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This is a question Nights Out Gone Wrong

In celebration of the woman who went out for a quiet drink with friends after work, and ended up half naked, kicking a copper in the nads and threatening to smear her own shit over hospital staff, how have your best-laid plans ended in woe?

(, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:02)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

At the risk of blowing my cover
My worst night out, and one that I don't think I'll ever live down, was my first night out at Uni.

1998. I was a fresh-faced country boy, enthralled to the pleasures of the big city (well ok, Nottingham), and wasn't yet fully versed in the dark arts of getting completely twatted. I'd already spectacularly vomited through my nose after snorting aftershock (don't do it kids - it sticks to the inside of your nose, refuses to budge and stings like buggery), and had also had a go (in for a penny) at Tequila Suicide.

For the uninitiated Tequila suicide is a slight variation on a slammer - the variation being you snort the salt, neck the tequila, and then squeeze the lemon into your eye. It's big and clever.

Like all regretful evenings the exact moment of shame is clouded in a fuggy haze, but what I do remember is as follows: There was a fox. Being from the country I'd never actually seen one up close. City foxes are different to country ones - they have no absolutely no fear.

"Look, ish a Fox!!" I cried to my fellow miscreants, "A fox!!"

I loped off towards it clutching a pint of Guinness that I still had from the last bar, and got within about 5 metres of it, wavering slightly.

It stared at me. I stared at it. It seemed to beckon me closer with its eyes. Its big, friendly, I-just-want-to-be-stroked fox eyes.

"It wants to be my friend!", I thought, "But how do I demonstrate that my intentions are benign?". The answer was obvious - I needed to feed it Guinness.

Advancing slowly I bent down slightly and extended my pint of Guinness. The fox approached closer, I approached closer still. It sniffed the Guinness, I made encouraging sounds. It tilted its little foxy-face quizzically and then tasted the Guinness! Success! Inter-species understanding had been achieved!

Then it savaged my hand and I got taken to A&E for a bandage, a not rabies tetanus jab, and to be laughed at by the hospital staff.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 13:11, 8 replies)
I got so pissed I fell asleep on the toilette.
I woke after god knows how long with numb legs and dribble down my shirt. Slipped out of my shoes to creep into the bedroom so as not to disturb The Lovely Mrs Ring Of Fire...and found myself standing in the public bar of my local with a shoe in each hand.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 21:35, 8 replies)
And that's the thanks he got
I spent most of my university years as a devout muslim, so spent a good deal of time playing scrabble while my livelier chums were out clubbing.

In my final semester I tearfully realized that I didn't have faith any more, and my excellent friends, in their efforts to get me out of the blues, were quick to cotton on to the fact that I could now 1) Eat pork, 2) Dance with (and perhaps even shake hands with) women and 3) Drink. When my good friend Joe heard the news that I was a filthy apostate he immediately handed over the sausage sandwich he was eating. Bless him. A group of buddies including Joe decided that a night out was essential, partly out of their innate philanthropy and partly because they were awfully curious to see what I was like when under the influence.

The plan was to go to a night of cheesy dance music- I think it was called "Buttoned Down Disco", a place in London famous for its easy going clientele. Before heading to the club, my friends gave me a wonderful introduction to alcohol:

"This is a "beer". It's fizzy, like lemonade. Try it while eating peanuts. Good boy, no need to drink it all at once. This is a "gin and tonic". It's posh. That's it, down the hatch. This is a "tequila". It's utter rat poison, but traditional for students to drink on a night out. Good lad, the tears will go away soon."

After this introduction to the world of drinking, I was feeling very good and pretty gregarious, despite the world shifting nauseatingly beneath me (thankfully Joe had warned me beforehand to stay close to supporting masonry, so that I could choose to have a refreshing lean against the wall should the need arise). When we got to the club I warmed up the dancefloor with a few alcohol lubricated moves (which felt amazing! Dancing while drunk is simply splendid). With the ladies at the club suitably impressed with my flailing it was time to start schmoozing. MY memory of it is a little hazy, but according to Joe I walked up to a girl, shouted at her "I'm the cleverest man in the whole world, bleaargh!", lost interest and proceeded to look at something on the floor.

Shortly after this I pushed my friend Tom down a flight of stairs, and didn't particularly care when he was rushed off to A&E (he needed stitches and does not hesitate to show me the scar today). Of course I didn't care, I was a combination of the Jameses Bond and Brown. Joe, however, decided that was a good opportunity to call it a night, and he dragged me homewards. He tells me that my chat-up technique had improved tremendously on the journey, and I was well on the way to scoring with a woman at a bus stop. The lady in question was a homeless sixty year old who was visibly trying to run away.

I actually rather enjoyed myself, but I guess my friends didn't appreciate the evening much, which is my tenuous excuse for posting this under "nights out gone wrong". They've steadfastly refused to buy me a drink since.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 13:22, 15 replies)
This has haunted me for years.
Ooooooooh I was at a sexy lady's house party and liquored up on eight cans of Irish Harp. Seventeen, thrusting, and full of spunky lust. Despite the aggressive boil on my nose and my flaking scalp, I fancied myself as quite a catch. I'd just successfully muttered along to Rapper's Delight (the LONG version bitches), and was working my way through U Can't Touch This. In short, I was on fire.

Idly playing the air drums, my roving eye scanned the party and fell on a dwarfish young woman who had been hounding me for some months. I had, weeks previously, sucked her mouth for sport, and found it to have a curiously pungent taste – like plaque and cigar smoke mixed with dogshit and chips. Mmmmmmm.

She kept casting dewy-eyed glances my way. Those curiously black-ringed eyes on her unfeasibly large freckled head had me all confused. Extending one stumpy finger from her awkward and pale boy-hand, she sexily beckoned me over, running her other hand through her mannish hair. Giddiness swept through me. I stepped outside for some air. Oh, goodness, a bunch of folk with a bottle of vodka. Give us a swig on that.

