Misunderstanding Mr A.

It’s said that Flann O’Brien (a pseudonym) was a literary genius. It’s also said that Brian O’Nolan (his real name) was ‘an alcoholic for most of his life.’ He died, aged fifty four or five, of a heart attack. Maybe it was the alcohol that did for his heart, or maybe his heart would have perished – literally or metaphorically – sooner than that, had it not been for the alcohol. Who can tell?

So what is an alcoholic? How much does a person have to drink to warrant the title? Just enough to afford sufficient equilibrium to keep him fighting through the slings and arrows until he’s said what he needs to say? Who can tell?

Tonight I have the urge to drink and drink until… Who can tell?

I’m not an alcoholic, as usually perceived. A bottle of scotch a week is kid’s stuff. So could it be that being a failed alcoholic is a bouquet of sorts? Or should I drink more, and write more, and would it make one jot of difference to anything anyway? Would it ameliorate, for example, the significance I attach to the death of a slug? Probably not, but who can tell?