I won’t drink so much when I’m not lonely anymore. Drinking makes me like Popeye in the night times and we all gotta spend a little part of the day feeling strong. Sometimes I go two kilometres extra over the speed limit to get home quicker. It’s not like I’m salivating for it or anything, like when the waitress is coming towards you with the sizzling plate of Mongolian quail sending smoke into the restaurant sky and your lips are wet and parted. It’s nothing like that. It’s not the taste of it that gets me going. Sometimes I can taste egg. Sometimes little fruit flies are in it and I have to dig them out with my fingernail before I keep going. What I love is two sips and I feel warm, two glasses and I feel strong. Like spinach in a glass. And your boss could be there right then and tell you that you fucked up and you made the worst mistake the company has ever known and you won’t feel sorry cos your conscience has a bone to play with. You’ll just get up, with that delightful deep red stained on your lips, with that egg glass in your mitts, the fruit flies buzzing round, and you’ll tell him the bravado wasn’t fooling anybody, cheerio fingers always mean cheerio cock.