Gulp gulp gulp

and –––––––––––––––––– morning.

I'm in a bed. I'm still at the party house. I'm alone. But dark thoughts are nipping at the back of my mind, like an Alan Partridge striptease fantasy. And there's a form on the floor, covered in duvets.

Gingerly I leaned out of bed and pulled a corner of the duvet back, revealing a chillingly large vision of wine-stained teeth, distended eye lids and a masculine short back and sides. She was sleeping, and dressed. I was safe. But still … those ominous flashes in my mind. Fleeting, millisecond sensations of a nipple like a tube of Polos being rolled sickeningly between my fingers like a cannibal's spliff. A cow's long black tongue thrashing around in my mouth.

No. It couldn't have happened. I'd remember something like that. Wouldn't I? Yes, I would. And I didn't. So it didn't happen. Fuck it, time for a shit.

I wobbled my way out of the bedroom, across the landing and into the bathroom. Plonking myself down on the throne, I started playing through the events of the evening. It was fine. I got drunk, went to bed and went to sleep. That's it. Nothing dark happened. I'd have remembered. I'm sure I would have remembered.

Then something struck me. Or rather, the absence of something struck me.
The bathroom was completely quiet.
Silent.

I was unleashing a gallon of piss into the toilet bowl, and yet the whole room was fucking SILENT.

Not wanting to, but unable to resist, I slowly looked down between my legs.

Bobbing off the end of my cock was a grossly swollen condom full to bursting with piss and sperm, and covered with red slime and matted pubes.

Have you ever heard a man howl like a dying wolf? I have.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 10:11, 9 replies)
My life is a episode of the Benny Hill show.
Some of you might be aware of an annual cancer fund raising event called the Playtex Moonwalk. Every year, hundreds of women in their underwear take a sponsored walk in the early hours of the morning to raise money for charity; they do it in Hyde Park these days to avoid letchers like me, but they used to do it in Battersea and the surrounding streets.

Anyway, a few years ago I went off to a party in Vauxhall on balmy May night. A good time was had by all, although I have to confess to feeling oh, so old in a room where I was one of the very oldest people. By 2:30am I was merrily squiffy and, the party being only about 30 minutes walk from my house, I decided to stroll off home. I walked out of the flat, up to Vauxhall station, and turned onto Nine Elms Lane. And there, striding purposefully towards me, were several hundred women in their underwear taking part in the Moonwalk.

I walked all the way home against the flow of a migrating herd of young women in their bras and each and every one of them, I swear, gave me a hostile little look with a thought balloon over her head that said, simply, "pervert". I was quite glad to turn off the main road and head to my flat.
I arrived at the door.
I put my hand in my pocket.
I had an awful moment of realisation.
My keys, I realised, were in my bedroom, and betwen me and them were two locked doors.
Having no choice, I turned around, and began the half hour walk back to Vauxhall. Walking back down Nine Elms Lane, I discovered that the Moonwalk had reached it's midway point and was heading back towards Battersea Park. For the second time in half an hour I was presented with the now familiar sight of hundreds of scantily clad women striding purposefully towards me.

I could hear the thoughts radiating from them, as they did little double takes looking as they passed me: "It's that pervert again!" they all thought. All of them. I bet.

I confess for a moment that I considered turning and running, until I realised that if I did, the saxophone would start up and we'd all start running. So instead, I once again had to walk for several miles against the flow of lingerie-clad womenfolk. I didn't know where to look. Honest.

Like I say, my life is an episode of The Benny Hill Show.

Not that I'm complaining.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 10:04, 10 replies)
Not many b3ta stories involve Queen Elizabeth II, and a platoon of Gurkhas, so here goes
A few years ago, QEII is paying a royal visit to the country where I was working as a development worker for a well known charity. As we were funded by the British government, we all got invited to a reception at the British embassy. So we all dressed up in our finery and went. Did I mention that this invitation mentioned free alcohol………This last fact was picked up by several of my colleagues, including “Big Charlie” who was over 6’6’’and the wrong side of 20st.

Anyway, the reception came and went, we all shook hands with the Queen, and had some drinks. I then had to leave to get the train back to my workplace which was about eight hours away. No problem. Our boss had to leave too, as she had a meeting. Big Charlie stayed, which in hindsight was a mistake. A few hours later, he appears at our bosses house (which was next door to the office), completely off his head, with cuts and bruises, a black eye, and no recollection of the previous few hours, or even how he got there. The boss sobered him up, poured him into a taxi, and sent him home. She just assumed he had fallen over somewhere, which he had done before, after drinking a pint or twelve.

A week later, the boss goes to a committee meeting, comprising mainly of British expats. Comments such as ”the less we talk about the incident at the embassy the better” and “ I wish you could keep your staff under control” were uttered. The boss manages through casual conversation, to find out what happened after she left. Free alcohol and Charlie mix very well, actually too well. About a couple of hours after the Queen left, the embassy shut the bar. So Charlie reopened it. Not a particularly intelligent move I must admit. Especially as the people doing the security at the embassy, were Gurkhas. Apparently, it was the most polite fight anybody has ever seen. “Please don't do that sir, as I will have to hit you ” and “yes sir, I will be taking that beer off you ” were heard. His attempt at throwing a punch failed, as the soldier just stepped out of the way and watched Charlie go flying and make a dent in the floor .(For any readers who don't know, Gurkha soldiers are recruited from the mountains of Nepal, most are quite short, have a fearsome reputation for fighting skills, and can probably kill you in four different ways using just their little finger) Getting into a fight with them is like having a death wish, on steroids.

