Champagne is evil

Early Sunday morning, I received an sms from The German asking me how she got home the night before. Puzzled, I replied that I drove her home after the wedding party.

“Oh really? I don't remember” she replied.

-_-"

And just the day before, I was asking Dailytoe about her pre-Easter party and similarly, she said she don’t remember much of it except there was champagne. When she came to, she was back in her own bed. Like magic.

Magic, my backside! It's the champagne, I say! It is no coincidence that both incidents took place after said amnesiac victims have drank copious amounts of the bubbly!

I’m telling you my friends, champagne is pure evil. How else do you explain how good it taste when we are drinking it, how deliriously happy we are after we drank it and how unconscious we become after we are drunk on it?

The best part is, you don’t get much of a hangover from champagne which mean we can still function the next day without too much pain. That’s how the three of us made it to Easter Mass the next morning. The German arrived late looking disheveled and grumpy. Dailytoe was staring gormlessly into space while I was busy trying to hold my head up with one hand and flip the hymn book with the other. The three of us were fidgety, restless and my head throbbed whenever the choir hit the high notes of Hallelujah. But still, we sat through the entire service solemnly and even answered collectively when the pastor asked the congregation, “Who moved the stone?” (Together: “The Angels!”)

Sitting down for brunch at One Rochester afterwards, we cried to the waiter for coffee and bacon. Picking up bits and pieces of our night is easier with caffeine coursing through our veins. As we throw questions to one another, we get a little closer to knowing what transpired during our state of unconsciousness. This was followed by plenty of forehead slapping and crying, “I am never drinking champagne again!”

Our conversation went mostly like this:

Frou: Do you remember how we were swigging champagne from the bottle and gorging ourselves with wedding cake?
The German: No.
Frou: Do you remember how the groom made us bottoms up the remaining bottle and you offered to drink my share because you said I had to drive?
The German: No.
Frou: Do you remember how we couldn’t find my car at the car park and we ended up swaggering around following the sound from my car alarm for ages?
The German: No

I whip out my camera to check through the random pictures I took the night before. It appears that we were each holding a bottle of champagne in most of the pictures. Horrors!

Next, we also check our mobile phones for drunken smses from the night before. We found an sms from the groom at 2.30am that say, “Come back.” I check my Sent box and found my reply to that was, “Can’t. Drunk.”

So it turns out that I am the luckiest of them all because nobody witnessed any acts of debauchery on my part which mean I probably didn’t commit any. Dailytoe’s memory of her night out is still clouded with uncertainties because The German and I weren’t there. The German is the worst off because I was her (slightly more sober) witness.

“Don’t be too smug,” Dailytoe said. “What about that time at Taboo last year when I had to drag you off the table because you were dancing with a gay boy, swigging champagne from the bottle and dribbling it all over yourself?”

“I don’t remember,” is all I can say.

Never swig liquid evil from the bottle. Enough said.