Drunk History — Gráinne Maguire

I am going to tell you the most embarrassing thing I did when I was drunk but first I need to explain: even though I am a terrible boozer, like any hero, I don't give up. It takes 10,000 hours to master anything and I’m no quitter. Every night out, as I lean against the bar, trying to lock eyes with the innkeeper, I whisper a promise to myself “Tonight will be the night, I finally do being drunk properly.”

I didn't really drink much as a teenager. I thought relative sobriety would single me out as being an unattainable Audrey Hepburn-esque girl in a town of Courtney Loves. Sadly not enough teenage boys in Navan watched mid-century romantic comedies to get the vibe I was going for. They didn't seem as impressed as I thought they would when I turned down a night of Smirnoff Ices because I had to be up early in the morning to teach myself calligraphy.

So I started late and never got good at it. On my last pre-Covid birthday during the Edinburgh comedy festival, I got so day drunk I staggered into the wrong pub for my own party. Squinting at a half full dive bar with no recognisable faces, instead of checking I was in the right place, I immediately decided “Oh I know what’s happened! My friends have decided to make it a SURPRISE PARTY!” This resulted in twenty minutes of me looking under chairs, peeking behind couches and pulling back curtains shouting “You can stop hiding, you can come out! Hello! I’m here!”

Thankfully because it was during a comedy festival, the baffled locals didn't call the police. Instead they thought I was performing a harrowing one woman immersive show about mental illness. Terrible birthday but the upside was I got a fantastic review in The Scotsman.

This is not what I want. I yearn to be a wholesome drunk, rosy cheeked and charming, knocking back whiskeys, enthralling strangers in pubs with hearty stories, like a young Chappaquiddick free Ted Kennedy. Nights out with me would end in good natured japes, like the time we all sweet talked a sea captain into stealing a boat. He wouldn't even mind, he’d know we're just kids!

Or being a sexy drunk would be great too. I would give anything to be the usually uptight woman who after one glass of red, gets slightly mussed hair and mascara that smudges just a little. My male colleagues suddenly look at me in a different way, “You caught me” my tipsy state would suggest, “I’m more than just a killer corporate lawyer. I’m a woman”. Alcohol had finally burnt away my frosty ice queen facade and now everyone can see the human underneath, a glimmer, a whisper, a suggestion, a scent on the breeze of vulnerability.

But what my friends, if you are pure neediness to begin with? If you are already pure top grade vulnerable clinginess when sober? Who wants to light a match near that naked flame? Feelings are flammable.

The problem when I drink is that at every stage I think, oh yes, this is the real me. Usually I'm busy, anxious and stressed. I have one drink and my brains reels - AM I ALWAYS THIS SEXY? Maybe this is the real me? If ONE glass of white wine makes me feel this good, imagine how good six bottles will? That's just MATHS.

All the deleted pictures, texts in drafts, unsent emails in my head, they don't just escape my brain, they launch themselves into the world with a full marching band. You may think a few drinks is a chance to unwind, I act like I’m in therapy and having a breakthrough moment. I think I’m subtly flirting with someone, but what I'm actually doing is following a co-worker around, being unnecessarily mean and then crying for no reason. Drinking gives me a chance to perform. In the TV Movie about myself, who will I be tonight? It’s very much like being in the third act of a Tennessee Williams play. Are we cannibals? MAYBE??!

Which brings me to my worst embarrassing drinking story. Let me set the scene. I had just moved to London, I was very poor and working part time selling interval ice creams at a fancy theatre. Despite being the most extra gal in my home town, surrounded by London’s poshest out of work actors, I was very much out of my depth. I wanted so desperately to be part of this cool, arty world, where privileged girls named Poppy bragged that their dad was so proud of her because “this month she’d paid her own rent.” So, when I was invited to the Christmas party, I thought this was my chance to make my debut in London society. Who knows, maybe if I really razzle dazzled the room, the right person would think - who is this charismatic creature wasted selling chocolate chip? Let's make this Eliza Dolittle a star! It didn't seem that ridiculous an idea. It had worked for Nell Gwynn after all.

Excitingly, because the theatre prided itself on its egalitarian spirit, the cast as well as front of house staff would be there. I would be in a room with actual celebrities: Kris Marshall from My Family, Ronni Ancona and a really good looking Irish actor who wasn't famous but was still, in fairness to him, very good looking. I hadn't made it, but I hadn't not made it. I was determined to be if not “the” belle, at least “a” belle of this ball. However something odd kept happening. Every time someone I was chatting to found out I was only an usher, the conversion immediately dried. I could see their gaze drifting over my shoulder and their attention slipping out of my hands. So, to keep my spirits up, I kept returning to the spirits at the free bar.

That’s when I had my moment of inspiration. I genuinely don't know where I got the idea from but about three hours into the night, I started telling people I wasn't an usher, I was a comedian. Not completely untrue, as I had signed up for a stand-up course. Then that developed into being a professional comedy writer. Well you know, act as if! Before long, I was confidently telling Ronni Ancona how fun it was to work full time for Private Eye. I was holding court, gesticulating wildly, free styling adorable tales of working with Ian Hislop. Everyone wanted to talk to me. The Irish actor suddenly found me fascinating. He locked eyes and cornered me asking for advice. Did he think he, a lowly model turned actor, could possibly ever have anything to say? “Just get writing” I sighed ruefully, refilling my glass of prosecco. ”It's the one thing Ian and I don’t row about.” I added with a wink.

Then almost on the stroke of midnight it happened. That one glass too many. I was on the turn. Tonight Mathew, I will be - a deranged Southern Belle, forced to marry a gay man because our house on the plantation had been sold. I could feel the drama coursing through my veins. Maggie the Cat was ALIVE.

“Just one thing though...” I began, face snapping round to face him, like a Victorian Doll suddenly possessed and come to life “Why DO you speak in that fake English accent in the play?”

“What?” The Irish actor looked at me confused. “The play is set in 18th century France so we have to all sound the same.”

“Yeah.” I was leaning closer to him now. “But what's wrong with your own accent though?”

“Nothing, it’s just a Moliere play so we have to sound...”

“Are you embarrassed to be Irish though, is that what it is? Oh I GET it!”

I was surrounded by lies and mendacity. A face I vaguely recognised appeared and tried to calm the situation. I was having none of it.

“And you can stay out of it Kris Marshall. Why do you think you're funny? You're not funny. Stop acting like you're funny. It’s so annoying.”

Kris Marshall from My Family had to call a taxi for me to get me home. I imperiously wobbled into it, Primark parka coat in one hand, the other pointing at the group that had formed outside, assuring the driver I wouldn't be sick in his cab.

“Just you wait...for the expose on fake accents in the theatre in next week’s Private Eye!” I bellowed out of the rolled down window.

If only that was the end. Would that the world have given me that kindness. But twas not to be because when I woke up outside my flat, me and the driver both realised at the same moment that I had zero money to pay him. I tried to pay him with my Discman, but even in 2006, it was sadly not legal tender. He had to drive back to the party. Kris Marshall, FROM THE BT ADS, had to come back out to pay the taxi driver, while I glared at him from the back of the passenger window, hiccuping somberly.

This happened to me. I have the memories of all these events in my brain. Every time I see Kris Marshall on TV I do a full body cringe. Is Death in Paradise good? I don't know - I lived it so I can't watch it. And yet still, every office party, Christmas drinks and wedding, I will myself into thinking - this will be the time. This will be the time I successfully become a fun normal drunk person. Not all heroes, my friends, wear capes.