On a Sunday lunch-time
my Dad would go out for a few pints and return home, 3 sheets to the wind, for his dinner. He was always an amiable drunk when he'd had a few. He did a nice line in winking with the wrong eye so the person he was trying to fool could see, displayed infinite patience in trying to roll a fag which would invariably go out as soon as it was lit and was just generally a bit in love with the whole world.

His pub of choice was a short bus ride away and the route was served by one of those little hopper buses where there is only one door, just next to the driver's cab, to get on and off the vehicle. One Sunday as Dad returned home, his alcoholic bonhomie reminded him that he should thank the nice driver for the journey as he was about to step off the bus. Mid-step down to the pavement, Dad turned to treat the driver to his most winning smile, missed his footing and fell from the platform into the road. The driver just shut the door and drove off, leaving Dad flat on his back wondering what the hell had just happened.

Fair play to him though, we would never have known about it if he hadn't arrived home, weak with laughter, desperate to tell us about it.
(Innogen, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:57, Reply)

My old man
was an alcoholic (RIP DAD) every day after working down the pit he'd come home , get drunk on stout and beat my Mum with a belt made from the skin of his own 15 children.

I was the biggest and strongest child and one day I decided that enough was enough so I threw all the bottles of stout down the stairs into the cellar and waited for Dad to return home.

Little did I know Dad had been to the pub! I waited a long time and when he got back he was wasted on massive amounts of booze, he could drink like 80 bottles of whisky in one normal night, and this time he'd really pushed the boat out (he was a big man my Dad).

We had a fight and I ended up pushing him into the cellar, he was pissed and tumbled down the stairs where a massive shard of glass pierced his skull and killed him.

I represented myself at court and got off with a fine because everyone in the area knew what he was like and I'd done society a favour and then I was a hero and then everyone at school was scared of me and I didn't get bullied anymore and needless to say I got the last laugh.

cheers.
( WormuIus, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:55, 8 replies)

The day I met the mother-in-law
We had traveled for several hours by car to get her house.

Upon our arrival she proceeded to get hideously drunk, leading incomprehensible shouty babble and 'singing' on the karaoke machine (it was switched off, mind).
Then she pissed herself, 'marking her territory' over several pieces of furniture; and tried to come on to me big style (which included trying to sit on my lap in her drenched knickers), before being dragged off upstairs to bed by her husband.

We'd been there 45 minutes.
(DaftenDirekt, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:35, 3 replies)

When my parents go out, one of them always drives
This means the other one doesn't drink too much, as they hate looking foolish to one another. Then they come home at 12 latest and go to bed and sleep.


The end
( Glovington, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 11:11, 14 replies)

My Entire Childhood
My parents were obsesssed with alcohol, drinking every day.

- My mum used to walk home from the pub to her shouting "(HER FOOTBALL TEAM TILL I DIE!) at the top of her voice. She lives in a respectable area so doesn't go down well.

- My dad decided it was a good idea to max a credit card with a £15k limit on gambling.

- Getting a phone call from the police at 11:30 saying my Mum's passed out on a grass verge in the worst area in the city - can I go and pick her up. (The most recent one but was after a funeral)

- My Mum drove to the 24h Tesco, whilst intoxicated, to get more booze.

- My Mum once tried to stab herself after an arguement with my Dad (I think she was just being melodramatic). I was about four but I will always remember walking into the kitchen and dropping the knife into the sink, telling her not to stab Dad.

Yes sadly my parents had a very turbulent relationship. They stayed together for another six years after the above incident. Since splitting, they are both actually normal now and behave like adults.
(52486 office lolled on, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 10:03, 5 replies)

My parents don't drink
and as such I have no anecdotes I can relate here.

