the thing, you see, he is a terribly interesting and well-read man, who as a life-long bachelor does not have a line on his face. While most of us must report home for dinner, he is free to explore his wants and needs at the friendly club bar.
At about 11 bells he announces to the bartender that he would like just one more brandy or as he describes it, “the bed-wetter.” None of us is boorish enough to ask if this is actually the case or just an interesting term in describing his last drink of the day, but we have all started using it, as it is amusing if nothing else.
Monty is the only I know who drinks at this Olympic level. I am sure most of us would have been hospitalized after one of his normal days at the club, but he seems to manage it quite nicely. Thankfully he does not drive but has, as he says, “a bracing walk home” to rest for the next day’s harrowing drinking.
I know this will shock you, but I was told not too long ago by the club harridan Mrs. Hynd-Quarters that my meagre five martinis was an outrage and I should be seen to by my wife as I was clearly an alcoholic. Can you believe that? Only five, and never more under any circs.
Why the women drinks sherry like a fish, and must consume several hundred club peanuts at a sitting. How dare she? I am the very example the club needs to show the world, a man of iron will, who looks after himself with several stride jumps at the club gym every morning whether I feel like it or not. I am not a Monty Black-Out.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2015
[email protected]
Leave a Reply