Why I am never the designated driver.
Usually my best mate is the DD as she doesn't drink much so I'd always have a ride home. Except for one night when I got a grand idea in my head to not drink when we went to the bar so that she could have a few. It started with a shooter, something fruity I assume. And another fruity drink. In walks her current shag, they're not together, though she wants to be, he doesn't. So she's chatting at him and hanging all over him as he gently nudges her off. They start taking shots of Grand Marnier, it only goes downhill from here.

In walks a girl that's always been a little more than friendly with her shag. I groan a bit as she walks up to him and hugs him, my mate orders another round, girl disappears. By this time mate needs to use the facilities. I escort her slighty drunken self to the bathroom and walk in on girl loudly proclaiming she's going home with shag tonight. Mate is not too happy. More shots are ordered, along with angry shouts at shag, who promptly leaves.
Mate orders another shot and drink and is by this time speaking a bit incoherently. I've never seen her like this. She tries to wander to the bathroom by herself and manages to fall flat on her face. She's helped up and she does her business and falls out of the bathroom door. This is no bueno.
So she makes it out to the bar finally and is told she's been cut off and it's best if we leave. After a few minutes of calming down, we soon realise her legs aren't working at all now. With the help of the bartenders husband I am able to get her out to the car through the back of the bar, then into my car, when she spots shag outside smoking. "I HATE YOU AND EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR," is shouted from my car.
Best to get on the way then.

I jump in the drivers seat and we get on our way. Make it about a block before she decides she needs to puke. So she paints someones driveway and we are off again. A few miles down a country highway, she needs to puke again. Hindsight is usually 20-20, and where as I've never had this problem, I didn't quite expect it. I pull over as best I can, she opens the door and pukes a little. Opens the door further, then rolls the fuck out and into a pukey ditch. Yay.
I clean her up with an old sweater, hoist her in, leave sweater behind. Carry on down the road a bit, she needs to stop again. This time I make sure it's no where near a fucking ditch.
So she opens the door and does a repeat, except this time she narrowly misses cracking her face open on a curb. She's holding the door in one hand, holding herself up off the ground with the other, I'm watching her as a distinct smell begins to float through my car. Is...is that piss? Great.
I get her back into the car, we finally get to her grandmothers house, once again she's hanging out of the car barfing in a driveway and I notice another not so lovely smell. I manage to get her out and inside to the bathroom where instead of shoving her head in the toilet, she rips her shitty pants down and sits on it.
I borrow a bucket to clean off my car as her grandmother is in the background screaming "This is ridiculous!" I clean as much as I can off the inside and outside of the door.
I get into the driver's side and notice...is that? No. It can't be.
She's shit on my passenger seat. Awesome.

So as I'm at the carwash at 3a.m. scrubbing the shit and piss out of my passenger seat I decide that never again will I ever be the designated driver.
( Lisette von Falcon, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:40, 8 replies)

I used to have a long walk home from town when clubbing in York 'cos I always ran out of money for taxis
One night I was wobbling along and came across a man's shoe. I continued on my wobbly way and found another shoe, and some socks. A bit further, and a shirt. I now realise there is a theme developing. I turn a corner and see a pair of trousers, on the 3 steps leading from the street, up into someone's front door, and the door is open.

I walk to the door, the keys are in the lock, there is a pair of very brightly coloured underpants in the hallway.

After a bit of confused thought, I check the trousers, yup, there is a wallet within, and a phone. I contemplate going back to pick up the other things, but instead opt for just chucking the trousers into the hallway, taking out the keys and throwing them after it, then closing the door.

If you're reading this, that must have been a good night!
( ..wil, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:39, 2 replies)

This makes a kind of sense if you know the context.
But by keeping it decontextualised, I think that the climax to this particular drinking story is made even better. It concerns K, who was not a big drinker, and was telling us about one occasion on which he had been forced - yes, forced - to get very drunk.
"I don't know what happened, actually," he mused. "But when I woke up 12 hours later, I was in Armenia."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:31, Reply)

By Proxy
One fine morning a couple of months ago I set off for work. When I opened my front door there was a nicely folded jacket on my doorstep with a pair of smart shoes on top. To the side of my path there was an emtpy pizza box and a wallet. To top it off there was a bunch of keys (with an Audi car key) hanging from the outside of my door as the yale key was jammed in my lock.

