Paradoxical properties of pints

Like almost all things that belong to this earthly domain, drink is not simply black or white, good or bad, happy or sad.

Such is the nature of life itself, nothing is one, binary, definitive thing, absolute in its application, uncomplicated in its essence.

Perfection is a pipe-dream and purity an illusion. Few, if any, people, things, acts or accidents are irredeemably negative or pristinely positive.

And so alcohol, being just another of this planet’s beautiful imperfections, is no different in this regard.

However, while the multifacetedness of our reality is often a master of stealth, it is in drink that the ambivalence of the world announces itself most loudly.

“You’re chatting some dung today, McElhatton,” says you.

“It was actually yesterday, so shut your judgmental, gun-jumping cake-hole,” counters I.

Anyway, those who voluntarily unsteady themselves on a regular basis know better than most that the world is a place of gradations and shades, a spectral and inexorably unpredictable environment.

Because, just like the world from which it springs and character of the people who consume it, drink has as many curses as it does charms.

For some, it can a benevolent friend.

For others, a terrible enemy.

But telling the status of one’s relationship with the sauce is much easier said than done.

Indeed, drink is craftier than the con man and more cunning than the fox.

People are adept enough at the art of self-deception at the best of times, but a destructive predilection for pints only seems to supercharge man’s capacity for hiding the truth from himself.

For example, one of the most persuasive promises offered by a drink-free life has to be a seemingly-utopian future devoid of hangovers.

However, even those prone to the most brain-hemorrhaging bouts of post-rip illness rarely resolve to extricate themselves from their tormentor.

I have seen me lying in bed making deals with the devil if only he would absolve me of last night’s sins.

Still, though, just as sure as the brightness of morning banishes the darkest night, the weekend arrives and washes away last Sunday’s suffering.

Even on occasions when the trauma has been too deep to forget, I have watched myself rationalise it away as the price that must be paid for the fun we wish to have.

“It is but the karmic consequence of the rip, the ying of pain to the yang of pleasure,” I say, anointing myself with a generous third spray of aftershave.

Another example of the confusing, paradoxical effects of drink is its peculiar ability to increase confidence while simultaneously decreasing ability.

There is no man more likely to fight than one who has drank a bottle of whiskey.

The comic, dangerous irony, however, is that neither is there any man in worse shape to throw a punch than one who has drank a bottle of whiskey.

The same can be said about entering into controversial debate, or trying to put the moves on a potential partner.

Why is it that when we are fat-tongued and wobblesome that we imagine ourselves to be at the absolute height of our intellectual and sexual powers?

Because, let me tell ye, ye aren’t.

Now, quick self-evaluation.

Has this column served to reveal a difficult-to-discern truth about the fundamental complexity of our reality?

Almost certainly not.

Has it potentially put a smile on your face, passed five minutes, and planted a seed that might make you think twice the next time you drunkenly consider scrapping, arguing or seducing?

Hopefully, but chances are you’ll be have forgotten my advice by the time you need it.Paradoxical properties of pints