The Idiot Point - 12th February 2013

Keen readers of this blog will note that there was no entry on the 12^th February. Were I a man with more delusions, I’d claim that my adoring fans were done out of my witty musings for a day, but let’s not get silly about the thing.

This is what I would have written for the 12^th.

The thing about my pal Sally-Anne is that any night on which she and I are together includes a point.

A point at which you just know the evening’s about to tip over the brow of the roller coaster, and go spec-TAC-ularly downhill. I think of this as The Idiot Point.

Loooooooong term readers will remember Croatia. The very first time I missed posting an entry of this blog by local midnight…her fault.

Last night (11^th) , we weren’t going to have an Idiot Point. We had a conference the next day, at which I would be required to Write Stuff, and she would be required Not To Kill Snotty Delegates. You need a clear head for both of those.

“Still,” she said, “we’ll get one bottle of wine, and just have a chilled-out, chatty night. It’ll be cool.”

It was cool.

It was cool for about an hour.

“We’re out o’ wine, Tone,” she said.

“’We’ll just have a chilled-out, chatty night. It’ll be cool…’” I reminded her.

“There are places online that deliver wine to your door,” she said.

“Get on with it then,” I said.

This was not the Idiot Point.

She found a drink delivery service. Clearly, as she pointed out, it was for dipsomaniacs and crackheads.

“Doesn’t open till 10,” she pouted. It was 9pm.

“Hmm…”

“Or there’s an off license about ten minutes up the road.”

I got my coat.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t an off licence. It was a chemist. She found a bottle of white wine.

“There you go, just one more,” she said.

“Just one more,” I agreed.

“Oooooooh, look – Fizzy!”

That, my friends – That was The Idiot Point.

“Fizzy!” I agreed. She picked up the fizzy wine to go with the white.

“Y’know, you can’t just drink wine all night…”

“Y’know, you really can,” I said. She ‘didn’t hear me’ and bought a bottle of bourbon.

“Y’know something else?” I asked. “Tomorrow, we’re gonna look back at this point…this point right here, and say ‘This is where the night went mental’. This, right here, is the Idiot Point.”

“Shurrup Tone, let’s get home…” she said.

So we did. The fizzy was fun. The white was…I forget…

The bourbon…who the Hell knows…

Went to bed originally at about 10.30. Well, bed and couch for her and I respectively.

By 3AM, I was awake again, with a brain full of booze and thoughts.

“Coffee,” I said to myself, having brought my own coffee, and sweeteners, and milk. I put the kettle on.

“Yo, T!” she called from up in her bedroom.

“What?”

“I think this is the Idiot Point. Gotta be up and out by 7.30 dude! Get your arse on the couch and get to sleep…”

See, I think I had the real Idiot Point, she thinks hers was better. On the other hand, I think every night with her in it HAS an Idiot Point. The following morning, when we both looked and felt like Death barely warmed up, she was telling people that every time she has an evening with me, we go screaming through the Idiot Point. Clearly, the two of us together are a bad combination.

Southampton. One night. Next week…(shudders). Can you get liver insurance these days?