It completely threw me and I stood staring at this tidy little collection in bemusement for good couple of minutes. I walked around the house, checked the bushes and after extracting the keys from the door, tried the remote on the car key to see if it belonged to any of the cars on the road. Nothing.

I have no idea why someone would sleep on my doorstep and then shamble off in the early hours leaving all their stuff behind, but it tickles me to think that this little tale might be the other half of one of the others posted here.

BTW, I was a good citizen, I didn't even open the wallet, I took it and the keys to the Police. I left the jacket, shoes and pizza box where I found them. They were gone when I got home.
(Bad Monkey hasn't had an abusive gaz since, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:13, 2 replies)

worst. hangover. ever.
during what i now refer to as my idiotic pisshead phase, i went to the pub with a couple of girlfriends. we'd already been drinking in the house, so we were pretty squiffy by the time we got to our local.
a couple of local lads took a shine to us and more drinks were forthcoming.
by 9p.m, the bar staff were refusing to serve us any more, so we decided to go back to the house of one of the lads for more drinks.
on the way, one of my mates and her drunken swain buggered off down an alleyway, instructing us not to wait for them. my other mate and her new beau also decided that they wanted some alone time, which left just me and the bloke whose house we were headed for.
upon arriving at his house, bob(for that is his name) poured me a glass of whisky. "sorry, i've got no mixers", he tells me. not to worry, i was quite pissed enough to drink it straight.
the remainder of the night passed in a haze of whisky, impromptu guitar music and naked piano playing(him, not me).
around 5 a.m, my feet were getting rather itchy and my host was out for the count. letting myself out, i headed to my mate's place.
she was not pleased to see me. i was horrendously drunk and had interrupted her little game of bedroom leapfrog. she decided the best thing to do was sober me up.
yeah, fat chance.
she fed me noodles, which ended up all over the carpet. i put the bowl on the floor, only to be yelled at to pick it up. unfortunately, as i was pissed, every time i tried to pick the bowl up, i'd kick it. i spent a good ten minutes chasing that fucking bowl across the carpet. the food didn't help, as i'd sneaked some whisky out of bob's house and was now sitting on my mate's bed, drinking merriy away.
my mate had had enough and told me to leave. i staggered out and headed home.
halfway across the road, it was like someone had dropped a blackout curtain down in front of me. i have no memory of falling in the gutter, having a shopkeeper trying to force-feed me coffee, or even of my father being called to get me and kicking me up the arse, before leaving me there, disgusted.
my next memory was of lying face-down on a hospital bed, whilst my clothes were being cut off me and a tube forced down my throat. turns out the "whisky" i'd been drinking was pure hooch, unbelievably strong and almost lethal. i spent the next day in hospital, feeling like a world-class tool and vomiting charcoal. i even hallucinated an old woman in the dayroom, thanks to having the d.t's. unpleasant doesn't quite cover it.

for 2 years afterwards, not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and, even now, the smell of whisky makes me retch.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:08, 10 replies)

Carry on Nurse
It was a 'bad taste' fancy dress party at the rowing club. I'd gone wearing a short hospital gown with big hairy bollocks (made from a sack) dangling below the hem. My girlfriend was dressed as a tampon. One of my mates was there in his caver's furry suit, regretting it due to the heat. The-most-beautiful-girl-in-the-club was dressed as a corpse, in a fetching floaty dress/shroud thing.

It started off well, and there was plenty of booze. But somehow furry caver man got into an argument with a bloke dressed as a creepy vicar over the-most-beautiful-girl-in-the-club. There was a drunken fight and furry bloke fell, banged his head and there was blood everywhere. He sat up and was promptly very sick.

