general update on my drunken exploits
There are rhymes that explain how one is not supposed to drink. None of those involve port, a sweet fortified wine (approximately 20 per cent. alcohol) and, as a general matter, my drink of choice, and, as such, I was not properly equipped to handle a situation which resulted in my first alcohol-induced vomiting experience and the worst hangover I have ever experienced.
On Thursday night, I dined at Gray's Inn as the guest of my good friend Tom, who is a member of the Inn and who is training to be a barrister, which is the sort of lawyer in England that is permitted to wear wigs and argue in front of judges. The other sort of lawyer in England is the solicitor, who handles transactional matters (like 'deals' governed by corporate law, for example) and preparatory work on court disputes (i.e., the solicitor generally works with a client to prepare the client's case, and then the solicitor employs a barrister to argue the case before the court). Barristers tend to look down on solicitors, which is strange to an American, because in America, which does not have a bifurcated profession as England does, litigators (particularly, trial litigators) are the true bottom-feeders of the legal profession. Even the fanciest of litigators end up arguing about how Tyson did everything it could to avoid selling rancid chicken, or how Dow wasn't negligent in dumping dioxin-laden waste products into the Tittabawassee River, and they do it against even less savory plaintiff's attorneys. *shudder*
Other background material is necessary before I get into the minor details of this unfortunate Thursday night.
Part of Tom's requirements for being called to the bar consists of dining at the Inn a certain number of times during this year. On certain occasions he is allowed to bring guests with him. He has graciously invited me to dine with him twice, and both times it has been a very enjoyable treat.
Dinner is in a hall with a vaulted, hammerbeam roof, with an open cupola in the center, on the top of which is a griffin (as American Heritage 4 defines it, "a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion"), the symbol of Gray's Inn. There are four tables and corresponding benches stretching three-quarters the length of the room, and at the front of the room are tables, running perpendicular to the four tables, at which the 'Benchers' (distinguished barristers of the Inn) sit. The structure is really quite similar to the structure of the great hall in Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies. (The hall at Gray's Inn is a bit smaller than the hall at Hogwarts, though.)
Students like Tom are required to wear black, sleeveless gowns. Guests just have to wear suits and ties. Everyone sits in a mess of four, with the person sitting at the top of the mess serving dinner and proposing toasts to the upper and lower messes (as well as being the first to toast his mess). At the top of the first table is a grizzled old woman called the Madam Senior. At the bottom of the fourth table is the poor sap who will have to interact with the Madam Senior after dinner (by holding a series of awkward conversations with her across the length of the hall) and arrange entertainment for the hall.
When everyone is settled, the gruff butler addresses hall and notes that no one is allowed to leave hall after the benchers enter the hall, unless permission is requested in the form of a letter addressed to the Madam Senior. He notes further that it is difficult to get a letter to the Madam Senior because no one is allowed to get up at all during dinner.
In addition to these anachronistic and charming traditions and the beautiful environment of the hall, alcohol is provided at the table to improve everyone's disposition. There is white wine, red wine, and a bottle of port for each set of two messes.
I am not a fan of either red or white wine, with certain exceptions (I will drink German Rieslings with a predicate of spätlese or auslese, but I have not encountered any on a menu in London so far), but I will drink port with basically anything. Tom has established a policy that, despite his better judgment and what others at dinners will think, he will ensure that I have port to drink. Typically, he is responsible for filling my glass, and I am generally not aware of how much port I have consumed, as my glass is never empty, and I never see it being re-filled.
My ability to consume port in large quantities varies. The most I've had before is a bottle. A bottle might result in the spins. The morning-after effects of port consumption tend to be waking up really early and a minor dehydration headache which goes away after drinking a lot of water in a short period of time. Sometimes I can't even get through half a bottle. I never force it.
And now to the narrative:
Thursday night I got to dine with Tom and his parents. It was Tom's parents' first time dining in Gray's Inn and the first time that I had met his parents. I sat next to Tom's dad, and we discussed his work and career, including his teaching appointments in California, at UT Austin, and Rochester; his attendance of the election day celebration parties of both Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter in 1976; and his stint as head curator of the national museum system in Wales. Tom's parents joined with me in chastising Tom for thinking thinking that 'Bob' could possibly be an abbreviation of 'William' (as Tom had, for over a year, labored under the notion that my full name was William) and Tom's dad noted that Tom probably confused Chicago with Toronto when he told me he had a cousin who was a lawyer in Chicago, because "Tom was never very good with geography."
I had a great time, and I couldn't have had that much port, because there was enough in the bottle at the end of the meal for three other people in our two messes to have a glass. (Cf. last time, when Tom went down the table and had to take an additional bottle of port from another mess for dessert.)
Afterward we went to a pub near the Inn (and fairly near my apartment), and I had a gin and tonic. I think that was my mistake. Shortly thereafter, Tom and Jess (who had joined us at the pub), presumably noting my apparently remarkable state of inebriation, agreed to walk me to my house.
It was at home that I decided that I needed to vomit. And so I vomited. And then I went to bed. (A note: vomiting is not nearly as terrifying an experience for me when I am drunk--always a silver lining!)
When I woke up in the morning, I was still tipsy, and I was additionally dyspeptic (as I often am), and eventually I just had a really bad headache. I ate a Swedish meatball and cheese wrap at Pret, and that helped to get me back to about 93 per cent. By the time I was in the hall of Wolfson College, Cambridge, that evening, as the guest of my colleague Evan for Wolfson's Burns Night celebration, I was back to 100 per cent. At dinner I did not drink any of the whiskey that was provided to me, and I took it easy on the haggis (given my prior dyspepsia), surely to the chagrin of the late Mr. Burns!