Sorry about that.
( broadsword now that's fresh, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 9:48, 10 replies)

Who throws a shoe!?
Both of my parents are middle class alcoholics. I'm now in my twenties and live 50 odd miles away from them, but I still hear regular tales of woe from my little sister, aged 20, who still lives there.
Instead of being all mopey and depressive over all the horrific things which have happened - of which there are many - I shall highlight my favourite tale of recent months. The shoe.
There have been a lot of recent arguements, but the one which had me in fits of laughter over how incredibly pathetic and amusing it was, was this one. My sister had told me about an arguement the parents were having, over something or other, late into the night, fuelled by countless units of alcohol. Usually along the lines of calling my sister a little slut, or of me going to die, or dad selling the house.
The main rule of the parent arguement is that no matter how ridiculous or sane the other's point or stance is, you must disagree and defend your opinion to the death. Even if you both have the same opinion. The louder you scream at eachother, the more you must be winning. Whoever throws the first item, wins. Usually this is glass, plates, etc. But in this scenario my mother obviously had nothing to hand. So she did what any quick thinking drunk would do. Took off her shoe and lobbed it at my dad, who came out with the classic Autin Powers line of 'Seriously, who throws a shoe!?' I still cannot shift this mental scene from my head of that happening... all hope lost and my mum whips off a shoe and chucks it, then goes off sulking. Smooth.
( Bathory, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 8:46, Reply)

Dear Dad..
I know you're a piss-head. You've enjoyed more than a tipple since I've known you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I just hate your drinking.
Some highlights from your love affair with drinking -
- the time you got angry enough to raise your fist @ me, I knew you wouldn't hit me but it scared the shit out of me non-the-less.
- when you and mum had that blazing row (I doubt you remember) but I was really worried about what was going on.
- when you continually berated my cousin for being so disrespectful.
- the time you left knuckle-marks in the wall plaster after finding out that you'd lost you job.
- the time when Uncle Richy convinced you to pissy-drive to go & get some fish and chips.
- when you broke down in a blubbering mess after your best friend (Uncle Richy) died.
- all the stress and agro when my Grandma was dying from cancer (I still miss her).
- when you *finally* went dry, for good.
That turned you into a hollow, empty shell of a man.
Who was still functional after 1700 everyday (considering you usually started when the yardarm was crossed), who could take me to soccer in the arvo, could pick us up from school everyday and was moderately presentable when dealing with other parents/school type people.
Anyway, cheers Dad, your shout. I take it you'll have your usual soda, lime & bitters (never knew that Angostura Bitters was 40% before), mines a triple Jamesons.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 26 Feb 2011, 5:26, 8 replies)

Not any funny ones, unfortunately.
However, growing up with a raging alcoholic for a father, I've got plenty of them. First, I can recall when I was still in junior high school, my dad was unemployed for two years. Wanting a drink, but being utterly broke, he decided to cut himself a $5000 check from my college fund to go drinking on. When that ran out, he maxed out the credit cards drinking on them. He still acts like we mistreat him because nobody gives him any more money than he absolutely needs to say, go down the road and get the paper, or get himself lunch at work. He also doesn't seem to get why I still dislike him, given that (amongst other things contributing to my generally ill relationship with him) the money he pissed away drinking would have paid for a complete year of university for me here in New York.

After that, there's the time when I was 14 or so, and went out to the living room to get something. He'd downed 1.75L of Scotch, along with several cans of crappy US lager over the course of the previous 6 hours or so, and was at that point standing half naked, in front of the stove in the kitchen. I had to go through the kitchen to get to the living room, so naturally, more of his shit that night. It seems he thought, in his severely drunken state, that the stove was my sister, who'd gone to bed hours earlier when he told her to.

He starts yelling at it, screaming as if it were my sister that she needs to learn to respect him and listen to him when he says something. Then he gives the door to the over an almighty kick with his barefoot, goes off and does whatever he needed to in the bathroom, and stumbles back to bed. The next morning, he was left baffled as to just how he'd broken several toes.

And to finish up his stories, the one aunt I do like will no longer visit our house now. Apparently he got pissed up, as he is wont to do at the slightest provocation, and later in the night tried to climb in bed with her.

