Nearing Syllepsis

[dayonfire]

Courage. Yes, I know I said his name was not important, but I lied. It is not only important, but the clef de voûte of this whole account. John Courage, if ever syaesthesia really worked. My remembrance splits upon its recitation, as with everyone whose soul has taken too many shots to the head

Comments

[phlegming]

I too had an experience with John Courage. It was the preferred beer of Scottish submariners in the 80s. The lads from the HMS Walrus, a reliable old diesel-electric submarine, invited me over for a do while I was on temporary duty at Rosyth on the Firth of Forth, across the bridge from Edinburgh. We descended by ladder into the belly of the beast, and I was led to the paneled room reserved for such occasions. Of course, one wall (a bulkhead, actually) was curved. A keg of Courage was tapped, the whiskey dispensers were opened, cigarettes were lit. I was repeatedly reminded of how Yanks could not hold their liquor, although I assured them that several years of training in Germany, where I currently lived, should help dispell that notion. Still, they laughed. At 2300, according to the Queen's rules, celebration ceased, and we climbed up the ladder into the cool Scottish June air. My lungs filled with oxygen, and my brain, comfortable with smoke and alcohol, went for a ride. The submariners laughed at me as I kissed their wives. Somehow