Regrets

@Braziel’s Tweet a few nights ago (Can you recall the first time you ever got seriously drunk? Meeting an old friend online just reminded me of mine. Tell the story.) led me to think about a seriously drunk night but it wasn’t my first.

Back sometime in 1981, my best friend and I frequented a bar that was next door to the bowling club where my parents went a few evenings each week. Once the bar closed, we would call into the club for the keys to my dad’s car and wait in the car for him and my mum while listening to the radio. We would then drop Martin home on the way to our house.

I had my provisional driving license at the time and had been driving alongside my dad for a few months, and on occasion, had driven Martin illegally the two or three miles to his house and returned to the bar to wait for my parents, pretending that Martin had decided to walk home.

On this particular evening, there was a Smethwicks event on in the White Fort Inn. I think it was a “buy one, get one free” mechanic, but I have a recollection of a bar table full to capacity of bottles of beer and there was just the two of us. I vaguely remember being concerned that the bar might run out of stock so we were getting ours in early. Gluttony was the order of the day and we were really stocious by the end of the evening.

Later, after chucking out time, I got the keys to my dad’s company car. It was a Fiat 132 – a two litre, twin overhead camshaft, four door saloon in silver. Beautiful car!

Not long after Martin sat down, I accelerated sharply out into the road without looking for any oncoming cars. I roared along the road weaving in and out of the traffic. After a mile or so I turned left and shot through a housing estate and out the other side onto another main road. Across this road was the opening to where Martin lived. We made it across safely and we again roared along a mainly residential street. Travelling around 50mph, I asked Martin which of the five openings to my right was his. He indicated a fast approaching street and I swung the power-assisted steering hard round. Now I’m sure that even if I were sober, I couldn’t have made the turn. From where the car was positioned, it was about an 80° turn. I managed 45°! The car hit the kerb, which meant that it jumped slightly so that rather than go through the wall, it landed on it and went on into the garden knocking down a small tree. I found out later that the wall had just been rebuilt following a similar incident the previous weekend.

Martin opened his door and asked me what he should do. I blame the adrenalin…and the brewery…and my own lack of decency.

Rather than sit tight and explain to the house owner what had happened, I shouted at him to “get to f**k out!” I promptly reversed the car back through the wall and out into the street. Of course, Martin had forgotten to close his door and between the door being bent back towards the front wing, the remnants of the wall ripping the sump out of the bottom of the car and the damaged steering resulting the steering wheel being almost horizontal, I struggled to get the car back to the pub. I made it though, with some strange looks from people on the way as I feathered the clutch while waiting to emerge onto a main road. I think I remember telling myself that everyone would blame joy riders rather than a nice grammar school boy like me. When I arrived back at the pub, I parked the car in exactly the same place and went into the club to get my parents.

I think my dad knew something was wrong. I said “Dad, I’ve done something wrong”. He said, “What did you do? Smash up the car, haha?”

My Dad managed to nurse the car up to my grandmother’s house and we got a taxi home. My mum was in tears and when we got there, she headed up to bed immediately. We sat down at the kitchen table and he started to ask me what exactly had happened. As he spoke, the doorbell rang. The hall was filled with, I think, eight RUC men, some with M1 carbines, and Martin. He had ran straight up his street and into his house and a neighbour reported seeing him – so much for his street smarts and a future life of petty crime! Dummy. Subsequently known as The Tout for the rest of his years by my mother, Martin, being the quiet decent chap that he is, had told the truth and not some tale about being given a lift by some bloke he met in the pub (my mum’s suggested outcome!).

That night, as I was taken from my house to Musgrave St RUC station for a blood test, the PC in the back of the Land Rover with me warned me about his colleague being a hardhead and not to say too much as I might regret it later. I was being fairly open about what had happened and I appreciated his advice, as I was sobering up fast. I remember watching closely as the doctor put the needle into my vein. Later that night, I was transferred up to Woodburn RUC station and interviewed. The police was cute enough to leave the top of Martin’s statement visible for me to know that they already had it, in the hope that I would spill the beans too. My dad had advised me to say absolutely nothing, but being a 19-year-old smartarse, I thought I new better…

Some months later, I was in court in Belfast. Charged with Driving without L-Plates, Driving Unaccompanied, Driving Without Insurance and Leaving The Scene Of An Accident. Apparently, I wasn’t charged with drinking and driving as I had got home and could have claimed that I’d had a drink to settle my nerves.

I was sitting among a number of real joy riders and other minor criminals and frowned when, as my charges were read out, one of them said, “He’s for the bloody high-jump!”

I was suited and booted and very embarrassed as my solicitor tried to mitigate my actions. I was fined £110 and banned from driving for a year. I had to walk to the front of the court to hand in my Provisional License.

Over the years, I have related this story as a tale of “derring-do” as I’m still about 19 on the inside, but I realise how stupid I was to put myself, Martin and countless other people at risk of death or serious injury and how I might have ruined my relationship with my parents if they weren’t the solid loving people they are.

Any wonder I worry about what my own 18 and 21 year old kids are up to at night? They couldn’t be as stupid as me, right?