I like a drink. I’m happy to admit that. Forget all those people who say “I don’t drink. Just a sherry at christmas.” Or the bastards who claim they don’t smoke, apart from a cigar on New Year’s Eve. It’s only one step away from “I don’t murder people, just a prostitute for my birthday.”

Anyway, I’ve been known to go on a binge session now and then when it’s called for. A few months ago my cat died, so I drank 12 cans of Fosters. We all do some pretty embarassing shit when we’re drunk. Not a work’s do goes by without me waking up stiff with cringe.

So I wake up the next morning face down on my laptop. Empty cans everywhere. No memory of the night before. I walk to the bathroom for a piss and notice the toilet is full of paper, and not the toilet kind. I pull a few sheets out and it’s pretty clear that I’d drunkenly handwritten about fiteen pages of jokes about the Millennium Bug. Some really good stuff. Sadly the year is 2009 and the material is useless. Cursing my lack of a time machine, I accept that I’ll never become a successful standup comedian. The paper goes back in the toilet and I flush.

A few weeks later my dog died. I’d bought a crate of 24 Fosters when the cat died, so I had 12 left. By the next morning they were gone, as were my memories of the night before. Once again I took my morning walk to the bathroom, and once again the toilet was filled with A4 lined paper. In my drunken state I’d designed a fully working time machine. “If only I’d had this two weeks ago!” I cried “I could have become a great comedian”. By the time I realised I could have used the time machine to retrieve my forgotten jokes I’d already flushed. Twice.

Anthony, Leeds.

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