Drunk parents can be funny, but mine's just an irritating cunt once he gets some in him. I would see the heat get cut off, the phone line, or occasionally the electric because he "couldn't afford to pay," but he always had money for booze and smokes.
( Ithyphallophobia, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 4:32, 8 replies)

2 hours...
...arguing whether or not heroin was a good thing. An argument between a 17 year old boy (not me, I must stress) and my 50 year old dad, both of whom would probably shit themselves if someone offered them hard drugs.

An argument that only ended because the older, wiser half of this undoubtedly enlightened debate attempted to make cheese on toast and somehow managed to rub up against the heating element inside the grill instead of the tray, seriously burning the wrist-wards part of his hand.

Apparently it didn't hurt, but the bacon-like smell of burning flesh was intoxicating.
(a gun that fires other, smaller guns full of jizz, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 1:37, 1 reply)

being young...*
Being drunk and young I may have spread my seed improperly. However nothing will remove the image of my mother naked, vomiting and trying to get into my brothers and mine room on holiday.

Why are Spanish houses on one level.

*I wasn't that young. 26 is still impressionable.
(feedingtimeatthezoo day 1 of his bikini diet started, Sat 26 Feb 2011, 0:27, 3 replies)

The father in laws wake
Where my dad got pissed and went around telling my wifes family he wasn't dead yet and had no intention of dying for many years...

nice one dad...
(funkenstein Be pure! Be vigilant! Behave!, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 23:47, 1 reply)

Drunken lumberjack
A few years ago, I was home from uni for the summer, my dad and I went to the pub for a few pints one afternoon, then came home for a few more beers.

"Right mong!" says papa with a clap of his hands, shakily taking to his feet. "Your mum wants us to take down a tree in the garden." I protest, saying I'm enjoying the beer to much, so we reach a compromise. We get some beers while we work.

Said tree is not much of a challenge, about 10' tall and the trunk is thinner than my neck. We saw it to the point it's almost ready to drop, when suddenly my dad stops.

"We want it to fall on the lawn so just give it a good kick." I kick it and nothing happens.
"Take a run up!" advises my dad. I take his advice and launch my self at the tree, kicking with all my might.
*CRACK!!!* The tree slowly tips then falls, I stand panting but triumphant. Dad and I share a beer and start digging out the roots, we eventualy free the stump and drag that out of the ground. Sweaty and grimey, we sit on the grass, bottles of beer in hand and enjoy a drink in easy silence, a real father and son moment.

The garden gate opens, out walks my mother, straight from the hair dressers. "You bloody idiots!" she hisses, "That's the wrong bloody tree!".

Almost fell in the hole for laughing.
(Mong goose, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 23:30, 3 replies)

Second hand tales of derring do.
My Mum and Dad never really drank much while we were kids; hangovers are too much much work when you've got four destructive little rugrats.

However we had some fine sessions in company as adults, and one evening my Dad told me a story from his misspent youth.

In the 50s he was working in Malta, earning a lot and spending most of it on having fun. One morning he went down to breakfast in the pensione, looked out of the window and his car wasn't there. He rang up the guys he'd been drinking with the night before, and heard the Tale of the Grand Harbour Mole.

If you drink enough, you can fit 9 naval officers and a dentist (Dad) into a Morris Minor. If you drink more than enough, you can do handbrake turns. If you drink far too much, you can put a half naked tart on the roof, and do a full 360 here: mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/small/29513618.jpg

I'm lucky to be here.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 22:41, 3 replies)

Not long after I passed my driving test
I went to pick up my Dad from a works do.

Journey of about 6 miles from rural pub in North Wales to our house in, er, rural North Wales. Through a lot of twisty lanes. With a newly qualified Min pedal-to-the-metal at 1am-ish on said twisty (and empty, being after midnight) lanes.

We had several stops for pukage.

