Mystery in the bottle

I do my evening running/jogging at a small cricket club. Its not a hip or elite place – mainly used school sports teams. Accept for maybe one other regular jogger most adults are in the bar. Or at tables hauled out from the club house onto the grass. The table cloths flap as I puff past them. From the kitchen, the salty whiff of some animal parts being fried in a lot of oil. They sit with ties flowing over bellies and smoke curling slowly from the cancer sticks in their fingers. Eating their deep fried spicy “bites” to wash down with their amber fluid. Looks like constipated urine, whisky, or possibly arrack. What would I know ?

Booze of any kind makes me very sleepy and tired. A good night’s sleep doesn’t solve the crappy feeling the next morning. Then there’s the horrid greasy food that’s supposed to medicate that. To say that all this is part of a good time, of having fun is insane.

Clearly I don’t get it.

There must be some joy from sitting at those tables. First talking in gravely voice. Then a little louder when people start getting “set” with the their booze. Cliques form. There are arguments in slurry, raised voices. With an arm held aloft, fingers together, gesturing vaguely at nothing coherent. If they really had a ball, the next day, there would be dried vomit stains on the wall by the car park. Scattered leftovers of the ‘bites’ feed stray dogs and flies. I’m not convinced that they actually enjoyed it. Maybe they were too smashed to notice.

There’s something disturbing to watch these guys poison themselves in a “sports club”. I involuntarily lose respect for drunks. They might be able to hold their liqueur but not a good conversation. I creates this dumb idea that being drunk is a form of immunity from consequence. That’s too painfully silly.

Finally I don’t swallow the excrement that masculinity must be continually proven by consuming stuff that kills the liver (for starters). I’m not that insecure.

And I’m unlikely to figure it all out.


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