Stay ever vigilant (and, should you see a lesson in the novel above, do take it to heart!)--
/B/
On Thursday night, I dined at Gray's Inn as the guest of my good friend Tom, who is a member of the Inn and who is training to be a barrister, which is the sort of lawyer in England that is permitted to wear wigs and argue in front of judges. The other sort of lawyer in England is the solicitor, who handles transactional matters (like 'deals' governed by corporate law, for example) and preparatory work on court disputes (i.e., the solicitor generally works with a client to prepare the client's case, and then the solicitor employs a barrister to argue the case before the court). Barristers tend to look down on solicitors, which is strange to an American, because in America, which does not have a bifurcated profession as England does, litigators (particularly, trial litigators) are the true bottom-feeders of the legal profession. Even the fanciest of litigators end up arguing about how Tyson did everything it could to avoid selling rancid chicken, or how Dow wasn't negligent in dumping dioxin-laden waste products into the Tittabawassee River, and they do it against even less savory plaintiff's attorneys. *shudder*
Other background material is necessary before I get into the minor details of this unfortunate Thursday night.
Part of Tom's requirements for being called to the bar consists of dining at the Inn a certain number of times during this year. On certain occasions he is allowed to bring guests with him. He has graciously invited me to dine with him twice, and both times it has been a very enjoyable treat.
Dinner is in a hall with a vaulted, hammerbeam roof, with an open cupola in the center, on the top of which is a griffin (as American Heritage 4 defines it, "a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion"), the symbol of Gray's Inn. There are four tables and corresponding benches stretching three-quarters the length of the room, and at the front of the room are tables, running perpendicular to the four tables, at which the 'Benchers' (distinguished barristers of the Inn) sit. The structure is really quite similar to the structure of the great hall in Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies. (The hall at Gray's Inn is a bit smaller than the hall at Hogwarts, though.)
Students like Tom are required to wear black, sleeveless gowns. Guests just have to wear suits and ties. Everyone sits in a mess of four, with the person sitting at the top of the mess serving dinner and proposing toasts to the upper and lower messes (as well as being the first to toast his mess). At the top of the first table is a grizzled old woman called the Madam Senior. At the bottom of the fourth table is the poor sap who will have to interact with the Madam Senior after dinner (by holding a series of awkward conversations with her across the length of the hall) and arrange entertainment for the hall.
When everyone is settled, the gruff butler addresses hall and notes that no one is allowed to leave hall after the benchers enter the hall, unless permission is requested in the form of a letter addressed to the Madam Senior. He notes further that it is difficult to get a letter to the Madam Senior because no one is allowed to get up at all during dinner.
In addition to these anachronistic and charming traditions and the beautiful environment of the hall, alcohol is provided at the table to improve everyone's disposition. There is white wine, red wine, and a bottle of port for each set of two messes.
I am not a fan of either red or white wine, with certain exceptions (I will drink German Rieslings with a predicate of spätlese or auslese, but I have not encountered any on a menu in London so far), but I will drink port with basically anything. Tom has established a policy that, despite his better judgment and what others at dinners will think, he will ensure that I have port to drink. Typically, he is responsible for filling my glass, and I am generally not aware of how much port I have consumed, as my glass is never empty, and I never see it being re-filled.
My ability to consume port in large quantities varies. The most I've had before is a bottle. A bottle might result in the spins. The morning-after effects of port consumption tend to be waking up really early and a minor dehydration headache which goes away after drinking a lot of water in a short period of time. Sometimes I can't even get through half a bottle. I never force it.
And now to the narrative:
Thursday night I got to dine with Tom and his parents. It was Tom's parents' first time dining in Gray's Inn and the first time that I had met his parents. I sat next to Tom's dad, and we discussed his work and career, including his teaching appointments in California, at UT Austin, and Rochester; his attendance of the election day celebration parties of both Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter in 1976; and his stint as head curator of the national museum system in Wales. Tom's parents joined with me in chastising Tom for thinking thinking that 'Bob' could possibly be an abbreviation of 'William' (as Tom had, for over a year, labored under the notion that my full name was William) and Tom's dad noted that Tom probably confused Chicago with Toronto when he told me he had a cousin who was a lawyer in Chicago, because "Tom was never very good with geography."
I had a great time, and I couldn't have had that much port, because there was enough in the bottle at the end of the meal for three other people in our two messes to have a glass. (Cf. last time, when Tom went down the table and had to take an additional bottle of port from another mess for dessert.)
Afterward we went to a pub near the Inn (and fairly near my apartment), and I had a gin and tonic. I think that was my mistake. Shortly thereafter, Tom and Jess (who had joined us at the pub), presumably noting my apparently remarkable state of inebriation, agreed to walk me to my house.
It was at home that I decided that I needed to vomit. And so I vomited. And then I went to bed. (A note: vomiting is not nearly as terrifying an experience for me when I am drunk--always a silver lining!)
When I woke up in the morning, I was still tipsy, and I was additionally dyspeptic (as I often am), and eventually I just had a really bad headache. I ate a Swedish meatball and cheese wrap at Pret, and that helped to get me back to about 93 per cent. By the time I was in the hall of Wolfson College, Cambridge, that evening, as the guest of my colleague Evan for Wolfson's Burns Night celebration, I was back to 100 per cent. At dinner I did not drink any of the whiskey that was provided to me, and I took it easy on the haggis (given my prior dyspepsia), surely to the chagrin of the late Mr. Burns!
Stay ever vigilant (and, should you see a lesson in the novel above, do take it to heart!)--
/B/