Initially I was shocked: I'd never seen my Dad so badly the worse for wear (and to be fair, though he likes a drink, never so bad since, either). Eventually I was driving erratically just for the effect it was having...
(minlan no longer barks at bancleys, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 22:31, Reply)

One christmas eve when I was a young 'un and the folks had their work parties I lay in bed thinking I could hear santas sleigh bells but it was just my dad undoing his belt behind me.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 21:57, 6 replies)

Haha yeah my parents were both massive alcoholics and they used to stab me up and that
but it's not affected me at all and I'm the most well rounded person in the whole world and I'm better than you hahaha yeah oh god please validate me.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 20:22, 13 replies)

Okay then, how 'bout we reverse this?
I do have a tale on one of my kids.

My oldest is now 21, of legal drinking age here in the States, and has been exercising this right periodically. As he lives with me, I get to monitor (somewhat) just how carried away he gets. Mostly it's pretty mild, involving him getting well buzzed but not wasted.

One night he and some friends decided that they wanted to get truly wasted, and told me this in advance. We laid out a few ground rules- anyone who left here had to have a designated driver, no one drinking was to be underage, nothing too outrageous was to happen that might bring the police- and then he and his friends went out to get some cheap beer and bourbon.

The missus and I left for a while, and came back somewhere around eleven or so. They were happily playing beer pong when I went to bed, loopy but keeping it sane. I thought nothing of it as I drifted off to sleep.

About 3:30 I awakened when my bedroom door opened and someone entered. The quilt was lifted from the foot of the bed, and a great weight was suddenly laying across my shins. I sat up. "What the hell are you doing?!?"

"I'm going to sleep, Dad," he clearly replied.

I sat there for a moment, utterly confused. The missus was not in the bed, just me with my son lying across my legs. Just then she returned and was about to take off the bathrobe when she realized that I was not alone in there. "What the-"

I kicked him a couple of times. "Get back to your own bed."

He sighed. "Okay." And then he got up and wandered back to his own room.

The next morning he was moving very sluggishly, so I handed him a cup of coffee. "Okay, you do realize that when you end up drunkenly in bed with someone, it's not supposed to be with your father, right?"

His expression was priceless.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 25 Feb 2011, 19:57, 10 replies)

In my dad's day there weren't any breathalyzers
or MOT's for that matter

They just used to drive around in deathtraps after eight pints down the pub. My dad told me about a sports car he had which didn't have a nut on the steering wheel - it kept coming off in his hands round tight bends on country roads. I think the car's still where he left it in some farmers field after he got a lift home from a passing bobby.

Still that wasn't as bad as my granddad's generation though. They used to fly around europe pissed out of their tiny minds with machine guns in their wings. Don't believe all that guff about the battle of britain. We won because we had stronger port and more alkies in the sky.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 18:22, Reply)

Hopefully a short but non-depressing story about a drunk parent
My mum isn't much of a drinker. Half a glass of beer or wine with a meal, on rare occasions, is about her limit. But there was one occasion at a New Year's Eve bash, where she'd had just a little bit too much of the celebratory champagne. She waltzes in to the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge saying "I feel unbelievably hungry for some reason!"

"Yes mum" I say, "that's called the munchies."

Bless.
(Nitrous Nitrous, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 17:52, Reply)

death of a combover
my dad used to be one of those rather tragic blokes who would deny the fact that they were going very bald. his hair was like a nest, with his baldy "egg" bit poking through.
like many other such tragic men, dad tried to hide his baldness with a combover. it looked about as ridiculous as you'd imagine, but it gave him some measure of confidence, so we let him be.
one night, me, my mum and my dad were at a party for one of dad's friends. i could handle my booze back then and me and dad were fine. mum, on the other hand, was more than a bit tipsy. after staring at dad's head for about ten minutes, she slid her fingernail under his combover and flicked it back over to the other side of his head.
mum and i sat there, howling with laughter, as my dad shook his head wearily at us, his straggly combover now drooped over his right ear.
he now favours the "Hannibal Lecter" style of hairdo.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 17:42, 4 replies)

I was looking forward to a week of hilarious stories
about people's childhoods with their alcoholic parents. But for some reason it's turned out quite depressing.

