Frank Rackham: Bright lights and nitrates
It can never be just one beer.
One turns into another. Then it’s happy hour, so it makes sense to get as much piss as you can for your pound, this being London and all. Before you know it it’s midnight and you’ve done the lap of Sam Smith’s pubs in Soho and you’re queuing for Tranny Shack at Madam JoJo’s with a pocket full of poppers.
Or you’re heading to the West End and Trader Vicks or Crucifix Lane in London Bridge in a cab full of PRs you’ve only known for a few hours and who are beginning to think carrying on drinking with this lump of boozy mayhem that claims to be a professional journalist may not have been the wisest thing to do on a Wednesday night.
It is also worth noting that many a great man and woman in our great capital have fallen foul of the two greatest words in the English language: free bar.
Or perhaps it’s later than that. You’re not sure what time it is really as you can’t seem to find your Blackberry (you put it one of your pockets. Or maybe that table over there. It doesn’t matter; this is a tuuuuuuuuunnne.) You’ve lost the guys who took you to this warehouse party near the Olympic park and suddenly you realise that somewhere along the way you’ve taken something with one of the several warm cans of Strongbow you’ve been inhaling since sunset. Bright lights. Music.
Suddenly it’s daylight and you’re on a doorstep near Victoria Park and you live in West London. You know you’ve got work soon, and a deadline, so you face the first tube on a Monday morning to get back west mumbling promises of sobriety and redemption to yourself.
London does that to you. On any given night one seemingly innocuous drink can send you down one of many roads. Most of them are fun and will lead you to places you will look fondly on in the future. Most of them.