Free Zero

This week we are in the Cotswolds. The storm Goretti froze the gravel and mud so now all cars slide on the uphill. We’re eating in this pub that has an old feel, but the food is what you’d expect some Greek gods to cook with an apron on around a fire pit. When we tried our onion rings and croquettes, I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, “Fuck me, it’s good.“ So when the waiter comes to collect the dishes I say that I know that they were just onion rings and croquette but could he please tell the kitchen they were the best onion rings and croquettes I’ve ever had in my whole life? And the waiter looks at me like I just walked out of a cave and I’ve been eating grass and cockroaches for the last few decades. But he just smiles, all chuffed.

Em, she is drinking a glass of wine. She’s had a long day, and since this year I’m running for the Husband of the Year Award, I’m the designated driver and only guzzling pints of an alcohol-free pale ale. Pints. Because by the time we’re ready to order food I’m already ordering a second one and the waiter looks at me as if I’m desperately trying to get a buzz from a zero-alcohol beer. It’s like you’re drinking the real deal, only you can drive back home safely staying on the right lane and keeping all the points on your driving licence. And Em says, “I can’t believe it. How is that even possible?“ I say I really don’t know — meaning I don’t know how this is the first time ever in my entire life I’m tasting a beer with zero alcohol.

I blame the 80s. Growing up, in early secondary school we’d always bring a box of beer behind the school courtyard after dark. You’d pop the cap with a lighter and then stick a fag in your mouth. By the time there was nothing else to drink we’d stumble back home all buzzed. The trick then was to walk through the hall quick enough not to cross paths with any of my parents. And if they asked any questions, I’d simply give unenthusiastic monosyllabic answers. Because I’m a teenager and that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Occasionally, rushing through breakfast my mother would ask how much I drank the night before. Because when you’re a teenager you really think the world is your own giant shell, the issue is that with me snoring full mouth open all night, the room would end up stinking like an old Irish pub. There were just some very loose boundaries you were not allowed to cross. Like, for instance, giving your parents a heart attack when they come back after a night out and find you in bed choking in a puddle of your own puke. Hardcore stuff like that. And since those were the 80s and I didn’t want to miss out on anything, I did that too.

It was meant to be just a cheeky drink in my friend’s garage. Someone brought a bottle of gin. There was prosecco and also a single malt whisky. Like this was some memorable quinceañera and not just a Friday night. Even when you aren’t old enough to drive, you know you’ve had one drink too many when you begin to forget your grammar. When deep thoughts in your head come up as a long slurred vowel. The only thing I can remember is that my best friend brought me back home and since my parents were out he tucked me in bed like he’s Wendy and I’m one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys.

That’s it. All smooth. I wake up feeling fresh like a cucumber. There’s not even the squint of a hangover. I hop into the kitchen for breakfast and kiss my mother a jolly good morning because it’s spring and life is beautiful. Only my mother doesn’t seem so jolly herself and with the voice you use to tell your kids the cat was run over she says, “How ‘r you feeling?“ And I’m great, like I even forgot I drank half of Russia and Scotland combined last night. I‘ve also brushed my teeth so hard that my gums bled so no way anyone can smell alcohol this morning.

“Do you remember anything of what happened last night?“ my mother says. And pause. You know those horror movies when the main character wakes up with blood all over the bedsheets and a giant woodworm starts eating their thoughts and prayers, wondering why they blacked out and what on earth happened and if they’re gonna go to jail or something? If you’ve never had the feeling, like Alzheimer’s and memory loss are hitting you prematurely, I don’t recommend it because it totally messes up your perception of reality for many, many years. Anyway, back to my mother and her horror-movie question, I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.

“Was it drugs?“ my mum says. “Did you take cocaine? Jesus, was it heroin?“ and since these were the 80s, and I love my mother very much, I say, “What the fuck are you talking about, Mum?“ And with the proverbial calm of a Buddhist monk on a mountain she says, “The ambulance. The hospital. Don’t you remember any of it?“

Sorry. Really. No.

When my parents came back from dinner they peeked into my room just to check if I was back. And I was, only when they open my bedroom door they found a giant puddle of puke on my bed with me floating in it. The way you’d imagine rockstars die in a hotel room after a wild night. The ambulance came squealing into our small street, parking bum-first up to our front door to get the stretcher out. And with the blue and red lights flashing in circles all the neighbours are sticking their heads out of their front doors in their nightgowns and perm rolls in their hair. When they take me to the hospital they sit me in a wheelchair and the maggot I’ve become, head hanging on one side. The doctor on shift asked me if I took any drugs. And me, still with my full vowels dictionary, I say, O. As in No, I didn’t. What did I drink? Yin. Like this is a remake of Kung Fu Panda, but when you’re drunk enough you really struggle with guttural sounds. So yes, I had Gin. Oh, and Weephy. As in yes, I also had Whisky. They shovel a needle in my arm and since all the alcohol I drank was still on my bed, I was okay to go.

If you’re a parent, you know the lengths you go through to make sure your children can barely survive. And if they manage to survive then, you’re just quite content for them not to turn into a heroin addict or a blagger, a toe-rag, a cat burglar. Or just a dick. Everything else is just liquid gold. Like sending them to Uni and make sure they can pay their own bills.

I promised my mother I’d never ever drink again. Scout promise. Cross my heart. A week later I was already drinking a beer back in the schoolyard. Also, who knows, if alcohol-free beer was a thing in the 80s I could have been a certified teetotaller by now. We’ll never know.

On a positive note, I didn’t develop any drug use or abuse addiction. And I might occasionally be a dick, but at least I can pay my own bills. Especially restaurant ones. Which brings us back to the Cotswolds, and storm Goretti and third pint of alcohol-free beer I’m having.

After our pheasants and mutton shoulder and half a glass of wine, Em is so tired her eyes are slanted to the side and ready to shut the curtains. I whisper the waiter for the bill, and he whisper back, Sure. And I really don’t know why we shout for another bottle of wine but we have to whisper for the bill. One of those untold rules, like never fart in public places or pick your nose before a handshake.

Despite Em saying that the service charge was more than enough, I tipped the waiter. Because those croquettes were sensational and I’m like a ten-year-old on his first night out.

Driving back to our cottage, I tell Em I’ve read an interesting article. It was about women and farts. And she’s suddenly less asleep than she was. The article said that when a woman farts in front of a man it’s because he’s the love of her life. Top-notch level of comfort. Lifetime love and happily ever after. True story. And while I’m trying not to run over any wild animal with the car, I can see Em turning her head towards me and saying, “For the love of Jesus.“ She says, “Did you just fart?“

The truth is that yes, alcohol-free beer keeps you sober, but it still makes your stomach swollen. When there’s alcohol involved you’re too drunk to realise it. Note to self.

I tell Em I’m sorry. It’s like a whole brewery factory is fermenting in my stomach. I say, “Would you mind driving next time?“ But she’s already asleep.