Drunk as a skunk?
Fucking right I was.
Not often you make a proposal of marriage to a six foot five mountaineer when you are sober.
Normal on the bus to Poland, you might say.
I might say it too.
I like travelling by bus to Poland. You get to Dover and on to the ferry and get a coupla drinks.
With the aid of a small carry out, you can then sleep the 20 hours to get you through France, Belgium and Germany etc and arrive 'suitably refreshed' at your port of call.
Except, I over-did it in a major way, the happiness of my return to the land of the now-Ducks making me a bit too happy.
Got drinking with a Polish Dentist and an ex-patriot mountaineer, big style.
We were truly antisocial, drinking and smoking in the back of the bus and chatting up the stewardess. What seemed like a good idea at the time only ended when we collectively fell asleep in a pile on the floor.
I slept the sleep of the righteous and woke up in the middle of a wet dream about my ex-girlfriend, I think.
Pretty Foxy whoever she was, I am sure.
My ex girlfriend who had wanted to get me 'done proper' by a crowd of bikers.
My ex girlfriend who had begged me for another child.
My ex girlfriend who had tried to destroy me.
Thatz the one to have a wet dream over.
The fact that I was sleeping on the shoulder of my six foot five mountaineer may have accounted for the conflation moment which overtook me.
The fact that he had long black hair and massive pectorals also contributed a bit of flavour.
'Will you marry me?'
I was reminded of the scene from 'Some Like it Hot' where Tony Curtis nearly marries Osgood Fielding
But you don't understand!
(he rips off his wig;
in a male voice)
I'm a MAN!
Well - nobody's perfect.
Through the drunken haze I started to realise that I was not making one of my better lifetime choices.
'I like you a lot but I am not that way inclined. If I was, you would be my first choice. Honestly.', he said. His terror in the confines of a Eurobus was manifest.
Fully awake now, I tried to think how to explain my momentary loss of situation.
All that happened was that I made things worse.
Every time I thought that my foot was out of my mouth I only succeeded in replacing it with another foot.
Perhaps, like Kafka, I had woken up as a centipede.
One hundred excuses later, I got off in the South of Poland.
He stayed on, never to be seen again.
(And he never even sent me a postcard)