What it's like to go out every night for six months
It was 11pm on a Thursday and instead of shouting “one more drink?” across Trisha’s, I closed the door on a charming paramedic named Cliff, sent by 111 to check up on me and the melody of symptoms I’d queried on the phone. After much gentle prodding, poking and stabbing he deemed that no, it wasn’t the dreaded flu or food poisoning as I’d reported to my editor, but — tiny violins, please — some sort of infection possibly (read: definitely) brought on by too many units of alcohol, too few nutrients and not enough sleep.
I’m perhaps paraphrasing the paramedic here — sorry, Cliff — but my orders were as clear as Rishi Sunak’s inability to be a semi-decent prime minister: stay home and be healthy. Going out is out, drinking is strictly forbidden and menus, even takeaway ones, are off the menu.
The first two parts of this, I think, wouldn’t be too (gold, of course) — might well be.
