The age of dullness

I think I have turned into Fun Bobby. Correction: I think I was Fun Bobby. I am now Dull Bobby. For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, where the hell have you been for the past 10 years? In a cockerel’s boot? Fun Bobby was a character on Friends who got the word ‘fun’ added to his name because of all the hi-junks he would get up to and all the crazy fun shenanigans he would get mixed up in. Then the gang realised that he was an alcoholic and convinced him to get sober. Without the magical powers of alcohol, he turned into Dull Bobby and Monica dumped him.

I too, have temporarily given up the binge drinking and consequently have turned into Dull Bobby. Usually, when it gets to that time of night and people start slurring their words, spitting into people’s faces as they speak and insulting everyone with their wisdom and observations, I slur, spit and insult right back. Nowadays, this is when I bid my hasty goodbyes and head off home to have a warming bowl of soup and to watch Jools Holland on telly. Everyone I know is aghast and appalled when they see me sipping on a tonic water and actually making coherent sentences past 8pm. No more introducing myself to strangers on the night bus home, or playing drunken leapfrogs in the street. I am officially DULL.

This fact was totally rammed home to me yesterday, when I bought, for the 1^st time in 5 years, a pair of black shoes. I normally resist buying sensible black shoes and prefer to purchase totally impractical shoes in hues of red, green, blue, and every other colour in the rainbow. Just never black. In going on a health kick and giving up the booze, I have unleashed a hideous side of me. One that no longer lives in technicolour and impracticality. I am now sensible. My mother would be proud.

I wonder how long this phase will last. What will be next? Elasticated trousers that are comfortable? It’s a slippery slope to middle-agedness, but it seems like I am well on my way. Just the thought makes me want a double G&T followed by a litre of sambuca. Maybe there’s hope for me yet…