So for Charlie, meeting the Queen, getting blind drunk, getting into a fight with a platoon of Gurkha soldiers, being beaten up politely by said Gurkha soldiers, and finally been sobered up and sent home by your boss, who then takes massive flack for your behavior, yes ,I think that is a night out gone wrong.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 3:32, 16 replies)
dreamtime
My best laid plans ended in woe not through massive drugs or alcohol abuse, but through weird dreams. I'd had a challenging day at work and was looking forward to nothing more than a good nights sleep. I unplugged the phone, got a hot water bottle, selected a good book and nodded off peacefully after a few pages. Unfortunately, while in blissful slumber, things took a turn for the worse. I had a dream where my best mate was sucking my cock! I awoke with a start and was a bit unsettled, but I was so tired I drifted off again - and sure enough the dream came back! My best mate, giving me a sloppy headjob! Needless to say I woke up again, alarmed and in a terrible dilemma. I mean, how on earth do I tell him he's gay?
(, Thu 31 Mar 2011, 10:34, 4 replies)
'tis the season to be jolly - and covered in one's own poo
Boxing Day 1995 and I was sharing a house with two mates. Waking up at about 10am with a mild hangover my two housemates were already in the living room, cracking open a bottle of whisky. They offered me one to take the edge off, but I politely declined saying "No way, I don't wanna get hammered, we've got the house party tonight"

The house party was significant because it was sure to be thronged with posh ex-university totty. I was fresh from a Computer Studies course so of course I'd almost forgotten what women looked like. As a host and bedroom-owner I had a better than usual hope of some xmas bouncy-bouncy.

So. Intending to take it easy I trundled off to the local for a few beers and a day of meeting friends and family. It was a great day, but my memories for some reason get fuzzier as the day goes on. Fast forward about twelve hours and fifteen or so pints later I was in a right state, Piecing together the events the next day this is what happened next.

Staggering into the house blind drunk I fell, face first like a felled tree. I was unconscious in the middle of the packed living room, only coming to several hours later. They didn't realise what a state I was actually in, so stuck me in the corner of the room on a sofa.
Luckily when I came to there were only a few people left, but that anyone had to see what I did next - this is the bit that bothers me to this day. After dragging myself to my feet I suffered a massive bowel eruption - it was shit or bust time.

Rather than staggering to the bog however, I walked to one of the bay windows, in full view of the street, and had a monster blowout- covering the carpet, my lower clothing and myself in gooey shit while my housemate watched in horror too dumbstruck to do anything. Pulling my filth encrusted undercrackers and trousers up I went to the second bay window and did an 'encore' of the previously mentioned bum blast. I then set about removing my clothes, wiping myself down with them and throwing the soiled clothing onto the sofa. Uttering my only recognisable words of the evening (a satisfied 'I won't be needing them any more') I trundled off to bed. The horror of what I had done, the reactions of my housemates (more sorrow than anger), and the sheer mess I made haunt me to this day.

Length? It stank for days - We had to leave the windows open in the middle of winter, just so we could breathe)
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 23:19, 7 replies)
PUNCH! IN THE FACE!
Who's been punched? Proper hoofing roundhouse punched, in the FACE?

Unfortunately, through a combination of bad luck and stupidity, I've been hardmanned to fuck quite a few times as an adult.

I am not hard. Like any good QOTWer I am over six foot and, ahem, heavily built. But I am resolutely soft as fuck. It took several confrontations, culminating in the one I'm about to describe, to realise that getting all up in people's business is not a wise move if you're soft as fuck.

Like (I suspect) a lot of young men, for a long time I longed to be hard. I watched all the Rocky films, lifted weights, and in crowded pubs I would cast steely glares at those I felt had slighted me or my companions. Lots of 'no, YOU fuck off or I'll batter you ya cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt' etc etc etc. In retrospect, it wasn't a pleasant look, and was made all the more ridiculous by the fact that in all likelihood I would never batter anyone. I was the worst kind of tough guy – a well brought-up fraud, posing and mouthing off. My own small contribution to Broken Britain.

Cut to the land of the free … Middlesbrough! Oh, glorious Middlesbrough. My heart beats for thee. I grew up not far from this delightful town, and when I was about 20 I went for my final night out there (although I didn't know it at the time).
Things were going well. I was in a club with my two best friends, we were dancing like joyous elves in bad shirts, and a lady in a tight brown dress was letting me finger her on the dancefloor. YES! I got so carried away with excitement that halfway through Bon Jovi's 'Living on a Prayer' I clambered up onto a nearby stage, and with much grace and enthusiasm hurled myself bodily into the air with an almighty 360º strum of my air guitar. Splat! Right back onto the dancefloor sending revellers scattering.

Picked myself up and dusted myself off, only to see that I was surrounded by a tight-knit semicircle of five young men. I couldn't hear their remonstrations over the music, but could tell by their faces that they didn't like me. No matter. I'm hard as fuck, remember.

"FUCK OFF YOU CUNNNNNNTTTTTTSSS! I"LL FUCKING DO ALL OF YAAAAAAAAA!"

For those of you lucky enough to have never been totally and mercilessly sucker punched right in the fucking ear, let me explain how it feels. Imagine it's an icy cold day. Your face is freezing, your ears are red, and someone kicks a heavy basketball from about five feet away right into the side of your stupid fucking head.

For the second time in ten seconds, I found myself lying down on the dancefloor.

After a few confusing moments I managed to gather myself together and stagger out of there, into the foyer where the bouncers congregated. Holding my head, I demanded satisfaction. "Some CUNT just sucker punched me! Get him out here! I'm going to fucking have him!"
Dutifully, and with a wry smile, one of the bouncers who'd seen the lot went and explained the situation to my assailant. A minute later, he was bounding out into the foyer to meet me. The bouncers stood round like betters at a cock fight. "Go on then lads, have it out."

Moments like that can be very edifying. I had peers who never would have dreamed of even going into this club, let alone getting themselves into the situation I was currently in. But I was a prick. Full of shit. And thoroughly deflated by the realisation that here I had a chance to actually prove I was hard, and in actual fact I was just scared as fuck.

