So I was walking back home from the pub through a North London park and I was feeling great. I was 21, I was ginger and BOY could I hold my drink. Back then I downed pints of Courage Best with side orders of Johnny Walker and I never once committed any of the forbidden “three ps”, those being pissing, puking and passing out. (Mind I would have killed to do the first one but a shy bladder dictated otherwise.) Nor were my faculties impaired. I could have landed a Boeing, performed keyhole surgery or done that thing where you guide a hoop over a wire without setting the alarm off. I was ROCKING, man!
The first danger sign should have been that the park wasn’t situated between the pub and where I lived. I cared nothing for that as I strutted through a deserted children’s playground aged 21, with my adult life ahead of me and holding my booze like a pro. Then I hit the force field. The one that aliens had constructed in a Hendon park specifically to inconvenience me. I tried the subtle approach twice but it wouldn’t let me tiptoe through so I went like a rugby prop and ran straight at it. I rebounded, fell backwards and went to sleep. The last thing I remember is a young couple fair killing themselves laughing.
That’s where I spent the night until the dawn chorus woke me up. It was a beautiful summer morning: the blackbirds were singing; the rabbits were frolicking. And I was lying in the middle of a tennis court.