I STARTED MY love-love relationship with having a sociable drink many years ago in my little fishing town. As young men, you see, we often worked side by side with fishermen on the wharf, helping them load and unload fish, clean boats and tables, sharpen knives and generally act like grown-up fishermen.
When the fishermen were done toiling for the day, they would often have a cold beer to reward themselves for their hard work and to quench their thirst on hot summer days. And if you were a hard enough worker as a kid and demonstrated enough maturity, the fisherman would look the other way if you snuck a cold bottle of beer yourself. In hindsight, I am sure this was done to show the younger gang that if they acted like grown-ups, they would be treated like grown-ups.
The Golden Rule seemed to be:
Do your work, behave yourself, and you’ll be treated like a grown-up. Any laziness or acting like a fool and you’ll never be allowed around again.
I was one of those fellas who showed early on that he could handle his share of the work. And so me and a sociable drink became quickly acquainted, getting along quite famously after long days on the wharf, and in my teen years at gatherings on Friday or Saturday nights when my brother or sister hung around with the older teenagers.
I enjoyed how it cooled me off on hot days and warmed me up on cold nights. But what I really enjoyed was how it made me feel: taller and funnier, more willing to sing songs for the teens and to show off for the older girls. And I noticed that when these older gang had a tipple, they tended to be easier to entertain and let me stick around. Of course, there were the few who inevitably overdid it and got sick or in rackets. But in general, I found that a drink or two made everyone the happier and the times more jovial.
Imbibing became a good friend to me and remained so as I grew up. I knew from my days on the wharf that the privileges of an adult beverage would be taken away if I let my work and behaviour slip. So I vowed I’d never let it interfere with school or work, or get me into fights or any of the other negative things that it sadly brings to others.
We had a good relationship, the drink and me. I loved the drink, and, I think it is fair to say, the drink loved me.
But no relationship is perfect. I’ll relate one hiccup, so to speak, in fairy-tale fashion for my shame and your amusement.
The Boy and The Drink had been getting along wonderfully together on their Island in the Middle of the Ocean. One day, The Boy was called to a Faraway Land, known to him as the Mother Country, to sings songs with his mates. The Boy and his mates were excited to sing in this place, and so they took an overnight journey in the sky from their Island to this Faraway Land—the United Kingdom.
Upon arrival, they decided to call upon their old friend, The Drink, who threw open the doors immediately. Now I should say, The Drink has many nicknames and personas. Sometimes it likes to go by a silly name, like Bubbly. And Bubbly is a perfect and honest name for this side of its personality, as one often feels quite bubbly with him. Other times, The Drink wants to be called Captain Morgan or Old Sam. These are dark and dirty gents, so use accordingly. Different as they are, these are honest and upfront faces of The Drink. No deception involved. They are as advertised.
On this day in the Kingdom, however, The Drink insisted on being known as Scrumpy Jack. On the surface, Scrumpy was sweet and sugary with hints of candy apple. Surely Scrumpy Jack was as harmless as this honeyed nectar suggested—the perfect host for The Boy and his mates in this Faraway Land. What could go wrong with such a light and crisp thirst-quencher? But as this day wore on and they danced into the wee hours, The Boy began to sense something sneaky about Scrumpy.
Was Scrumpy Jack really the sweet and jolly fella he claimed to be? Or was he secretly casting a wicked web in which to entangle the innocent Boy? Was Scrumpy Jack hiding something sinister?
Regardless, they danced. And they danced. Through the morning, afternoon and night, The Boy danced with Scrumpy Jack till sleep took hold and they slid into bed together back at the Inn, far too close to dawn.
On most occasions, The Boy and The Drink fell asleep together happily. Overnight, The Drink would drift away unnoticed, and in the morning, all that was left was a hazy afterglow and fond memories of yet another wonderful night together.
But on this morning, sleep would not provide enough cover for The Drink to slip away. Just an hour or two after The Boy closed his eyes, a knock bolted him from slumber as the Inn Keeper opened the door. The Keeper had been knocking for quite a while and was angry that The Boy had slept through his alarms. He was not alone. The Inn Keeper escorted into the room a Fair and Lovely Lady who had an appointment with The Boy and his friends to bring their songs to the Kingdom. The Boy would later learn that this Lady was called a Publicist, and she was to usher him and his singing mates to a grand castle known as The BBC.
The Boy was not feeling well at all. He wanted to explain that The Drink was still with him and that he did not wish his friend to accompany him to The BBC Castle. Moreover, he wanted to go back to sleep. But he recalled the Golden Rule from the wharf.