Here's a kitten.


(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 17:18, 10 replies)

My parents used to go to pub in the 70s
where my dad would drink 70s bitter. Then come in smelling like the devil's descending colon. I'm pretty certain it breached certain UN conventions and even though I would wait up for my parents to come in, I never hung around very long afterwards.

and I bet that every kid has experienced that after their dad came in from pub in the 70s. Must be 70s beer.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 16:56, Reply)

That rug's just a piece of tut anyway
My dad's more of a weed smoker than a drinker. Like me, he's got quite a low tolerance for alcohol and tends to get plastered rather quickly. He's a pretty good drunk though, and usually he's lots of fun to be around.

However, this wasn't one of those times.

I must have been 16 or so, it was a school night and I was fast asleep in bed. Around midnight, my dad comes in totally shitfaced, waking up everyone in the house with his singing, stumbling into every conceivable obstacle, breaking random things and loudly shouting his apologies up the stairs.

So I roll over, wrap my pillow around my ears and try to get back to sleep. Downstairs it sounds like he's either trying to cook something or trying to break every cooking implement in the kitchen. I feel much gratitude when I hear my mum getting out of bed and grumpily traipsing downstairs. She manages to shut him up, push him upstairs and get him to bed. Apart from the intermittent sound of his giggling and my mum's shushing, all is peaceful enough to get back to sleep, and I drift off.

Next thing I know, someone is noisily opening my bedroom door. I open my eyes to see my dad standing in the doorway, swaying from side, in his boxer shorts.
"Dad?" I venture, sleepily,
"Hello son!" he beams. Then he takes two steps forward into the middle of the room, pulls out his cock, and proceeds to start pissing on the little rug in front of my bed.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I yell.
"Nothing, I'm fine, calm down" he says, making eye contact and everything.
"You fucking bastard. You fucking bastard. I'll fucking kill you. Mum! MUM! Dad's pissing on my bedroom floor!" I scream, not seeing the funny side in the least. I am now standing on my bed, yelling and calling my dad a fucking wanker.

My mum walks up behind him, smirking a little, but obviously pretty pissed off. By this time, my dad has finished his piss, and is standing in the middle of the room smiling like an idiot and wondering why everyone seems so tense. My mum grabs him and drags him back to his bedroom.
"What were you doing? You've pissed all over Levi's rug!" she says
"That rug's just a piece of tut anyway" I hear him mumble.

For some reason, he loves telling this story to people. It comes up every Christmas, and he always gets me to tell the last bit, where he says "that rug's just a piece of tut". That's his favourite bit.

I didn't see the funny side until after my dad had gone back to bed, and I had gone downstairs for a nice calming cup of tea (while my mum, bless her, scrubbed my dad's piss from my bedroom floor). I was sat at the kitchen table, and once my nerves were less frayed, I started chuckling to myself. I laughed and laughed, until I realised my dad had heard me and was laughing along from his bed. I stopped laughing, and my dad shouted downstairs "see - I knew it was funny."

Bastard.
(leviticus no longer likes the cut of your gib on, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 16:06, 3 replies)

Drinking and driving - talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-g-generation ...
I hear it bandied about increasingly that my generation (I'm 36) are the only ones who look down on drink-driving, as we were the ones who first encountered the intense anti-drink-driving government advertising on the television in the 1980s, for which we were old enough to understand, and young enough to take on board. The generation after us were brought up with it and became immunised through familiarity, and certainly my parents generation seem to think nothing of having a few beers and driving home.

I remember my parents and my step-father to be all being in agreement that the general rule when coming back from the pub was to put the left wheels in the gutter to make sure you knew you were on the right side of the road, and that if you ditched it into a hedge or similar, the rule of thumb was to pull her out, kick the dents out and carry on. This was condoned by the police, apparently.

