The A312 incident (or - the dangers of too much alcohol)

OK, as requested, the tale of the A312 (also known as the Hayes Bypass) 'incident'.

My much beloved and I met while working together at a place called The West London Training & Enterprise Council, who were (are?) based in Hounslow, West London. Aah, those were the good ol' days... we were young, carefree, and fans of going out for the occasional piss up. So one of the people from the company were leaving, and had a leaving do (as is the tradition) at a local hostelry.

The evening was full of urbane conversation and witty retorts... (actually, it was full of swearing and tit jokes, but you get the idea) and by the end of the evening, when it was time to wend our merry way home, I discovered that due to some dodgy ale (or something) I couldn't really walk or see straight. So the much beloved and I found a cab, and started our journey home.

Now, I am not the best in a car when even a little more than slightly inebriated. And 'pon this night, I was a LOT more than slightly inebriated. So after about 10 minutes in the back of the cab my stomach decided enough was enough and urged me to get out of the cab so it could evacuate itself. Unfortunately, the place it decided to do this was on a massive roundabout at a set of traffic lights. (For those with local knowledge, this is the Western International roundabout, the one just before Pump Lane on the Hayes Bypass). For those without local knowledge, it's basically a massive roundabout, with four lanes of traffic flowing through it, controlled by traffic lights. So as the cab had stopped at a red light, I opened the back passenger door, leaned out gracefully and shared my stomach contents with the tarmac. This was quite a major emptying, and we were infact stopped at the same set of lights for something like four or five changes of light (red to green to red etc.). This is not good.

So anyway, I finally manage to drag my sorry, vomit smelling, dizzy, miserable self back into the cab, and it moves off, but I can only manage to get as far as the other side of the roundabout before requesting politely ("Pull the fcuking cab over now before I puke on the back of your head!") to stop again. I couldn't do it. I couldn't manage the cab journey home. So thrusting I- don't-know how much money into the hands of the cab driver, I demanded he take my much beloved home safely, while I reassured her that I would "take a little stroll to clear my head, I'll be fine, don't worry". She was fairly frantic, and I can understand why - I was basically suggesting I would walk home along what amounted to a two lane motorway... no hard shoulder, no foot path, nothing. But I wasn't a-feared! No! For I had my invincible beer coat on! (what a tw@t).
So off she tootles, no doubt cursing the day she drugged me and convinced me to be her beau, while I start the long hike back toward home. You can picture it can't you, a sad, weary looking fellow, with the smell of second hand beer wafting off him, weaving down the edge of this busy, fast, long road at night.

Anyhoo... evidently I didn't die. I managed to walk the length of the A312 to another major roundabout (again, those of local knowledge - The White Hart roundabout). A journey of about 2.5 miles. (According to Google Maps). By this time, my head had cleared enough to be able to handle another cab ride the rest of the way home, where I arrived to be met by my worried, sympathetic much beloved. Actually, she threw the front door keys out of the bedroom window at me to let me in, and then shut and locked the bedroom door, giving me the opportunity to find out how comfortable our futon was to sleep on.

The moral of the story? Alcohol is bad.