My 'opponent' let out a mighty roar, and in true hulk style ripped his shirt off to reveal a body that had clearly been honed through years of strenuous physical activity and hardship. I looked and felt like an accountant. I had thoroughly embarrassed myself. I muttered something along the lines of "forget it, fucking hell, I just wanted an apology," and sloped off to catch a bus. My opponent casually put his shirt back on and went inside the club. Probably to fuck the girl I'd pulled.

Bastard.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:57, 16 replies)
There I stood; there I spoke; there I vommed
Three years ago I moved down to London with my then-girlfriend.

She’d already secured a job down there, we’d secured a flat, and I was in an interview process for a job of my own. We had drinks with different groups of friends to say cheerio to the hometown over the course of a couple of weeks, culminating in a quiet evening in a bar on the Sunday before we moved. We wanted it to be a short one, because it was our last goodbye and she had work in the morning and I had a telephone interview. I was going to have a nice drinky, a good sleepy, and then a calm and professional interview at 10.00 the next morning.

Unfortunately, but nicely, just about everyone we knew from school, work, family, friends, whatever turned up to see us off and bought us a fucking shedload of drinks. Whisky for me, for some reason. Equally unfortunately but nicely, the bar manager was an old schoolfriend of mine and kept the place open past midnight.

Thus I got six kinds of Wednesday.

I stayed at my girlfriend’s house that night – she lived with her family at that point – and basically threw away whatever dignity and decorum I had. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember her waking me because I’d sicked the bed in my sleep. That required her mother’s assistance for some reason – I know not – so she got to have a nice discussion with her daughter’s boyfriend as he was covered in sick, drunken as sin and naked as a jaybird. I have no memory of the conversation or the procedure – I guess I just stood in the corner like a little nude dunce, gently moaning. Possibly with an erection.

The next thing I remember is being woken, amazingly, by my phone ringing. Amazingly because it was on silent so just vibrating on a table. It was 10.00 o’clock and time for my interview, and I was still in my girlfriend’s bed and naked. She’d gone off to work and left me, presumably not wanting to have to handle a repeat of the intestinal pyrotechnics from the night. I answered the phone, of course, with the croaking voice of an elderly Bob Dylan. Dear me, did I do well. I was interviewed for an hour talking completely off the top of my head, all the time pacing around the room in an effort to stave off the voms, wanger swaying as I expanded upon my experiences and qualifications. Twice I had to excuse myself and throw up into the bin. I just claimed to my interviewer that I was coughing.

My clothes were not in the bedroom. So after finishing the interview I had to wander downstairs and hold another conversation with the mother to ask where my clothes were (they’d been washed as they got a bit of sick of them. Nice lady). She was in a dressing gown; I was still naked. Possibly with an erection.

No-one died, and I got the job. All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:40, 3 replies)
I once got legless.
Cheers.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 13:42, 6 replies)
So there I was...
Out one night; it was pissing it down and all I had left was a fiver... So I got in the cab, and the driver turned to me, winked and said "where to lovey?" so I told him. I also told him I only had a fiver on me, and would it be okay to take me home as I was a bit worse the wear, he looked at me in the rear view mirror and he winked and grinned. I breathed a sigh of relief. He started the engine and pulled away past all the other cab drivers in the street; me in the back, breathing a sigh of relief.

Well, I watched the meter ticking over; four pounds, four fifty, four ninety... Five. He stopped the car and turned to me "All right lovey, out you get" he said; "What?!" "That's your fiver lovey." I looked at the nearest road sign, we were still a good forty minute stagger from home... "But...but..." I stammered in his general direction; "That's your lot love, gi'us your fiver and out you get." his west country drawl grating on my very soul. So out I got, and, all high heels and thongs cutting into me, made my sorry way home.

So. I decided to get my own back. The next night out I'd been quite sensible, and retained enough cash to get me home safely for once. Now, I'd managed to lose all my mates; but I noticed my nemesis at the back of the rank; so I approached each of the cabbies in the Old Town Square and asked them "If I strapped one on and bummed you, would you give me a ride home for nothing?" and they all sent me away, until I got to him... And I popped my head in his window and asked him how much it'd be to get me home; he looked up at me and smiled and told me it'd be about seven fifty, so I grinned and got in his green Toyota and, as we drove past all his mates, I gurned out of his passenger window giving thumbs up to all his mates!
(, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 20:37, 10 replies)
almost a mrs.
due to the fact that i'm a greedy cunt who has never learned when to say no, most of my nights out end in me being disgustingly drunk. you'd think i'd learn, but no.

one night, many years ago, a friend of mine decided to set me up with her boyfriend's brother. he was a rather pleasant greek chap, not my usual type, but amiable enough and decent company. he was the youngest of 3 brothers. the eldest was going out with my friend's sister, the middle brother was, of course, going out with my friend. between them, the brothers owned and ran a kebab house in the town centre. nestled in the basement of the shop was a fully-stocked bar, awaiting a license(which they never got) to open for business. of course, we decided to test out the booze.
we tested it all friday night and most of saturday.
saturday tea time rolls around to find myself and greek chap getting along famously. truth be told, we were being rather lovey-dovey and more than a little vom-inducing. my mate, sickened by the slushy display she was being forced to witness, then uttered the line that would change our weekend entirely: "for fuck's sake, if you like each other that much, why don't you just get fucking married?"
this sounded like a splendid idea. the six of us hauled our drunken arses out to the lads' van* and piled in. after a quick discussion about which motorway to take, we headed north.
to gretna green.
it was dark by the time we found our way there and, due to none of us having very much money, we all decided to sleep in the van before finding the registry office in the morning. more booze was consumed.

the next morning, i was hit simultaneously by 3 things: the cold light of day, a vicious hangover and the grim realisation that i'd been a COLOSSAL fuckwit. not only had i been stupid enough to drive a few hundred miles in a van piloted by a pissed-up man, but i had actually thought it'd be funny to marry a man whose name i couldn't even pronounce. shame hung in that van like a velvet elvis portrait. as the others came to, we shared a few sideways guilty glances. words, however, were not needed. the van was turned around and we headed home.
since that cringeworthy day, i have never again laid eyes upon that greek bloke. i feel that we both had a very lucky escape. i am now slightly less of a drunken belled.

for anyone wishing to get married in gretna green, i believe you have to register a few days before you get married. this rule was probably introduced to stop drunken idiots from doing what we tried to do.

