DRINKING AND DRIVING
The new year usually heralds an abundance of dinners, dances and other revelries which, before the roads became congested with bad drivers, used to be fun,
Ah yes, back in the sixties when it first became illegal to drink and drive, such merrymaking suddenly became a crushing bore. Before then Greg and I used to enjoy these pleasures but the gloss disappeared overnight once it became a forlorn motive to attend such a function without any hope of getting ‘ratted’.
Before then, we could hold our liquor. Indeed anyone who could not, was chastised as a freak and thus struck off all social lists as ninnies!
So as to prove the fact that there are statistics, statistics and damned lies, so - called experts entered the scenario with their silly figures and produced a load of nonsense, which I, having once studied statistics, challenged. They laid claim to the correct assertion that one out of every five accidents is drink-driving related. My counter-claim was therefore that it thus follows, that in four out of every five, alcohol is not present.
My interpretation of their statistics, therefore proved beyond question that not having a drink before driving is actually more dangerous than having one, indeed four times more so!
With the introduction of the breathalyser however, I pondered and deliberated on this serious legal requirement not to drink and drive lest one should lose one’s driving license, and developed a plan to circumnavigate the issue. Little did I realise that there would be a nasty sting in the tail for me!
During August, my eldest son would reach seventeen and my scheme was to finance a course of driving lessons for his seventeenth birthday present.
The cost seemed extravagant at first but in attempting to console my wife concerning the outlay, I convinced her that it would also be a sound investment. “Once he has passed the test,” I told her, “he can take us to the jazz club and I can have a drink without having to worry about driving home.”
“Then there’s the local Pigeon Fanciers’ annual dinner-dance to which we always get invited and yet, in perpetuity return home from, stone-cold sober whilst everyone else gets nicely blotto and like their pigeons, FLY home,” I added.
Then there’s the fishing club dinner. Before the drink driving laws, I used to be considered the life and soul of the party, and would entertain members for a good hour with my fishing exploits. Sobriety somehow reduces the comedic prowess and to be able to imbibe on these occasions, would once more restore me to that prior position of dignity!
The possibilities were enormous and it would have changed our lives back to how they were in the sixties, especially mine!
So it was, that I blindly committed myself to an expense that I naively expected would END with the handing over of my cheque to the driving school.
I had done my forward planning, but unlike my usual self, I had omitted to do any forward thinking. This was so out of character to my normal style, that I cannot believe my usual instincts had deserted me so readily.
The first shock came when I applied for the new family ‘chauffeur’ to be added to my insurance policy. At a stroke the annual premium soared, he being classed as an inexperienced driver.
After some sole searching, I forgave myself this one miscalculation. My first venue, as a pilot run, was the pub. This was where I received my second experience of verity.
“I can’t drink AND drive,” he kept reminding me in a loud voice as I offered to buy him a drink - albeit a soft one. Why was he saying this, and why was he saying it so loudly? Of course, I failed to realise at the time that his stentorian vocalising was simply aimed to impress the two young ladies close by, that he was, despite his youthful appearance, an ‘accustomed driver’ and in possession of a FULL driver’s license. A caddish ploy that I also recall using shortly after passing my own driving test.
I purchased my own pint of best bitter and ordered a lemonade for the ‘chauffeur’. It hadn’t dawned on me until then just how much lemonade had soared in price since I last purchased one many years ago, but I hasten to add; I am no niggard.
Things then went from bad to worse. Almost two months to the day after that pub incident, he came home with one of the two young ladies on his arm, the blond one, who, he admitted afterwards, he was able to ‘pull’ because of the big expensive car he was driving; - ‘MINE’.
Soon I was buying the girlfriend tequila sunrises as well as those expensive lemonades for the ‘chauffeur’. Within a couple of weeks, he had become committed to regularly dating this stunner and my demands on his time, were slowly cast aside in preference for hers, except when HE wanted ME to act as HIS ‘chauffeur’! How the tide had turned!
So it was that I accordingly begged his permission to use my own car. Since this was not always convenient for them, my good lady and I soon found ourselves walking or scrounging lifts into town. It was not uncommon also, for me to be seen lugging my fishing tackle down to the river bank, a good three quarters of a mile.
The only consolation is that she and I got more exercise and it is said, that at our age, walking is good for you. Were it not for the mountainous trek back, up that bloody Hill, I might agree, but our aching limbs seem to be telling us something else.
I soon found that I was allowed to use my vehicle occasionally, like when we needed to restock the fridge and freezer, no lesser pace being acceptable to my ‘chauffeur’ due to his uncontrollable amorous impulses, resulting in his ever increasing demands upon my motor.
On these trips I usually found it necessary to top up the tank, due to my son’s remissness in allowing the needle to drop below the red danger level without paying heed to its need for more petrol.
I commented to him one day, how depressed I felt, when every time I use the car, the petrol gauge is always much lower than the previous time I used it.
“That’s strange,” replied my son, “whenever I use it, it always seems to be higher!”
