Interviewer: What a thrill! I have the opportunity to interview Silenus. Silenus is an old drunkard who taught Dionysus how to party. Dionysus is the Ancient Greek God of Wine. Silenus himself is the God of Dance, the God of the Wine Press, and the God of Drunkenness.
Good evening, Silenus. Thank you for agreeing to be interviewed.
Silenus: My pleashure. It’s not often I can afford to take time out from dwinking to indulge in a bit of interfornification, if that’s what ya call it. I had to shneak away from Dionysus to do thish interview. Last time I shneaked away he changed this guy’s ears into donkey’s ears. At leasht that’s what I remember. Dwink? It’s not just wine I’m the god of but other shtuff as well like whishkey and vodka. Shherry. When I go to the dwink shhop I always look at the label not to see what type of booze it is but to check on the alcoholic percentage. That’s why I’m not fond of beer. Ya have to dwink a lot of beer to get dwunk and then I end up pisshing in my pants half the night. Not that I wear pantsh as ya can see. So how ya doing?
Interviewer: I’m fine thanks. And I was wondering if…
Silenus: One of the things people don’t know is that mosht of the gods up here are fucking pisshheads. Pisshhead is a Britishh term meaning ya get totally dwunk mosht daysh. It’s alsho used in Aushtralia and placesh like that. So anyway, mosht of the gods up here are pisshheads. I taught mosht of them how to party – it’s my job – but a good number of them these days know how to party a lot more than I taught them. Aphrodite has her work cut out all day every day and there’s not much I taught her I can tell ya. When I vishit her she’s busy busy busy. I don’t know how she fits everyone in.
Interviewer: Do you still operate in teaching people how to party today or was it something you did only in ancient times?
Silenus: I’m busy in the modern world. I did a good job on Hunt…
(The interview seems to have been suddenly and mysteriously terminated).
Abdul wasn’t the slightest bit Irish. His father was a Lebanese air pilot, and after a brief fling with an Egyptian flight attendant, Abdul was born in Oslo.
It was Saint Patrick’s Day. Abdul went to the pub wearing green. After a few green beers he hopped around on one leg and said he was doing a jig. He swore loudly in an Irish accent that possibly placed him firmly in South Africa. He went on a little long about leprechauns and kissing the Blarney Stone. As the night wore on he sat in a chair at a table in the pub utterly pooped and had a final beer.
It was nine in the morning and Roland worked out that it was only eight hours before he could have a drink. He never drank before five ‘clock. It was habitual. He wasn’t an alcoholic.
It was ten in the morning and Roland worked out that it was only seven hours before he could have a drink. He never drank before five ‘clock. It was habitual. He wasn’t an alcoholic.
It was eleven in the morning and Roland worked out that it was only six hours before he could have a drink. He never drank before five ‘clock. It was habitual. He wasn’t an alcoholic.
It was mid – midday – eleven o’clock? – midday and Roland worked out that it was only a few hours before he could have a drink. He never drank before five ‘clock. It was habitual. He wasn’t an alcoholic.
It was sometime in the afternoon and Roland worked out that it was only a short few hours before he could have a dwink. He never dwank before five ‘clock. It was habitual. He wasn’t an alcoholic.
It was now five in the afternoon – apparently – and when he went to get a bottle out of the cabinet there was none there. His wife had took it. She was an alohol… alohole… drunk. He wluld have to get the wine out from umder the bed. He kept it hidden there to stop his alcoholic wife from scoffing it all down.
It was now six firty in the early evening and his wife was on the phone trying to order takeaway. “Just give us the zame as yesterday. And do you serve alcol? You don’t? Well it looks like I’m in for a dry evening.”
Jude had not been brought up well. His father was an alcoholic; at least he was until he turned up to work drunk and “accidentally” fell down an elevator shaft. Jude’s mother was addicted to quinine and her kidneys had packed up and she too was dead.
Jude had an older sister who took over his care, but she was on drugs and got her drug money in the entertainment business. She worked from home.
