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Making Your First Million
tucking my tail between my legs and groveling a bit. But keep it to yourself okay."
"Like the grave. But look, we both know you're not an alcoholic. I know it. You know it.
Why keep up the pretence? Let's prove it. We'll split a bottle of wine between us."
There were times when Bernie's logic was so incisive you simply couldn't fault it. This
was one. We both knew I was play-acting, trying to prove I wasn't alcoholic. And we
both knew no matter how long I remained sober it wouldn't prove a thing. Here was my
big chance. We ordered a bottle of Houghtons White Burgundy to go with our fish and
chips. No worries.
And then Bernie said: "I could go another glass. How about you?"
"Sure, why not." I was beginning to feel expansive. We bought another bottle, poured a
glass each, and because this was a scientific experiment, poured the remainder of the
bottle into a pot plant.
At five o'clock we were still there. And there were twelve empty bottles on the table. The
experiment had gone horribly wrong somewhere. And the realization slowly dawned that
I was an alcoholic. And I was going to die. When I was drinking, all I wanted to do was
die. But now I'd had seven weeks of relative sobriety I no longer wanted to die. But I was
drinking again. And I didn't know what to do.
Bernie was like me, a drunk who worked from home. We both worked in the computer
industry at the time it was growing exponentially, and drunk or not, if you threw any kind
of net out you'd end up with a boatful of fish. On many occasions, drinking at his place,
we'd dream our dreams and he'd get an idea and pick up the phone, dial international
directory assistance to get the number for such luminaries as Wozniak and Gates and
we'd bully and bluster our drunken dreams to complete strangers for as long as they'd
listen to us.
On one occasion we'd flown to Canberra to talk with Peter Mogg about missile guidance
systems. How that came up I haven't a clue, as neither of us knew a thing about it, but we
found ourselves at lunch (Georgespeak for drinking) at the Black Mountain revolving
restaurant. At 5.30 the restaurant staff had turned off the motor which meant the view had
stopped going round, turned off the air-conditioning, put all the chairs on the tables and
were noisily vacuuming around us. I attempted to complain to the maitre d' but he smiled
and apologized for closing early and told me he'd taken the liberty of calling us a cab.
"No way! You're not telling me what to do. Giffsanardrink."
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