Who knew that the pub bore was me!

ThE pubs will have been shut for eight weeks tomorrow, and while everyone else seems to be drinking more than ever at home, I haven’t touched a drop since that final day when I staggered out of my local boozer around midnight. Yes, I’ve got loads of wine, beer and spirits at home, of course. But somehow it’s not the same swigging it alone in the kitchen. Imagine the scene. I’d have to try to avoid myself as I sit down at the table and pour out the first glass. But as I am the only one there, that is impossible. Instead I am forced to listen to the same boring stories I’ve heard a hundred times before. Then come those old jokes which weren’t really funny the first time I told them, and to which, despite laughing uproariously all the way through, I always forget the punchline. Eventually, when it is time for another drink, I slide off for a pee hoping someone else will get the next one. But, of course, no one does because no one else is there. After a few more beers, I am growing a little sentimental. I tell myself how I’m my very best friend and confide how I love myself. Then I give myself a hug. But after another couple of beers, my mood begins to change and I start having a bit of a row with myself over something or other. I insist I am right, even though I really don’t know what I am talking about. Soon things are growing a bit heated, so I raise my voice and eventually I punch myself on the nose. Finally, I throw up in the loo and stagger off to bed alone. Then in the morning I wake up with a raging hangover. No thanks. Where’s the fun in that? So I’ll stick to blooming tea and coffee. At least until this evening.

Charlie Garth, Ampthill, Beds.