Acting up: I'll never learn

George attends the Golf Monthly Christmas party – but wished he'd taken note of earlier portents of doom.

I am constantly amazed by my inability to learn from my mistakes. The cow touches the electric fence only once before it learns of its danger. However, the actor, having once before been badly bitten by the evil that is sambouca (oh, the beauteous cloudy tendrils falling from the melted ice cube, oh the aroma of the three lucky coffee beans), again succumbed to its satanic charms at this year's most excellent Golf Monthly Christmas Party. Like a John Daly fitness test, the results were appalling.

The omens had not been good from the start of last week.

Monday. After a particularly unspectacular audition, I arrived home to a dark house and headed straight for the kitchen. Without turning on the light I dived into the fridge. Unfortunately, I?d left the top cupboard door open and head-butted it middle stump. As I sat on the kitchen floor, with a bag of frozen peas clutched to my forehead, I thought, ?Well I?ll never do that again.?

Half an hour later, I really fancied a glass of white and headed straight for the kitchen. Without turning on the light I dived into the fridge?. As I sat on the kitchen floor with a packet of fish fingers (the peas still somewhat thawed) pressed to my skull, I realised that I had entered the realms of abject stupidity.

Wednesday. Once again left my waterproofs in the car thinking it would stay dry, once again it rained like a ?B? movie. Fluffed a chip on the 10th, berated myself for raising my head, addressed the ball, fluffed it again for exactly the same reason. And despite having driven into the cross ditch on 11 the previous day, I again took my driver, hit exactly the same shot and? Really stupid.

So Friday. We met at GM towers for drinks, where to my joy I was introduced to my fellow bloggers Fergus Bisset (Golfing God and Blogging Genius) and Clive Agran, the great golf writer of Kent (or is that Kentish golf writer? Always confuses me.) After a sneaky peek in the hallowed Gear Vault we headed down to the restaurant.

All was going well. The food was fantastic, the beer was cold, the conversation coherent. Then the sambouca came out. It was my fault. Mine and that little devil that sits on your shoulder goading you on (let?s call him Luke ?HBH? Norman).

The details of what happened after I left will remain between myself, an understanding member of the Kennington Constabulary, a very kind taxi driver and a most irate wife. But hopefully now I will have learnt my lesson.

As I?ve always said: ?Twice bitten, three times ever so slightly coy.?

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