Published in The Clifton Courier March 22, 2017

Sometimes people beaut brainwaves that have the potential to change the world.

Alexander Bell’s big idea gave us the telephone, which revolutionised the way humans communicated. Alexander Fleming’s revelation about penicillin’s healing powers saved countless human lives. Elizabeth Magie’s lightbulb moment gave us Monopoly and proved just how fickle family bonds are.

Once these ideas came to fruition, their impact changed the course of history.

And I, like so many great minds before me, have an idea that will change everything.

So here’s by my idea: bars need to have toasters.

I know what you’re thinking – alcohol and small electrical appliances don’t mix. Before you write me off as a fool, hear me out.

I was out for St Patty’s day the other night and I was edging towards the level of “hydrated” I can get where I find myself taking a quick public power nap. And for some reason, people tend to look down upon this. Security guards especially.*

* Seriously, you have ONE little breather on the grass outside a club and they hold it against you for the rest of the night. This is why Toowoomba’s uni club no longer operates.  

So, not wanting to stop the flow of ale tipping down my throat, I did what I had to do: gorge on food.

But the only edible items behind the bar were chips. And I’d given up potatoes for Lent.

Before I go any further, I will address the whole Lent thing. I realise it may make me appear to be a religious fanatic, particularly on the obnoxiously agonistic streets of Sydney, but I honestly think it’s a fun tradition. And I’ve been getting a little tuckshopy around the arms lately so I’m not above using religion as a means of achieving a bangin’ bod. Potatoes aren’t a massive part of my diet, but the goal was to cut chippies out of my life so I became small enough for to meet the bodily specifications required to gain society’s approval.*

* I say this like I am being defiant against “the media’s” unrealistic perceptions of beauty and all for people being themselves, but in all honesty I would very much enjoy conforming to those unattainable expectations if I could. Unfortunately I have a body type that makes me look like I have swallowed a platter, while also managing to have the flattest arse in the southern hemisphere. It’s the worst of both worlds going on down there.

And, annoyingly, this religious diet trick died in the arse because I went ahead and bought the chips anyway. Knowing full well that the starchy delights were baked over the fires of hell and seasoned with eternal damnation, I shovelled the chips into my mouth.

But what I really needed was something more substantial. Something with more fibre. Something that fed my soul as well as the alcohol sack that was my stomach.

And it got me thinking about what I would have chosen to eat had I have been at home. The answer was simple: bread. Because bread is the solution to all life’s problems. It nourishes, and it brings comfort. Sometimes when I’m really sad, only tiger toast will feel the dark void in my soul.

Then it came to me: bars need to have toast stations.

Now that I think about it, it would be an excellent money-spinner. All you need is a toaster, a few loaves of bread and a small assortment of spreads. Maybe the trendier bars could have avocados on hand to appease the hipsters and tempt young people into spending their house deposits on midnight smashed avo toast. The outlay would tiny, but the return would be exponential. They could charge two bucks a pop and send their children to college on the profits.

I would absolutely take advantage of that service. And I know that many others would as well.

Because sometimes all you need is a little bit of toast to keep you going. A crunchy slice of buttered bread can stop you from tumbling from charmingly tipsy to sleeping on a grassy hill kind of drunk.

I would even hazard as guess that it would be beneficial in preventing people from reaching the level of glassing-that-bastard-because-I-have-deep-seeded-insecurities-that-I-need-to-take-out-on-innocent-people level of drunk. A simple slice of toast could save lives.

Let’s make it happen, people.