As with the unappetising (“it was crawling and it stunk”) but life-giving
stoup of water that Kipling’s nameless squaddie received from Gunga Din,
there must probably exist some relationship between the phrase “of all the
drinks I’ve drunk” and the unpromising circumstance in which it was imbibed
or administered.
This would certainly be true of the example that comes most sharply back to
me. It was in northern Iraq in 1991, as the forces of Saddam Hussein were
being cleared out of Kurdistan. It’s difficult to describe how bleak and
gruesome the landscape was, with vast areas denuded by a combination of
chemical weaponry, ethnic cleansing and pitiless bombardment. Any sort of
amenity, most of all unpolluted water, was at a premium. I have never
enjoyed my water so much as when it came made of melted ice with a couple of
antibacterial tablets thrown in. Such nectar!
Yet this was as nothing to that night in the town of Shaqlawa, where the guns
had fallen silent and it seemed as if the long-dreaded Iraqi army had
perhaps begun to melt away.
To some Kurdish youths I said that I would give them all my large banknotes
with Saddam Hussein’s face on them if they could convert these pieces of
filthy paper into lamb kebabs. They agreed.
To my photographer friend, Ed Kashi, the son of Baghdad Jews, I apologised
that my portable supply of malt-whisky miniatures (“the medicine”, as we had
come to call it) had run out. We began to face the prospect of our first
decent meal in a while, but without our only liquid consolation.
Then the Kurdish boys ran back. There was cold beer to be had, too, if I could
spare a few more fistfuls of Saddam-faced toilet paper.
I do not like lager and never have, but the sheer frigid bite of it with that
freshly killed and fragrant lamb, and the somehow satisfying price I was
paying for the treat, have remained with me ever since and at least in
memory can refresh the parts that other booze cannot reach.
CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS
When visiting Paris I’m always afraid I’ll be arrested by the Chic Police.
“I’m sorry Madam, but you are not sophisticated enough to rub shoulder-pads
with French people.”
Off to the Roland-Garros tennis tournament last year with a gaggle of
girlfriends, my only method for getting up the noses of my Gallic hosts was
to sport a top reading: “If nobody is observing this T-shirt, does it
exist?” But a few glasses of Grande Cuvée later and I came to the
realisation that it’s not that the French are arrogant; it’s that the rest
of us suffer from delusions of adequacy.
June Sarpong, Maureen Lipman, Caroline Chikezie, Alison Jackson and I decided
that living in England, a woman gets so used to a lack of male attention
that she starts to feel she has the sexual allure of a half-thawed rissole.
Frenchmen, on the other hand, have the gift of the grab. And, with
a preference for champagne that has been aged, lovingly, for decades, it’s
no wonder French men appreciate older women.
It was so hot at the tennis that the trees were positively whistling for dogs.
There was no alternative really. We just had to drink more champers. Which
is no doubt why I was soon running on to the practice court below us to
congratulate Roger Federer on his prime pectoral real estate. And possibly
also the reason we ended up in a club off the ChampsÉlysées dancing till
dawn, resulting in a nasty glitter-ball graze on a very private part of my
anatomy.
The next day I felt sure my liver would be flying a white flag or surrender.
But as the champagne was vintage (95 and Cuvée Rosé) I woke late morning
with no bottle fatigue. Oh, but the nipple jewellry was a bit of a worry . .
.
KATHY LETTE
The best drunken experiences to me have a real Catch22 feel to them: if you
can remember how great they were then you probably weren’t drunk enough in
the first place. My best moments have always been the ones relayed back to
me by friends and because they’re my friends they cut out the dribbling, the
crying and the slurring so you come across as Dorothy Parker at the
Algonquin Round Table.
My best drinking experiences have always been a mixture of exotic location and
celebrity because not only do you have a wonderfully raucous time but it
already comes pre-packaged as an anecdote: “So I’m in a beach house in
Lloret de Mar and Amy Winehouse comes in with a tray of sambuca” . . . you
get the gist. One particular experience was when I was invited with a
selection of other British comedians to perform stand-up on an Australian TV
show. Our hotel was five-star, dead central and riddled with celebrities. It
was the best in Melbourne and after my performance, which went really well
by the way, we returned to the hotel for complimentary drinks (did I mention
it was five-star?). Not before long I was trolleyed and both me and Lee Mack
decided to call it a night, in separate rooms, I might add. An older guy
joins us in the lift and seeing us both swaying and giggling says “You like
parties?” Well I never, it was Peter Fonda and before we knew it me and Lee
are sitting at his feet in his suite singing protest songs while he
accompanied us on guitar. I would usually avoid this situation, but it was
one of the Fondas, for God’s sake. The only way I could trump this would be
if I did a cardio-vascular work-out paralytic with Jane.
As a drunken anecdote, maybe you had to be there, but it was very funny
especially with Lee who sat Peter down and said: “I know you must get this
all the time what with Easy Riderand everything. But – what’s your
favourite pie?” We were in bits, Peter didn’t get it. Anyway the party
fizzled out and we retired graciously, after Lee distracted him – and I took
all the drinks out of his minibar.
ALAN CARR
Alan Carr's Celebrity Ding Dong is on Channel 4, 10pm on February 1
However socially shameful it is to be an alcoholic, it is, perhaps, even more
so to be teetotal. Suspicion spreads like wildfire around a table the moment
you announce that you won’t be drinking. If the reason isn’t down to a
physical ailment, then a refusal of a drink can become synonymous with a
rejection of friendship.
Since adolescence, I’ve never enjoyed alcohol and never felt any need to drink
to kiss or confess. I can become as uninhibited as I need to be on water.
Being deeply nostalgic and pessimistic, or daft and playful come easily to
me. The only thing alcohol brings me is headaches.
My reluctance to drink is connected to a desire not to lose conscious control.
The life of the mind is my greatest pleasure. I love to analyse my own
experiences and to share thoughts with others. Alcohol seems to numb pain
but also desensitises me. I cease to notice the world around me.
Acquaintances who badger me to drink are, beneath the surface, usually
seeking reassurance that I won’t judge them for things they may say or do
when drunk. They have my guarantee on this. I’d never judge them for being
as crazy drunk as I know I am when sober. I’ve found it’s better not to
reveal too much about why I’m not drinking. Now I hint at some unspecified
alcohol abuse-related problem that landed me up in rehab and has left me
sipping fizzy water. That way, I get respect, trust – and no headaches.
ALAIN de BOTTON
The best drink of my life? It’s the glass of champagne I have before my
breakfast every morning. It doesn’t have to be fine champagne. It can be
run-of-the-mill, cooking champagne. But it really cheers you up.
JOHN MORTIMER