Do your work, behave yourself, and you’ll be treated like a grown-up. Any laziness or acting like a fool and you’ll never be allowed around again.
The Boy had agreed weeks before to visit The Castle, and his singing mate, Fiddle Player Fella, was waiting downstairs. He knew that refusing to go was unthinkable. Though he really wished his friend The Drink away, he would just have to tag along.
And so the four of them made the journey to The Castle—The Lady, Fiddle Player Fella and The Boy with The Drink still clinging to him. They sat awkwardly facing each other as they rode in a funny-looking cab that drove on the wrong side of the street, winding past a snaky river and large clock towers, past knights and princesses and beggars and buses that appeared to spout a second bus on top. The Boy wished The Drink away as hard as he had ever wished for anything in his life. But The Drink held on stubbornly.
When they entered The BBC Castle, The Boy nipped into a private washing chamber and tried his best to urge The Drink away. He moaned and heaved and pushed from the depths of his belly, but The Drink’s hold was just too strong.
The four continued their journey into the Bowels of the Castle, where people spoke and sang in Radio Rooms, and Wizards magically cast this talk and music through millions of homes and cars around the Kingdom. Just before The Boy and Fiddle Player Fella were to enter the Radio Room, The Boy found another private washing chamber and made one more attempt to persuade The Drink to take his leave. He begged and pleaded for them to part ways, but The Drink would not stir. And so The Lady, Fiddle Player Fella, The Boy and The Drink entered the Radio Room, where they were met by a kind and gentle BBC Wizard. He had a welcoming smile and a soothing voice, the kind that made you want to relax and chat with him over a warm cup of tea.
They began talking about the music from the singing mates’ Island in the Middle of the Ocean. The conversation was going quite well, and everyone seemed content. But then something changed. Quickly. Just as the conversation turned towards The Boy’s songs and writing, The Drink wished to make his departure. He offered little warning of this sudden and most definite switch in attitude. A few moments before, he was going nowhere. Now, he was most insistent about taking his leave.
“Not now,” The Boy instructed The Drink. “You should have left earlier if you wanted out. There is no place for you to go. You’ll just have to wait till we get to a safe place for you to exit.”
But The Drink had his mind made up, and there was no reasoning with him when he was in this kind of mood.
The kind and gentle Wizard asked The Boy about a personal and tender song he’d penned for a beautiful maiden.
“Yes, my writing has always been influenced by my little fishing town. Hasn’t it, Fiddle Player Fella?” The Boy said.
Fiddle Player Fella, who would not know the answer to the question but was wise to the ways of The Boy and The Drink and their dance the night before, jumped in and spoke eloquently about The Boy’s writing while The Boy made a last-ditch effort to convince The Drink to stay put. But it was too late for that. The Boy felt his mouth slowly crack open like a prison gate pressed with the strength of a thousand convicts clamouring to escape, and The Boy could hold the tide no more. In desperation, The Boy grabbed a wastepaper bin that lay by the kind and gentle Wizard’s feet. The Drink, seeing its opening, torpedoed into the bin, leaving The Boy grasping a now very messy wastepaper bin in shame.
The Boy felt terrible and embarrassed and wanted to run out the door, forget about his work and go back to the Inn and rest without the company of The Drink. But he remembered the Golden Rule, and quick as a fox, he jumped back into the conversation.
“That’s right, Fiddle Player Fella. I do love to write romantic and lyrical things about loves lost. I suppose it is the parting of a much loved one that brings us the most pain and need for healing. Let us play the recording of this story for all the people in the Kingdom.”
While the recording played, The Boy ran back to the private washing chamber to clean the messy wastepaper bin. He returned to the Radio Room as the recording ended, calmly sitting back in his chair next to the confused and shaken Wizard.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
The Wizard was flustered.
“The song, I mean,” clarified The Boy. “Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Ah yes. Yes, of course,” the Wizard uttered, sinking back to his old kind and gentle self.
And on the conversation went.
The Kingdom that morning heard an insightful chat and some lovely tunes, blissfully unaware of the tug of war that The Boy waged and lost with The Drink within The BBC Castle walls. And when the work for the day was finally complete, The Boy saw the rest of his singing mates at the Inn and, sure enough, The Drink was there, sitting brazenly among them. But The Boy was very angry at The Drink and wanted nothing to do with him and shouted a warning to all:
“Scrumpy Jack is a Liar!”