*i know it was stupid, but i really have no excuse for getting into a van that was being drunk-driven :(
(, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:58, 4 replies)
the invincible warrior
second hand story, no apologies.

My mate Lee was out with a group of friends one night in Brizzle and one of the group was becoming a bit over-refreshed. So much so that, for reasons that no doubt seemed good at the time, something* was put in his drink.

At which point, he became THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! He decided that it was extremely urgent that he tell everyone at the table that he was THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! over and over again, until, perhaps a little unkindly, they suggested he try spreading his good news around the bar.

Funnily enough, not everyone took to meeting THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! particularly well, and before long, it became time to leave in something of a hurry; Last anyone saw of him, he was picking himself up off the floor and berating his newest assailant "YOU CANNOT HURT ME! I AM THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR!"


Our erstwhile hero awakes the next morning in a state of enormous pain and great confusion. Cut lips, swollen cheek bones, black eyes, bruised ribs, the lot. Having no recollection of the previous night, and thinking he may have fallen off the beer scooter on the way home, he decides the best thing to do is get himself up to A&E for a proper looksee if anything is broken.

A weary, worldly '18 hours of dealing with you idiots' triage nurse greets him with barely a raised eyebrow and murmurs... "hmmm. Thought you'd be back. We tried to treat you last night, but you kept saying you were invincible..."


*may have been more drink
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 21:53, 1 reply)
A New Life In Spain
I just remembered another tale which should have put me off drinking for a while, but didn't.

When i was about 19 I was really good friends with Ben. We used to go up the local pub and drink loads of shots and nick road signs on the way home, wee on people's driveways, the usual. The good thing was that we didnt want to shag each other, so we could actually be proper boy-girl-mates without that sexual tension and trying not to have bad breath after a fag etc etc.

One night we were up the pub, walking back to my house I shared with my Dad when we decided that we didnt want the night to end. "I know! Let's move to Spain!" somehow came up. So off we trotted, back to mine, I woke my Dad up to ask where my passport was and told him I was moving to Spain. He just wanted a quiet life and to go back to sleep so pointed me in the right direction and let me get on with it. I packed a bag for my new life in Spain, and we called a taxi to take us to Gatwick. We went via Ben's and he also packed a bag. We were all set.

£30 later and at Gatwick, i then proceeded to phone my work answerphone and leave a message for my boss saying I was moving to Marbella, and then rang 3 of our clients to leave them messages to the effect of 'thanks for your business, lovely working with you but im actually moving to Spain tonight'. Rang my Mum who was working a night shift and she went fucking mental, but I was too pissed to care. Sat down for five minutes while waiting for Check-in to open for an Easy-Jet flight, fell asleep and woke up at 5am, sober-ish and realised what we had actually done.

Had to get a taxi all the way back which was another £30. Didn't feel too clever on Monday when I was speaking to our clients who all found it hilarious, the best bit was finding out what we had actually packed;-

Me
1 x denim skirt
1 x spotty top
1 x tin pantene pro v hairspray
3 x pairs knickers

Ben
1 x towel
6 x pairs socks.

Still makes me laugh.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 15:13, 6 replies)
'whatever possessed you to get a wicker toilet?!'

(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 11:35, 5 replies)
Wingman Fail
After a pretty normal night in the local, me and my bez are strolling home through the park. Its after 12 and its empty, a nice relaxing wander home, still jabbering on and putting the world to right....

Next thing we know, there is a dark figure approaching from the bushes on an intercept course. Said figure has now brandished some kind of edged weapon and is threatening us, my brain now engages as my friend jumps into action.

Mate instantly steps between us and takes a defensive pose. Im still processing the situation when the figure makes a move at us with a general thrusty motion with his hand and made some kind of demand i couldnt make out.

Next thing I know, a phone is pushed into my hand by my mate. Mate seems to have got it off our assailant and resumes his remonstrations "we dont want bother, etc...".

I think, Fuck You Mystery Stabber and launch his phone over a 10ft burglar grease and barb topped fence onto the old lads' bowling green. That'll learn him, that'll learn him indeed.

We are still edging away and reach the relative safety of the streetlight lit street surrounding the park.

"That was pretty crazy", mate understates. "Have you got my phone?"....
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 14:43, 4 replies)
not me, honest
but a guy who drank at my old local. Too pissed to open his own front door, kicks it down, helps himself to a can of coke from the fridge and sits down to scan the late night TV for some cheap porn.

wakes up in the cells the following morning...

Had forgotten he'd had moved house earlier that year. After about an hour the poor souls hiding in terror upstairs dared to venture downstairs to phone phone the rozzers (this was pre-mobiles) only to find their burglar asleep on their sofa in front of the testcard with his trousers round his ankles...
(, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 22:46, 3 replies)
Having a pea:
I'd just discovered Ecstacy, and, as such, was on an INCREDIBLY strong pill. Almost (almost) too high, at a house party (as in, it was in a house).

Chatting to some geezer, for some reason, I remember him giving me the advice "Never look in a mirror when on a pill."

So I was having a lovely time, but needed a slash, and off I went to the bog.