That any of us are still alive is quite shocking, it seems from their tales.

Now, of course, the moment you have a double-whiskey too many and throw up on your kids, everyone goes batshit.

Bloody kids.

I can't believe I'm 36 years old and still embarassed by my parents.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 15:35, 5 replies)

When my daddy got drunk
he used to put on his clown helmet

and then... and then...

I... I... c... c-c-c-c-c-c-...

No. No. No. Nononononononononononononononononononononononononono.

No.

No.

(yes)
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 14:44, 2 replies)

My lovely ma
hasnt remembered my birthday now for 11 years in a row. I even send her emails and texts to remind her (no phone calls mind..bit awkward) so this year I decided to make things easier for her and go away for my birthday but take her for a drink in my local the night before I go. When I first arrive at her flat she asks me why i'm there so I lightly remind her and she comes back with "Yes I fucking know!" ...clearly not.

So anyways she's already had a bottle of rose to herself and then downs two bacardi and diets in the pub next to her house. When we finally arrive at my local we are greeted by a large group of my friends who have decided to join us...who are greeted with my mum hanging off my arm telling them this:

"When Lil was born I thought she was a boy...the doctors said "heres your daughter!" and I was like "Fuck off! Look at its bollocks" ..."No Miss..definatly a girl.." "No! Its a boy! Massive balls!"

I love her dearly but my friends still have sneaky glances when I'm wearing my skinnies.
(Document Pocket, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 14:27, Reply)

A Grumpy Old Man, Wrong Numbers And A Very Social Daughter
Last summer my Dad had been getting wrong number phone calls for about a week on his mobile from an Irish lady trying to call her daughter. These calls were normally politely answered with a “sorry, you’ve still got the wrong number. Yes, again. Hahaha. Yes, no problem, bye”.

That was until we were at a barbecue with my wife around her parents in Berkshire. We had been eating and drinking in the garden all afternoon and well into the evening, which in itself was quite the feat for a man who drinks maybe twice a year, when his phone rang. Looking at the screen he realised it was the Irish lady with the wrong number again.
So this time he drunkenly decided he’d had enough and when the lady asked “is Laura there” my father replied “she is, but she can’t come to the phone as I’ve worn her out”. The rest of the family were sat looking at him in shock and confusion as he continued with “yes, we’d been going at it for several hours on the dining table and now she’s having a sleep”.

At this point the woman had hung up and we all started asking my Dad what that was all about and he shrugged and said he’s just had enough of her calling and that he reckoned that should stop it.

A few minutes later his phone rang again, only from a different number. Turned out it was Laura’s Dad, who was calling to find out who the hell had upset his wife and had been shagging his 17 year old daughter.

My Dad was indignant that he’d been called back, so he told the man that “they’d done it in every room in the house and that he wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if she walked funny when she came home tomorrow”. After a fair bit of shouting and huffing on both sides the other Dad had hung up and we started quizzing our Dad on why he’d done that?

At which point his phone rang again, only this time it was a tearful Laura who had previously been having a lovely evening with friends at a party and now had to go home as her parents were furious with her and she understandably wanted to know who he was and why he would lie and say things like that to her parents.

At which point my Dad grumpily told her it was her Mums fault as she was clearly stupid or had sausages for fingers or both, until Laura hung up on him too.

The next morning, feeling suitably bad and embarrassed and chastised by my Mum, my Dad called the girls Mother up and apologised for the night before saying that when they were in bed asleep last night his son had come home from the pub drunk and had apparently picked up his phone and that he understood he may have caused some offense.

The lady thanked my Dad for calling but pointed out that his drunken son had caused some considerable distress. At which point my Dad passed me the phone “as the nice lady wanted an apology from me in person”.

Thanks Dad.
( Dervel OTBC, Fri 25 Feb 2011, 14:25, 11 replies)