Alcoholics Anonymous: The Curious Case of Getting Drunk Without Drinking
Recommended for Secondary Grades
Lord Finchley & The Fiasco of the Fermented Crumpets
Lord Finchley, a pillar of society whose greatest passions were impeccable tailcoats and the breeding of champion peonies, found himself in a most preposterous pickle.
He, a man who hadn’t touched a drop of the hard stuff since the regrettable “Boat Race Incident” of 1923 (shouts of “Chin up, old bean!” followed by an ill-advised attempt to walk on water had ended disastrously), was perpetually accused of overindulging!
Eyes narrowed, constables sniffed the air whenever he passed, mistaking his air of bewilderment for a whiff of illicit gin. Butlers, once the model of discretion, eyed the tea tray with a suspicion normally reserved for Bolshevik agitators.
Fermented Felon
Worst of all, his own doddery mother, Lady Finchley, regarded him with a mournful expression best suited for funerals, convinced her precious sonny boy had taken to hiding brandy flasks in the greenhouse.
“Dash it all!” he’d sputter, monocle popping out in agitation. “A lifetime of respectability, undone by…by…” Words failed him, for how could one explain to one’s mother that one’s own digestion had become an illicit microbrewery?
Yet, those infernal medics, with their confounded tests and Latin pronouncements, confirmed the absurd truth – auto-brewery syndrome had transformed his innards into a veritable distillery!
Alcoholics Anonymous & The Perplexed Peonies
News of Lord Finchley’s “auto-brewery business” spread through society like wildfire fanned by a gossip-fueled bellows. Lady Finchley, with the steadfast logic only a concerned mother can possess, became convinced her beloved son had fallen into a clandestine drinking habit.
Consulting a dubious mystic with a penchant for lavender incense and startlingly bad poetry, she was advised a regimen of raw turnips thrice-daily, accompanied by incantations to ward off “the spirits of barley and hops.”
Muffin Mishap
Meanwhile, the under-gardener, a man better acquainted with worms than wit, mistook Lord Finchley’s slight sway (brought on by a mid-morning muffin) as the work of “demon drink.” A hasty report was filed with the head butler, who promptly placed Lord Finchley on the estate’s ‘Do Not Serve’ list, normally reserved for poachers and traveling salesmen.
Life became a farce of staggering proportions. Lord Finchley was barred from driving his Rolls Royce (the chauffeur, armed with a handkerchief as a precaution, was under strict orders to sniff the air upon his approach).
His usual luncheon club, more accustomed to dozing than detecting the subtle aroma of fermenting bread, barred him from entry, fearing he’d set the damask curtains ablaze with his mere breath!
The annual flower show, once a source of pride, now loomed as a public spectacle where his every wobble would be dissected and declared proof of his “affliction.”
A Silver Lining Amidst the Chaos
Yet, amidst the chaos, a flicker of ingenuity – the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Great Top Hat Debacle of 1928 – sparked within Lord Finchley’s befuddled brain. If a well-timed crumpet could render him temporarily “indisposed,” mightn’t it prove the perfect escape from Lady Finchley’s ghastly literary luncheons?
Those affairs, featuring ladies with alarming eyebrows and opinions on free verse, were more torturous than weeding the asparagus patch on a sweltering day.
After all, no one could accuse a wobbly, faintly slurring gentleman of being fit for discussing the symbolism in Proust, could they?
A regrettable bout of “illness,” brought on by nothing stronger than an errant yeasty roll, would surely be met with sympathy rather than suspicion!
The prospect was almost enough to make a chap break into a jolly jig – if only his equilibrium would cooperate.
The Problem with Pastry
Sadly, success was fleeting – shorter, in fact, than a mayfly’s lifespan. Lady Finchley, upon learning that carbohydrates were the root of her son’s troubles, took drastic action. She promptly dismissed the cook (who left under a cloud of muttered curses and questionable pastry recipes) and installed a fierce Bulgarian chef named Brunhilda.
Brunhilda, a formidable woman who could reduce carrots to quivering submission with a single glare, held an unwavering aversion to anything resembling bread, cake, or the merest hint of sweetness.
Wilting Willpower
Lord Finchley found himself subsisting on boiled lettuce and watered-down broth. His strength waned like the moon on a cloudy night, his normally impeccable posture slumping with every passing day.
Peony season, once anticipated with glee, now loomed like an insurmountable mountain.
How could a man face down the sneering condescension of his rivals – particularly that wretched Twittington-Smythe and his insufferable fuchsias – without the fortifying effects of a mid-morning muffin?
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Fueled by equal parts despair, a surprising fondness for Brunhilda’s suspiciously sweet strudel (laced with enough sugar to stun a beehive), and the iron will of a cornered badger, Lord Finchley hatched a plan of staggering audacity.
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