In I go - the door opens outwards, and the bog is to the left, over which there is a long mirror.

So I'm having a nice slash and dear CHRIST am I high but god this slash is good this pill is good this music is good these people are good CHRIST I am so high I am so, so high ooo that's a nice slash lovely lovely lovely ...

And I hear a noise.

A nice noise.

Girls. Lovely girls. Girls laughing. Lovely girls, laughing. Let's hope they're experimenting happily with bisexuality GOD am I high lovely girls laughing laughing lovely girls laughing away what are they laughing at what do they see, lovely girls laughing, laughing at me ...

Laughing at me?

Laughing at ... what? At me?

I slowly come to my senses. I am standing at the toilet, my cock in my hand, my nose millimeters from mirror, staring - intensley - at myself.

The door was wide, wide open.

I had been like that for several minutes.

The lovely girls laughing? They were openly pointing and specifically laughing at me, inviting their mates to enjoy the spectacle.

I had neither lifted the lid nor had a slash.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 12:54, 14 replies)
The Mudderfuggin' Sweeny!
First ever post, so hello!

It's 1996. Wednesday night. Three days ago friends and I won a bottle of tequila in a pub quiz. Two hours ago we were doing slammers. Evidently, I had more of a taste for them than the others. In between then and now we'd arrived at a local club, but I needed some air so I staggered into the darkness outside.

I remember leaning against a fence for sometime, then realising that vomit was unavoidable and sought out a handy spot. Handy spot was determined to be the bottom of a stairwell in the multistory carpark next to the club. Stomache emptied I move on into the carpark, theorising that I'll get better air up here... I stagger towards a car and very suddenly I hear an engine fire up, accellerate and screechingly skid to a stop a few yards from me. Two guys in shellsuits get out. I raise my hands:

"Don't hurt me" I drunkenly say. "We're police" they reply flopping out a badge in about as cool a manner as a guy in a shellsuit can.

"Someones been tampering with that car" they gesture.

It's worth reiterating at this point that I am completely fucked and can barely stand up. I protest my innocence and they don't want to believe me (no doubt because the Sweeny skidding Sierra entrance can only be used in the case of hardcore car thiefs and to waste it on a two-bit drunk is a crime in itself). I distinctly remember saying "I'm drunk, I've been sick in the stairwell, go look if you don't believe me.". The bigger of the two goes out to check whilst the smaller ratty looking guy asks me where I've been etc. Big fella comes back chastising me for being disgusting and what about the kids with their parents tomorrow morning etc, to which I reply "get me a bucket and I'll clean it up for you!". He's not too happy and is pacing around a bit and trying desperately to make me feel very small but the gab gift isn't failing me that night and I have an answer to everything. Then, ratty looking guy appears to be about to cut his losses and let me go. Whilst shaking his hand I say "Nice to meet you, it's a shame your mate's a bit of a cunt..." Then, completely unexpectedly, or perhaps it should have been very expected, I am grabbed from behind by the "bit of a cunt" and bundled into the car and taken straight to the station.

Obviously, they let me go shortly afterwards (what exactly is the charge officer?)but not until after I've made my favourite accidental pun of all time. Whilst emptying my pockets I counted the money, which amounted to 8p in 1's and 2's. "It's not as though I don't trust you with a couple of coppers..." I say looking up at them. "...even though you're a couple of coppers". They weren't amused. No sense of humour these folks.

Apologies if that was long.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 13:32, 5 replies)
I'm the kind of cat who usually keeps his shit together.
I have a high capacity for alcohol, and I always remember exactly what happened. It's more of a curse than a blessing. I spend more money and end up being the one carrying my friends to bed or shepherding them away from fights with bouncers.
One time that pushed my limits was a business trip to Leeds with a Sarth Efrican mate of mine. We got stuck into this stuff called Stroh Rum, and in it I'd met my match. I remember being drawn toward lampposts trying to walk home like they had their own gravitational pull. I woke up in my hotel bed with a kebab and vomit over my shirt. Soldiering down for breakfast, I had juice, tea and sausages then vomited them up waiting for the taxi.
We had to give a presentation that morning to the captains of industry, bank heads, microsoft, university deans etc. I got about 10 minutes in to my powerpoint, went pale as a ghost and stopped talking. I thought I could fight it off, but I was wrong. I chundered in front of 70 people - a proper one that comes out the nose as well and combines with the snot for extra effect. My friend, who pussied it altogether, and I agreed never to tell head office what had taken place
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 11:39, 9 replies)
So I was trying to get to do sex to a girl
She was also quite the prick-tease, I found out later, but for the time being, we were just getting drunk together.

"We should go back to mine" she said, raising my trousers, "but first let's have a drink in the The Fox".

As we walked there, both a few drinks under, she took out some prescription pills and took one - "They're for my epilepsy" she explained, "Would you like one?"

"You're alright" I said, remembering Romania with horrid accuracy.

"Oh go on!" she giggled, "All my friends do - they just calm my epilepsy, but they say they make you really nice and mellow ... very ... sensual ... " she said. I would like to point out that in previous discussion she'd hinted that not only was she not averse to, but quite keen on a little back door action.

"I dunno ... " I said, playing the part of idiot, easily-led and unquestioning sex-starved student to a tee.

"They're really good" she said, popping one in my mouth slowly, letting her fingers trail my lips.

_______

I remember being kicked in the stomach - sort of gently, but repeatedly.

"Oi!" said God, "OI!"

Something sounded like a radio crackling.

"Fuck it" said God, "Let's just get the fucker out and get fucking closed"

I was flying. Beautiful, cold air on my skin. My arms hurt, but I was fine, flying through the cold night, refreshed - lovely.

Then my face hit the floor with a crack. Oh well.

