DRUNKENNESS - The presence of a drunk within a family was once a source of shame. Nobody staggered through the streets wearing t-shirts emblazoned with cretinous slogans such as ‘My Liver is Evil and Must be Punished' etched over their flabby torsos in putrid yellow letters designed to resemble streaks of vomit. Whereas drunkards once skulked, fearful of public opinion, they now proclaim their proclivity with pride. The staff at my father's care home routinely report for duty still exhibiting the symptoms of a recent debauch. Only, last week my shin was skinned by a recklessly propelled tea-trolley. My sister and her friends, family women on the cusp of middle age, refer to themselves as ‘sluts' and ‘maniacs' though, in fairness, their nights out are actually restrained, certainly compared to those of my brother.

Since returning to Drumfeld, Spencer has established a routine consistent with every symptom of addiction. Rising late, he spends the best part of the day slouched in an armchair, his face fixed in a rictus of dread. Anybody passing can hear his stomach percolating, a guttural gargle like a drain blocked by slurry. As evening approaches he sets about working his way steadily through the collection of wine accumulated by over twenty years by our father and decimated by Spencer in the course of two months. Sufficiently bolstered, he phones Colette, his estranged wife. When his whimpering entreaties prove fruitless, he retreats to his room where he wallows for the remainder of the evening. In the next bedroom, I can gauge his escalating level of inebriation by the volume and tempo of his music. As he becomes incapable he replays the ponderous songs I remember from his adolescence at an anti-social volume. When I occasionally look in on him before going to sleep he stares into space, tears glistening on his collapsed cheeks like a child bewitched by goblins.

 

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