The irresistible power of the fruit of the vine

The day water was changed into wine at an epoch-making wedding, brain cells altered course. This is my own take on human behavioural patterns that you won’t find in any text book or ancient writing.

To lend support to my theory, all you have to do is watch the goings-on of people around you.

History, too, is filled with examples of how intelligent mortals go totally bossies after drinking from the chalice filled with the rotten fruit of the vine.

The chalice has now been replaced with the papsak that has a handy tap from which imbibers swig when thirsty. Sophisticates prefer bottles or decanters.

But no matter the container, the contents have the same effect on the brains of those who slug the stuff. The more that’s consumed, the more pronounced the behaviour.

Now here’s the funny part: some folk become happy and amorous, others morbid. Short guys become cocky, ready to throw punches at the wind. Giggling women tell the world what turds their hubbies are.

You’ve witnessed folk who before partaking of the fomented juices are paragons of virtue, sanctimonious and friendly. Nice people. But a couple of sips later, watery eyes show the brain has shifted a gear or two. And after a session staring into the bottle, or sucking on the tap, the eyes glow a rich red.

An entirely different character emerges.

Closer to home, our lifestyle complex holds its annual braai. Fifty people standing or sitting around braai fires, each holding on with dear life to their liquid refreshment.

Bonhomie all round.

Then time for dancing. And here my theory is put to the test.

Quiet and reserved Patrick becomes a gyrating pavement dancer, swinging his wife over his shoulder while noisily emulating the singer.

Serious poet Samuel drops his walking stick and does the twist. Sarah envelops herself with a string of glowing lights, metamorphosing into a demented Madonna.

Then there’s Koos. Conservative banker, donning headgear sporting spring-loaded eyeballs he flings at the dancers.

And so it goes all night.

I rest my case of vino. Hic!

Cliff Buchler.

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