God came back, this time with a kinder, softer tone, "You alright, mate? You from the college? I think he's from the college"

"I am indeed from the college" I instructed them, "I wonder if I could trouble you for the loan of twenty pounds with which to hire a public carriage, that I might hoof off? I hope that my mate Dan's awake, and that I might spend the night on his floor, as I know his liberal attitude to accommodation will be prevalent, and he lives not far from here. Would you mind? I would be most obliged."

"I dunno" said God, "Isn't he a mate of Dan's?"

"I AM a mate of Dan's!" I said, "As I instructed you! Now, twenty pounds, if you please!"

The summer passed, and soon the cool of autumn was making me shiver.

"Dan, mate? Yeah. You got a mate with a red mohican? Yeah. Yeah. Well he's outside The Fox and he's ... yeah. No. He's proper fucked. Yeah. Yeah OK - you what? Oh mate - yeah sure - yeah OK mate. Yeah that's cool."

I remember noting that Dan had grown a beard, and looked handsome with it. A small chap but deceptively strong, he swore at me profusely for some reason, and there was something to do with a blanket.

The morning arrived, and with it breakfast of tea and a sausage sandwich. A trip to the park to enjoy the mid-summer sun was arranged, and throughout it I alternately shivered and sweated, and occassionally pulled myself to the bushes to dry heave. In the afternoon I managed to get back to mine, where I spent two days in bed flitting from consciousness to sleep, with no real distinction between them. I could not focus for a week on whether or not I existed beyond mild physical discomfort.

I never did get to have sex with the girl.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 10:50, 3 replies)
A Local Hero
Wavy lines back to the 1980's...

And it came to pass that the hero of our story staggers out of the club in the small hours of the morning, and even though it's October, decides that the best place of all for a little sleep would be the beach. Pebbles may be hard, but in his advanced state of inebriation they seemed as soft as down, and snoring was soon in evidence.

Many hours later, consciousness began to trickle back into the ragged remains of his brain, and various things were clamouring for his attention. As well as the usual raging thirst, thumping headache and distended bladder, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh yes, the ring of armed police staring down at him along the barrels of their guns, that'll be it.

Turns out that during the hours he'd spent peacefully sleeping on the beach, the hotel directly behind him had been rather inconsiderately blown up by the IRA. Apparently, having guns pointed at you is a great way to sober up, really fast.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 10:32, 2 replies)
the good, the bad and the ugly
new year's eve, 1993. i'd gone out clubbing with a couple of mates and was having a whale of a time. i'd drunk lots and danced like a tazered twat. i'd even run into an ex i'd had a bad break-up with and managed to sort out a few things with him, parting as friends. life was good.
as the club was owned by my mum's boss, i was allowed into the private upstairs bar. usually when i went up there, i'd have a few drinks with some of the staff and get a lift home. tonight, however, only 2 staff members were taking a cab, a couple who i didn't really like. i went back downstairs to find my mates who, assuming i'd be getting a lift, had already left, taking the remaining kitty money with them. i asked the staff couple if i could have a lift home, as it was on their way. the girl said yes, but the bloke(DEAN CORRIGAN, YOU'RE A CUNT) said there was no room in the cab and left me there, penniless and freezing, five miles from home and pissed.
uttering curses against my friends and cuntish men, i started tottering homewards.
has anyone else done that thing when they're pissed, when they start whinging about one of their exes and wanting them back? well, this is what i started doing. leaning against a wall with my face buried in metal railings, i howled like a banshee, drunken tears soaking my dress and making me even more frosty cold.
it was at this point that salvation appeared in the form of 2 blokes in a delivery van. they calmed me down, gave me a cigarette and asked where i lived. upon hearing how far from home i was, they insisted on giving me a lift. i was so grateful that i didn't even think about the possibility of them raping or murdering me.
they dropped me off right outside my house, waiting to make sure that i got inside all right. once inside, i kicked off my ridiculously high-heeled shoes and looked for some baby wipes to take off my makeup. when i saw my reflection in the mirror, i almost gave myself 7 years' bad luck. those railings i'd had my face buried in? they'd been coated with vandal grease, which was now spread in stripes all over my face. i looked like a ninja waffle. if i'd been the one driving that van, i'd never have given a lift to someone looking the way i did then.
still, it turned out my mates had a worse night than i did.
they got mugged on the way home and wound up in hospital for 2 days.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 18:48, 9 replies)
turning to the man behind me...
I slurred, "I think I've pulled here."

I most definitely hadn't, and informing her boyfriend of my intentions ensured the only thing I took home was a black eye.
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 17:55, 2 replies)
Perspective
Had a nastily big night out and rocked up to work with my eyes hanging out of my head, looking pale and feeling shaky. I was struggling through the morning and I mentioned to a co-worker, a rough and worn bloke in his late 50's, that I was unbelievably rotten the night before.

'Like fuck' he said 'You haven't been drunk until you wake up with 3 days worth of shit in your underpants'.

Point taken.
(, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 10:00, 3 replies)
Lost in Canada
A friend, Mark, was off on his first big overseas trip, a season snowboarding in Canada. Upon arrival in Vancouver, he checks in to his backpackers and proceeds to get utterly shitfaced in town. At the end of the night, he finds himself inexplicably unable to get back into the backpackers. So, the only logical course of action is to break in. Some local must have seen this and called the cops, as they soon turned up shining torches in his eyes. The conversation, he recounts, went like this:

Cop: "What are you doing?"
Mark: "Trying to get into my backpackers.
Cop: "This isn't a backpackers. It's somebody's house."
Mark, after looking up and realising that rather than a multi-story inner city backpackers, he is trying to get into a suburban bungalow: "Oh, yeah."
Cop (pointing down): "Where are your shoes?"
Mark (realising he has no shoes on): "Hey, what happened to my shoes?!?"
Cop: "Do you know where you are?"
Mark mulls this over, mentally retracing his steps as far as he can remember, and answers: "Canada?"