It's amazing how quickly you sober up in those situations, and I, as the most suddenly-sober, found a really-sober person with a car to go to A&E with furry bloke. My girlfriend came along to keep me company.

So I sat in A&E for hours between a stinking, bleeding furry bloke and a girl dressed as a tampon, with my huge hairy bollocks hanging out. Every now and then a nurse would come over and try to take me back to the ward and I'd have to convince her that I wasn't actually a patient. We got a taxi back home, although 2 taxis drove away when they saw us. I'm not sure what life-lesson I learned from this, but I have never found myself in this situation again.
(Smale is stuffed, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:07, 1 reply)

Pretty women, buses, taxis and suits
A few from my time as a student here in Edinburgh:

For those of you who aren't familiar with the words "Vodka revolution", it is a nationwide string of rather good (and largely inexpensive) cocktail bars. Those of you who are already familiar will probably see where this is going. It so happens that I have a promotional card that allows me to get cocktails from a certain part of the menu cheaper than they would otherwise be. Being a student, I decided to take on the challenge of drinking my way through the entire 'cheap' menu - 15 different cocktails, each containing at least 2.5 shots. I started at 7pm and finally wound up, nearly unconscious but successful, at 1am.

Throughout this prolonged session of liver abuse, I had been chatting to the rather attractive barmaid as the ever-increasing number of cocktails inside me increased my levels of charm and suavity to near James Bond levels. I didn't get her number, but I asked her to put her name into my phone before I slumped out into the night and homewards. The next day was something I hadn't experienced before and never want to again - full blown, throwing up every 20 minutes for six hours alcohol poisoning. When the throwing up finally came to a halt and I felt well enough to climb into the shower and get dressed, I remembered the barmaid and, deciding to see what her name had been (thinking I might go back sometime soon), I picked up my phone and opened my saved messages to find... "Xghsjetsdh".

I haven't been back.




Or the time I went on a Physics society pub crawl (I know, I know) with a collection of the people on my course. We had a really good night staggering our way around the old town before ending up at a place that served cocktails (I'm seeing a theme here) in motherfucking GOLDFISH BOWLS. I don't remember much of the next two hours except for a sense of tremendous happiness and relaxation, which evaporated like the morning dew when it dawned on me that I was in a godforsaken industrial estate miles from any useful landmarks, and I had no idea which way my flat was. I picked a direction at random and started walking. The wrong way. By the time I realised where I was, I was about six miles North of my flat* and still hideously drunk. I finally managed to find a taxi while trying to hitchike my way down the side of the Edinburgh bypass.

*For those that know Edinburgh or can be bothered to look it up, I thought I was near asda chesser, and realised I wasn't when I looked up at a sign that said "RBS gogarburn".




The most recent incident was when I had been out for a friend's birthday party. She had seen me in a suit a couple of weeks previously for a university function, and insisted I wear one out in the town. This was in February, and the night we were out got down to about -3. All went well for the first part of the evening until the time came to leave the hellhole of a club we were in at the top of the royal mile, near the castle. All I had to do was get to prince's street - keep the castle on your left and it's impossible not to get there. Unless you're so drunk you stagger the whole length of the royal mile - one of the most easily recognisable streets in the country, if not the world - without realising you're on it. I got a nasty shock when I saw the Scottish parliament building looming in front of me.

My flatmates got home about half an hour before I did, despite leaving 45 minutes later than me...
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 18:07, 9 replies)

Trying to be quiet when drunk never works. A shameless Pea
Please picture the scene.. A young (read cocky) skintagain has spent an evening drinking with his new "posh" work colleagues in town. This is his first job out of university and he's feeling particularly smug as he's managed to convince one of his female colleagues to come back for some horizontal jiggery-pockery. The only problem is that he is still living with his mum, its 3am and he realises hes doesn't have his house keys.