When he was fourteen, Jude didn’t “discover” for he already knew, but “realized” that there were easier ways to make money than to work. He’s made a few contacts via some of his sister’s clients. He looked a lot older than fourteen. School had long gone down the drain. He worked as a pimp with the occasional bit of burglary thrown in for luck.
Then his big break came. One of his sister’s ex-clients said he’d give Jude ten thousand if he did his sister in. Jude said he would but what way was it to be done? The guy said he didn’t care, so Jude got a gun and shot his sister dead point blank. It was all pretty easy.
When Jude went to get his money the ex-client turned him in. “This guy murdered his sister.”
Jude got life. The ex-client got off scot-free. He was clever like that.
Nine-year-old Marty secretly buried a box next to his parent’s house. Why? I hear you ask. And what was in the box? Even though it’s secret, some of us are party to the information. But first, we must backtrack a little to provide some context.
Marty had lived an eventful nine years. He had been shuffled from one foster home to another. Eventually he was claimed and adopted by his biological parents who regretted giving him up nine years earlier. What became obvious very quickly was the reason they had given Marty up for adoption in the first place: they were incompetent parents.
Neither parent worked. Mom got drunk every night. Dad was hardly ever home; he was out doing whatever it is that grownups do. Marty was always hungry. In many ways he was the only sensible person in the household.
Anyway, he had no trouble getting rid of the bodies. It was the tell-tale kitchen carving knife he was most worried about.
Oh to think! A world famous group of sports men and women were visiting from another country. The host country wanted to give them a taste of the domestic home life in the host country. Each sports person was billeted out to a different family. The Smith Family were to host Vlad. He was an Olympic Gold Medallist in Cycling.
Sam Smith, the son of the host family, was over the moon. Vlad was his hero. Oh but what a disappointment! Sam Smith couldn’t be home for the night that Vlad was to stay. His mother would get an autograph – and give a blow by blow account of how things went.
“Dear Sam, Vlad has come and gone. I’m afraid your father rather let us down. Our guest brought a bottle of vodka for us and your father decided to show how much he appreciated the gesture by drinking it all. He’d never touched vodka in his life. Then he started singing some rather bawdy songs he knew from when in the Navy. Terribly out of key, and then singing his own words to the Song of the Vulgar Boatmen. I was glad you weren’t there; you would’ve heard words you wouldn’t know existed. It was a relief, when before we’d even sat down to dinner your father went off to bed. He was out to it. Vlad seemed to enjoy his meal; in fact he seemed to enjoy the whole episode judging by his laughter. It was such a pity he couldn’t understand English, but I suspect he didn’t need to.”
Garth frequently imbibed too much booze, especially if he was at a party. Don’t get me wrong; he was responsible. He wouldn’t drive himself home if he’d had a drink. He always got someone to drive him.
“Just a couple of miles,” he’d say. “Here, take my car keys and drive me home.”
He was always very grateful.
“Just stop here,” he’d say. “This is right where I live. This is my house. But wait! How will you get back yourself? It’s too far to walk. Let me drive you back.”
Gilbert and Adelaide were veritable animals. They were out-and-out hedonistic pleasure seekers. The only reason they never got totally blotto at a party was because they knew if they got drunk out of their brains they couldn’t party until sunrise.
And then one party Gilbert got sloshed. He ignored Adelaide and started sidling up to Allison. Yeah, that was a mistake.
That made Adelaide knock back a few swigs of the really strong stuff, and she then started to get nasty. She could hardly stand, but she managed to pick up a couple of bottles and throw them at Allison. Gilbert slurred a “what do you think you’re doing?” comment and Adelaide threw a chair at him.
The whole thing grew into a full scale brawl with everyone joining in and the police were called by some little wall-flowered nerdy old fart sitting somewhere in a shady corner.
The police had a hell of a time trying to get control. The house was trashed. Trashed.
Anyway, that was forty years ago. Gilbert and Adelaide made up and got married and today are proud grandparents of eleven grandkids. Adelaide in fact is the mayor of the city, and Gilbert is a highly respected neurosurgeon at the general hospital.