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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Gin is evil. Wicked. Bad. Bad, bold, evil wicked, bad.

I’ve always had a suspicion about the type of people who drink gin. Ladies who drink gin and tonics are always, in my experience, and my experience is limitless, permed of hair, bleached in colour, super-tanned and wrinkled, wishing it was still the 1980s when you could wear those big shirts with belts around the middle and surprised to find that they are in their late 40s with nothing to show for it but an increasingly south facing bosom. And if they’re not, they aspire to be. Gin is, to coin the Dylan Moran phrase, a mascara thinner. It drives you to melancholy and tears, and makes you think about the kittens you had when you were a little girl, and all the hopes and dreams that have been dashed.

What’s more, dress it up all you like, but it tastes suspiciously like nail polish remover.

Me and the gin, we didn’t get on. I tried it with tonic, I tried it with lemonade, and I slowly lost the power of speech and gained the unwelcome power of self reflection, as I gazed out the window and realised how close, howveryclose I am to being thirty and where did my twenties go, and I know that, in the grand scheme of things, my life’s never been better than it is right now, but really, is that enough? Is it enough? Will it ever be enough?

Tomorrow, and for the duration of the weekend, I will be eschewing alcohol altogether. Apparently, I don’t make a good spirits drinker (although there is a range still left to be tried – any suggestions gladly accepted, and willingly experimented with) but perhaps I’ll make a better wagon-chaser.


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