Not a problem, mum always leaves the back door unlocked in the summer. Whilst the young maiden stood/swayed in the cool summer breeze, our hero clambers manfully onto the side gate. Thoughts of the disgusting acts he planned on later swimming around in his head. He brashly turns to wink as his lady friend, before diving feet first from the top of the gate......

.... straight into an open wheeley bin.

The bin promptly fell onto its side, with the open end against the wall. Our hero has now totally lost his compusure and is shouting muffled profanities at Bexley Council Waste Refuse Department. Hearing the commotion, a neighbour opens his window just at the moment to see a suited, drunk tourrettes sufferer clambering out, only to discover the back door was sodding locked.

In the end our hero consigned himself to ringing the doorbell and introducing his "friend" from work to his mother, whilst removing potato-peelings from his suit.
(skintagain, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:45, 2 replies)

Never mess with a man who's girlfriend is a nurse.
In 1994, I was sent to Romania to teach Conversational English. I was sent over with my friend Mike, and, on discovering that being English was essentially your credit card to everything, proceeded to spend a lot of time getting completely fucking trashed.

However, we soon met a fellow Conversational English teacher. He was an American chap called Roger, and older than us - he was mid-40s to our early 20s. He took us under his wing, and thus we two became three.

One night we spent discussing the joy of weed, and soon became very hungry. We'd all been instructed independently to really fucking not bother, as the penalties for being caught were very, very harsh.

Cue Roger telling us how his girlfriend was a nurse.

"So what?" we said, "That doesn't help matters at all."

"No no" rebutted he, "See, she's my age - that makes her a senior nurse. She's in charge of getting rid of all the class A pharmecuticals."

"That's nice" we said, "But still doesn't really help matters."

"Shall we go back to mine?" he said, as we all finished our drinks.

With nothing better to do, we did.

________


All I remember is Mike finding it terrifically funny. I was laughing, but I felt like I was locked inside myself, and was very, very frightened.

"WHAT ABOUT THIS?!" screamed Roger, his eyes bulging, his grin maniacal, and he slapped me, hard. Very hard. The only reason I knew it was very hard is because A) He'd pulled his hand right back, and B) when it had connected I'd seen the other side of the room.

"VAGABOND" they both shouted, "WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THAT?!"

I could not stop laughing. I could not, for the life of me, stop laughing. I was absolutely terrified locked inside my skull, and I could not stop laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing.

Now they were taking it in turns to slap me, occassionally screaming frantically at me to WAKE UP!

It took my friend and I an hour and a half to walk the five-minute journey back home that night, and thankfully we didn't encounter any police. He stayed awake all night watching me, but was nonplussed when I finally awoke, and needless to say went straight to bed.

It would be a long time before I mixed drinking and pharmecuticals again.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:30, 2 replies)

I drank MASSIVE BOOZE and smoked MASSIVE DRUGS,
and at the end of the night, clearly under the influence, I crashed my Honda Accord killing the two supermodels who were giving me head at the time.
( idonthaveafunnynickname Drink-Aware? Sure. I'm aware I want another drink., Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:25, 4 replies)

Went to a b3ta bash,
ended up with a child, a husband and a badge that says MTFU.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:21, 5 replies)

Waking up in weird places
1) Heathrow Airport

2) An industrial sized bin just outside Upminster

Passing out on the tube - ah the joys.
(Mean Mad Mutski, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:17, 2 replies)

We went to Vegas on a stag night
Lost the groom, Mike Tyson's tiger, found a baby, yadda yadda yadda
(Thebigfella, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:17, Reply)

The Story of Rik
This is the story of Rik. Well, it’s a story about him anyway. We almost share a birthday together, and are just about best mates. We’ve known each other for over 20 years (bearing in mind we’re 25), went to the same school from age four and lived within a five minute walk of each other. We have many things in common, borderline alcoholism being prime amongst them which brings us neatly to our story.

