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Drunken Stories

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Shakes on a plane [Oct. 7th, 2009|07:31 am]
Drunken Stories

(Crossposted a little)


I will be on another long-haul flight on Wednesday,and so I am starting my new LJ journal life by sharing with you my philosophy of on-board alcohol consumption.

There are those who say no to drinking in the air. Even at this early stage in our relationship I suspect you'll guess I am not of their number. Really, when you're contemplating 8 or more hours of airtime, a pop or seven is pretty essential.

In the good old days they understood the need of a man (or woman who could hold her own in the hostelry) for a bottle of scotch and a steak, and 20 full strength ciggies when crossing the Atlantic. For fuck's sake, even Amelia Earhart was on the double vodkas and red marlboros the second the chocks were away. (Probably.)

Which makes it harsh that nowadays they will barely even let you on a plane if they think you've had a few, and certainly won't if they think you're planning on having a few more. Sure, there's a miniature or two in it for you, if you can wait for the trolley to make its murderously slow progress to your aisle. But you just try going for a third! And two is hardly enough to inebriate a capuchin monkey.

There's only one solution. You've got to drink your own. But at the same time you can't get caught. Here's what I do:

When I arrive at Pearson Airport (or wherever I happen to be embarking from), as soon as I can I go straight to the duty-free shop. I buy 2 litre bottles of scotch. Bell's if I can get it, otherwise Whyte & Mackay or J&B. I then go to the magazine shop and buy two half-litre bottles of coke. I bear my booty to the bathroom. I find a vacant cubicle and lock myself in. I open both the cokes. I tip out a  third of the contents into the toilet in each case. I fill the coke bottles with as much scotch as possible. This comes to approximately 1/3 of a litre. I screw the lids back on to all the bottles. I turn the coke bottles gently to and fro, to mix the scotch and coke. I stow the scotch safely away in my carry-on luggage. I'm ready to rock and roll.

My cocktails (I call them 'coke bombs') look just like straight coke. I take endless nips, getting first pleasantly glowy, then extremely drunk. If anyone smells it on my breath, they probably don't guess what I'm up to. They'll think I just stopped for a couple of at the departure lounge bar, which is 'allowed'. I am usually passed out for the duration of the flight long before I've finished my coke bombs, or even got into a movie. Luckily I am also usually still toasted when I wake up and disembark, enjoying the last part of the journey in a blissful delayed alcoholic haze.

I like spirits when I have to do stuff, since I generally manage to remain relatively articulate and capable - until I pass out that is. No one has ever called me for being a drunk on a plane. Although, now I come to think of it, one girl did reseat herself somewhat abruptly after I plonked myself down next to her. Maybe she just can't stand devastatingly handsome Englishmen with a hint of grey at the temples? These are deep waters. I'll just mix myself another while I sit and contemplate the mysteries of the universe, and muse pleasantly on this and that.