A Drunk Tank Tale

Seeing pictures splashed across the front page of a Victoria, British Columbia teen shackled to a wall in a drunk tank and strong armed by a crew of police officers brought back some not too fond memories.

It wasn’t my proudest moment. About a month ago, I had my own run in with the drunk tank. Following a night of heavy drinking at a hockey game with my brother, my dad and my friend, where beers run you $7.50 and come fitted with some infernal sippy-cup style lid, we decided to celebrate the win with yet more drinking.

We dropped my dad, the ex-cop, off at his car (he was sober, thank Christ) and went to a club where a close friend tended bar. Already red-eyed and hazy, I walked in like Norm Peterson and sat down after a much needed stop in the bathroom. My friend handed me a beer, and I knew that there’d be another waiting for me as soon as I was about half done my first. A bartender that on the ball is as convenient as he is dangerous.

I was riding an ego wave, fuelled by booze and our team’s victory, but instead of allowing it to crest, I kept riding it by downing drink after drink with tidal efficiency. Finally, we decided to go back to my brother’s apartment, a short drive away.

By this time I was a bumbling, mumbling moron, babbling on incoherently about God knows what. We arrived behind my brother’s building and he was unsuccessfully trying to calm me down as we got out of the car.

He was telling me to shut up, and although I should have, I didn’t. Instead, I punched him in the face in a drunken maniacal rage.