We were having a leaving do for a friend of ours who was off (and is still off) travelling around the world. It all started off sensibly enough – a Bloody Mary and a pint before lunch. Lunch comes, lunch goes. Slowly. The effect of a slow lunch is obvious to anyone that has been out on one with a bunch of lads – alcohol is consumed at an ever increasing rate in ever increasing quantities. Thankfully, some of the booze was soaked up by the food. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much.

So – a dozen or so fairly drunk guys in a relatively deserted restaurant attached to a pub, and what do they have on the side? A Jungle Jim. Cue a dozen or so fairly drunk guys running in mob-handed and throwing themselves about. So Rik, the Rik who as ever has been hitting the booze a bit harder than anyone else, throws himself through one of the “Jim’s” attractions – a roller. There’s a small foamy/mattressy (sic?) tube, just above another small foamy/mattressy (sic?) tube, the idea being that a small child can run up to it and jump through head-first. Rik attempts this. Two problems – (a) Rik is very drunk; (b) Rik is not a small child. Long story short, Rik emerges through the other side with a rather smashed up nose, bleeding copiously all over his clothes. A broken nose – pretty good start to the session. Anyhoo, he grabs the nearest thing that he can find, namely some kids sock that has been left in the Jungle Jim, cleans himself up as best he can and all head on.

The next stop is a pub on the other side of the island (I live on an island by the way – it’s called Jersey and it’s awesome). Although we had been at a mates leaving do, we joined another mate’s birthday party. This one involved Pub Golf. For the un-initiated, pub golf is lots of fun - bit.ly/9waUGu - there’s a general explanation for you. Due to the aforementioned leaving do, he, and others, were five holes behind. I, sensibly I think, had decided to forego the competition and simply enjoy the evening. Rik being Rik decided that the best way to approach pub golf (as I admit I have done in the past with him) was to “hole-in-one” every drink. Not a good idea. A five drink catch-up (Pint of Guinness, pint of cider, glass of red wine, pint of lager and rum & coke) all holed-in-one added to the general drunkenness & debauchery. We headed of to two other pubs before heading into town – he holed both of those in one as well.

It was at this point that I left the party – I feel it was for the best. He didn’t. He carried on. Fatal mistake. From what I can gather, the pub-golf was finished/abandoned at around 2300 – I don’t think many can remember much. What I have been told was that Rik decided that it was a good idea to climb some scaffolding (not that kind of story by the way – this is just incidental). At this point some clever chap inside the apartment around which said scaffolding is erected tries to tell Rik to come down, cue the ever-apt & eloquent “Fuck off”. Sensibly, chap-in-flat calls Mr. Policeman. Mr. Policeman tries to talk him down, leading to the afore-mentioned response. Mr. Policeman then climbs through total-strangers flat, pulls Rik inside (through said flat), cuffs him and takes him off to the cells.

Rik awakens, along with his memory, early next morning to be let out of the cell (after the obligatory bacon sandwich). Par for the course, the belongings that were taken from him are detailed by the Desk Sergeant & handed over.

“One packet of tobacco”
“One packet of cigarette papers”
“One mobile phone”
(And then, la piece de la resistance,
“One bloodied small child’s pink sock”

Length? Nothing custodial, only a caution and a teensy little fine. Would’ve been more if any kids had been reported missing....
( Hunter Stockton was murdered by a bicycle wielding axolotl,.,.,.,., Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:15, 6 replies)

An old friend of mine once went out for a 'quick one after work'
The next day he woke up in a pub car park (a completely different pub to which he had been drinking), with a lump on his head and no memory of how he got there.
The thing is. His workmates had taken him home and watched him go into his flat the night before. So fuck knows?
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 17:09, Reply)

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 :(
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:58, 4 replies)

My Best man's ex wife was a Personnel Manager at a well known Pharmaceutical company...
She had to conduct a disciplinary for a senior manager who went out with some clients one night and had a wee too many drinks.

One of the clients lodged an official complaint as they felt uncomfortable after said manager urinated in the street and then declared,"Let's go and watch some lesbian porn!"

Because the manager's boss was based in America they would have had to pay for him to fly over to the UK at great expense to oversee the disciplinary.

