I’m quite a happy drunk, I think.
Generally, when I get a bit squiffy, at some point or other I will probably sing, in that way that drunks do when they suddenly believe they’re much more talented than they actually are.
Luckily for most people, and unluckily for others (such as my neighbours, or former flatmates), I generally reserve such behaviour from when I’m at home. I’m not a show-off.
About twenty years ago, I house-shared with a chap I knew from college and his girlfriend. She was the same as me, and Friday and/or Saturday nights would generally end up with us turning up the stereo and caterwauling along to a few tunes.
We both had a song which when we played it meant it was the end of the night, apart from the other’s song which would immediately follow. Mine was Costello’s version of Good Year for the Roses, which came on my iPod earlier today, reminding me of those nights, and of her song.
Which was this: