no such thing as a nice glass of southern comfort! (that's my nightmare caused by over excess when young)
It’s like we were joined at the hip, Den.
Or vomit brothers.
Or summut.
I can locate my Southern Comfort intolerance to a specific time.
Around Christmas. About 1982.
Probably.
Ok. Not that specific time wise. But I can be Satnav accurate with the place.
Bacon Garth estate. Cottingham. A house party. Exactly opposite Bacon Garth school.
For reasons I still wake up in the middle of the night pondering, I decided that a surefire way to impress a lass I fancied (who was called Janine by the way), was to neck half a bottle of Southern Comfort in about 10 minutes, having just returned from an evening in the pub.
Taken directly from the bottle, whilst mansplaining toothed belt transmission systems to her.
In my mind a suave, sophisticated lothario, who’s every word was like honey dripping profundities which probably caused orgasms in young women.
Here I learnt that what was interesting to me was not necessarily interesting to a sex-on-legs stunner from Orchard Park.
Who knew?
Anyway, the host’s mother found me in the outside lavvy being as sick as a particularly poorly piglet and took me straight to bed.
Nothing like that.
I was way beyond any Mrs Robinson scenarios at the time.
I probably was in the pub the next lunchtime though.
Oh, to be young again
For the constitution, certainly not the decision making.