I was working on a scene in my new book where one of the main characters does something dumb after having had a few drinks too many, and it started me reminiscing about my own drunken exploits.
There are the dumb moments (like when I couldn’t find my car and was convinced it had been stolen, before remembering that I hadn’t been the designated driver that night — thank God), and the embarrassing ones (like when . . . no, I don’t think I’ll share that one after all). But the most mortifying drunken exploit happened on my twenty-first birthday.
The date: February 8, 1993
The place: London, England
The beverage: Shots of something. Tequila, perhaps? Gah, I can’t even imagine doing a tequila shooter now. It would probably kill me.
The event: After my four roommates got me liquored up at our local pub, we decided for some reason that we should pay a visit to the Queen. As in, the Queen of England. We loaded ourselves into a black cab, and had the driver take us to Buckingham Palace. Once there, we stood at the gate and repeatedly — and loudly — demanded to see the Queen. And, if I remember correctly, we might also have danced a bit. And sung.
The very nice, very professional guard politely told us that (a) the Queen was asleep, and (b) if we didn’t leave he’d arrest us.
Yet further proof that youth is wasted on the young.
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