So the result was that all parties agreed to a 'redundancy' package somewhere around the £50,000 mark along with a neutral reference to any future employer.

A few weeks later my HR manager friend received a postcard from some exotic island thanking her for the money.

"The fucking bitch!" was her response in a 'Smack my bitch up' style twist to the end of the tale.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:53, Reply)

Went for a 'quick one after work' in Wolverhampton once...
...woke up under a hedge in Cheltenham wearing someone else's jacket.
Knocked the Merrydown on the head after that...
(Billy The Fish wants to gargle with Lucy Pinder's bath water, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:50, 2 replies)

Drinking Games two days before the start of exam season
...never a good idea, right? But my brother decided to do this before his exams, and they played some kind of Truth or Dare thing. Being quite introverted, my brother would predictably go for dare. Resulting in him drinking a pint consisting of a combination of:

Vodka
Cider
Guinness
Milk
Lemonade
Petals from some flower from the garden "to decorate"

He was incredibly sick for the next week, and missed all his exams. Turns out the petals were slightly poisonous. He said the worst part, however, was the milk + lemonade bit.
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:46, 10 replies)

Follow the Drunken Verv
Here's a video to get things started.

I'm the guy in the black jacket who's doing his best to take care of the drunk with long curly hair. What a night.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAt6fYF_Npg
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:38, Reply)

...
And accidentally a whole bottle of Baileys.
(sabre-tooth monkey, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:29, 2 replies)

Cured of being a good Samaritan (repost)
It had been a good night, and it looked like it was getting even better. Drink had been flowing very freely indeed, and since the city where I live is not exactly a Mecca for clubbing, it was pretty light hearted and fun. I was pleasantly surprised by a very cute girl buying me a drink, and was having a pretty good time with her. However she was drinking very very heavily. As in triple shots of vodka heavily, one after the other, and since I had no plans to take her home I was a bit worried about her. She couldn't spot her friends, and though she could remember her college (just about) she couldn't remember her room number, and she'd lost her phone/keys.

Gritting my teeth, I decided the best thing was to take her back to mine (the porters at her college were bastards), let her sleep it off in my bed and kick her out in the morning with a lecture on knowing alcohol limits and not going home with strangers. She thought it was for sex obviously, but I managed to get her back, on her side and looking quite ill. She tried to tug me down for a kiss, but I really wasn't in the mood especially not with someone as drunk as her. As I tugged away she vomited on me. Really, truly spectacular vomit. Like a fountain of undigested food and alcohol spewed out onto my top. Now I don't mind blood, and most bodily fluids don't freak me out at all, but there is something about vomit that seriously disgusts me. I had to take off my top in case I was sick myself. Since I was apparantly very drunk I thought it would be the right idea to hunt for some sponges etc to clean it up in this state.

Eventually with the help of a friend I got the girl into the shower and cleaned up, gave her some pyjamas then put her back to bed. In the morning I escorted her out- she looked the most embarassed person ever. However the worst was not over. Apart from the vomit stains on the floor, on my top and on my duvet, I had to deal with the person I share my sitting room with (we have bedrooms next to each other,) staring at me cautiously. Turns out she thought I'd brought a girl home for sex, and then had a threesome in the shower with her, and the other girl who had come to help me. But she claimed the weirdest thing was dozily seeing me topless, hunting for cleaning implements, since she assumed that I wanted them for the next round.

It definitely cured me of doing the right thing.
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:11, 29 replies)

Got hammered in Swansea once...
..woke up in Ammanford.

For the love of god.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:08, 5 replies)

I had a drink once.
And it made me go wee.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:08, 1 reply)

Rats...
Story to follow shortly
(libraryboy Cheer up, you could be french!, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:08, Reply)

2nd
Fuck aye!
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:05, 2 replies)

CUE THE SEX AND DRUGS LIES.

(__, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:05, 16 replies)

1st
Whoa. Good job, don't have much a story.
(McChinaman banned, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:04, 2 replies)