"I'm going for a piss," I slurred to my mate, draining the last dregs from my bottle.
"Good plan," said J, struggling to his feet to join me, "Johnny, you get the next drinks in." Johnny laughed, and told us to go fuck ourselves. He wasn't budging from the snug little nook he'd found.

J and I, unsteady on drunk legs, managed to get ourselves vertical and looked around us, working out where the best pissing location would be. The lights from the bars two hundred yards away glittered off the Solent, and the steel glint of dawn was kissing the eastern horizon. "Over there," pointed J as, using the metal uprights for support, we edged our way seawards. It was a stumbling journey, footstep after creeping footstep and hands clinging to the nearby poles until we got to the edge.

It wasn't until my cock felt the chill of the sea breeze that my brain finally realised where it was: the top of a crane constructing the Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth at 4am, up which we had climbed in our drunken foolishness. I'd been listening for the splash as my piss hit the harbour, while instead it was tracing a golden arc into the night, 187 metres above sea level, atomising into a sour vapour long before it could make any audible impact on the ground a long, long way below. As the realisation of that distance hit me, my stomach lurched, and my two grips (one on pole, one on cock) tightened considerably.

"Scrap that drink Johnny," I croaked, not even daring to shake out the last drops. "I think it's time to call it a night."
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 23 Sep 2010, 15:30, 2 replies)

Why are there no replies here?
*Much clickage*

Withnail would be proud of you :-)
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Thu 23 Sep 2010, 16:41, closed)

There's nothing like extreme heights to clear a head.

( Wildheart Baby. Drunken Mess In A Good Way, Thu 23 Sep 2010, 18:00, closed)