Amazingly, they found out where he was staying, and dropped him off without charges.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 22:04, 4 replies)
Grounded
I was about 16 when my parents first went away for a week leaving me and my brother at home alone.

We, of course, did exactly what we had promised we wouldn't and had all our friends over.

It went without a hitch...some massive cleaning up to be done, but no evidence at all. Not a beer can in a bush or an ornament out of place. I replaced all the food that was eaten, I even checked that no one had played any tricks like hiding anything in my parents bed, or turning the pictures upside down. It was perfection and we'd get away scot free.

Except they came back, walked around, took one look at the place and gave me and my brother an almighty bollocking and grounded us both for the next two weekends. When they'd calmed down, i bravely asked how they knew and just got the response 'we didn't,But we do now'.

Fucksocks.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 19:09, 21 replies)
Akela, I will do my best.
It's hard to believe now, but 12 year old me was a well behaved, serious little cub scout. All dib dib dibing my ging gang goolies and tugging my woggle like nobodies business (dear god, i feel like I am channelling the spirit of Eric Morecombe). I was dutiful and knew my sheep shank from my bowline and could knock up a bivouac in no time flat. I was 'sixer' (I think that's what they were called) to...well...presumably 5 other scouts, (if that's how it works, the memory isn't holding up too well here I have realised) and as such they were my responsibility on the 12 mile night hike we had planned.

I'm not even sure that we would be allowed to do this, these days, without a qualified adult chaperoning us - cos that's healthy, a grown man willing to spend his night walking 6 pre-pubescent boys into the dark woods...but anyway, off we set, with my scarf done up neat, my map and compass safely in their waterproof pack, my whistle and my torch ready and food all nicely wrapped. I led us across the first field. To a ditch. I looked left and right, across and figured it would be easier to navigate the ditch than walk the length of it to the edge of the field where, presumably, there would have been a bridge. Unfortunatley it was wider than it looked. And deeper. And more full of stagnant water. Still, we manfully...well...boyfully...made it across. Although Keith cried.

Once I'd counted heads to make sure the short ones hadn't drowned, I got the map out to see where was next. Or at least I would have done. But my waterproofing, expert though it was, had been let down by, well, not closing the waterproof wallet.

Anyway, onwards and upwards.

Soggy map abandoned, navigation by the stars not being an option by dint of me not being a 17th century navigator and working on little but the vague idea that the Scout camp was near Brentwood and Brentwood was 'behind that church over there', we set off again across the field. And then the next field, and the next. And next. And then we were at the church. Have you ever tried getting 5 11 and 12 year olds to walk through a graveyard in the moonlight when they are cold, wet and already exhausted? It's not easy. Not easy at all. Scott held my hand. Andy held my other hand. Dave and Chris hugged each other. And Keith cried. Again. Although in fairness, he'd been at his Nan's funeral two days earlier, so I think Graveyards were already a sore point with him.

But still, I took my responsibility seriously and led them through with little more than mental scarring and one case of stinging nettle rash from suggesting to Scott that he could 'push into those bushes so no one can see you if you need to pee'. (It's OK, the rash was only on his arms). And then we were off again. We'd made it to the road. Well, lane anyway. The thing about footpathless country lanes with no signage or lighting or roadmarkings is that they look remarkably similar in both directions...

And that's how we found ourselves, four hours after we had set off, back at the scout hut. The empty, locked Scout Hut. Keith cried. I gave up and cried. Then went to the phone box and called my parents.

In truth, it was worth it when my Dad bundled us all into the car and drove us with his fists clenched knuckle white round the steering wheel to the campsite where he proceeded to tear each and every (drunken) Scout leader more than one new arsehole each.

I never went back to Scouts.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:40, 8 replies)
Once upon a time,
back in the era when I could be classified as "but a nipper," I attended a boarding school for a few years.

This was before the days of readily-available alcohol, as we were a bit too young to be able to pass off a proof-of-age test. Nevertheless, some of us decided that it would be a good idea to go into the nearest town and "frolic." I use this term as I feel that it applies equally to the SU booze-filled antics of uni. In the sense that we decided to temporarily liberate some street furniture and associated roadworks paraphernalia. And temporary it would turn out to be.

First stop was the supermarket on the other side of town, where we borrowed a couple of shopping trollies and proceeded to the nearest steep-ish hill. On the way we acquired some of the aforementioned traffic cone helmets and barrier lances and chariot-jousted our way to a good time. And all without serious injury.

Eventually tiring of this pastime we repaired to our school, now some miles away, pausing only to discard our trollies full of orange lights and temporary speed limit signs just before we reached the school gates. In a roadblock. Across the whole road. Just as the police drove past.

Unimpressed with our attempt at passing ourselves off as teenage, mid-night road-workers, they threatened us with arrest and we sobbed out our story. They then offered us an alternative to a formal dealing-with: that we were to return all the items we'd taken to their respective places. Fair do's. They took one of us in the car and drove all round the surrounding area, as we retraced our steps along the epic and circuitous route (no booze-clouded memory for another few years). We even, helpfully, picked up other stuff along the way as directed by the law.

As the sky started to get light we reached the supermarket and neatly parked the trollies. "Ok," says one officer, "I'd like to watch the sunrise from here with you boys, it's a beautiful day and I'm clocking off in a few minutes."
The other added "it's only a couple of miles back to your school, and if you run back after, then you might just make it before they find out you are gone. Eh?"
It was a strained half an hour of watching the sunrise, with our finest no doubt cracking up in the car, but they eventually let us go, and we returned without notice to the school authorities.

I realise that it could have been worse, but at the time it seemed like the worst night out we could have inflicted on ourselves - a ten mile forced march at night, fully laden, and a full day of school on either side to keep sleep at bay for more than is recommended.

Length? I was a bit too young for you to be worrying about that.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 19:58, 2 replies)

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