As a musician, I had some of the world's very best hangovers. The awesome 'Tokyo-Osaka bullet-train stinker' is a kung-fu kick in the face feared by many a modern-day minstrel. There is no known cure for that one. The 'Mexico City sunrise special' is also worthy of note, perhaps the most terrible and poisonous of all. Pollution, heat and altitude are all part of the challenge there. I'm fairly sure that there's one hangover, involving absinthe from 1997, that hasn't ever quite gone away completely. It still gives me gyp occasionally, like a bad knee.
It was my wife who rescued me from the road to ruin, and for things to run smoothly I think, once you've got the girl, you need the garden. Finding pastoral bliss is an inevitable stage of the rock gentleman's journey. The 'trout-farm' phase is as inevitable as the boozy bit. I enjoyed the drinking stage, but I don't seem to yearn for it any more than I yearn for being five and believing in Father Christmas. That was all great. Since I got married and moved to the country my outlook has shifted completely from seize the night, to seize the day. Cities really come alive at night. That's when all the good stuff happens. In the shires it's the daylight hours that dazzle. I still rather like being around booze heads; it's quite relaxing, like standing next to a fountain, but I can't be doing with wallowing around in pathetic torpors these days.
I often wondered what would replace the bam and balm of alcohol. By way of calming myself down the morning after, I often sought out the ducks in St James's Park. Now, I find that I no longer need a hangover to concentrate on a duck. Ducks are restful creatures and quite often, when I should be doing something useful, I am in a duck daze. I was wondering whether I was thinking about ducks too much. A duck in the garden is like an occasional glass of sherry, but it's the start of a slippery slope. Livestock are the cocaine of the quiet country gentleman.
I've ordered some chickens. Chickens don't beguile in the way that ducks do, but the egg thing seems to get hold of people. Those who have chickens always seem to want everyone to have chickens. The chicken brethren are more enthusiastic than Alcoholics Anonymous. I've never met a chicken owner who wasn't trying to persuade everyone to get some. 'Look how useful they are,' they say. 'They make eggs. Do you want some? We've got too many.' It's evidently difficult to keep a lid on how many chickens you have. Why not have another chicken? I'm in. Keeping a few animals used to be the preserve of the peasantry but it is suddenly très chic. Pigs have enjoyed a tremendous change of fortune and are now perhaps the ultimate status symbol. Liz Hurley has pigs, for goodness sake! Bryan Ferry wants some. It's cool to want pigs. It's not cool to want a flash car. Ferraris and helicopters are just so 20th century. The pig is the thinking person's fast car and tequila slammer rolled into one.
If alcohol helps a man to regress to a carefree state, country living is a way of regressing to a simpler way of life. I'm bingeing on it. If you want to be happy for an hour, have a drink. If you want to be happy for a year, fall in love. If you want to be happy forever, get a garden. Gardens are where 'happily ever after' happens. It's surprising how absorbing they are.
