Heavy drinking –
I have almost stopped drinking now, perhaps a beer once
in a while in the summer and some Retsina when I’m in
Greece but not the heavy drinking any more.
In the 80’s I was out a lot and spent many nights in
restaurants and bars. It was a great time, funny things
happened and I met many interesting people.
But I am happy now without the heavy drinking – booze
makes me tired and the day after a late night out is a
disaster.
But of course, I have fond memories of the drinking and of
being drunk. I think of all the times I had a blackout and
the next day I couldn’t remember what had happened after
3 AM.
I can’t say I miss that.
But I have to admit I remember my drinking and
my blackouts with affection.
The beer school -
The Mythos beers you just had,
they looked very watery or
maybe it was just the way
you drank them,
my wife said.
We were sitting at a table in a
crowded tavern in Monastiraki
in the old town of Athens and
once again my wife got it
exactly right.
Café Opera at 2 AM –
My friend Sten the journalist is being attacked by an
admirer at the bar and Sten is shouting:
- I don´t give a damn if you like what I am writing, I don´t
feel like talking to you! Can´t you understand?
I try to solve the drama and talk to the intruder:
- Hey, why don´t you just leave him alone. He’s drunk and
you’re drunk and he doesn´t want to talk to you.
- But I know him and I have spoken to him many times
before, he just suddenly doesn’t recognize me, he is really
hopeless when he is drunk.
- OK, I said, but leave him alone now and give it another
try when you’re both sober again.
He leaves but Sten sounds tired and says to the bartender
- You are really lousy in this bar when it comes to getting
rid of people. A guy like that should have been thrown
out, why should he spoil our evening? You’re not good at
throwing out people that are too drunk!
I really think Sten should be happy about that, otherwise
he would have been thrown out himself a long time ago.
The Champ –
The boxing match was on the radio and we
got up in the middle of the night to listen.
It was 1959 and I was seven years old and
we were in our little summer house outside of
Eskilstuna. My father and I sat close to the
Blaupunkt transistor radio, listening to how
Ingemar Johansson won over Floyd Paterson and
how we got a Swedish Champ.
“My brother’s name was also Henry”,
Ingemar Johansson said, thirty years later, when
I met him late one night in a bar. He told me about
his brother who had been ill and died young.
He was signing an autograph for me with the
nice big expensive ink pen I always carried.
“When I was a kid in Gothenburg, I found a
pen like this on the street”, he said.
Suddenly I was reminding him of his childhood.
“One more beer for the Champ, please!”
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