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This is a question Drunk Parents

Watching the old man swing home from the pub and start arguing with Newsnight can be either funny, slightly unnerving or just plain terrifying. Tell us about daft things parents have done while they've been in their cups.

Suggested by NotDavidBailey, voted for by YOU

(, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 17:58)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Totally posting just to champion this
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 20:21, 84 replies)
Drunken father...
Memories of my dad from my wedding day. He managed to sink about three bottles of red wine with the best man before the speeches (although his speech was lovely), at one point in the evening he had me under one arm in a headlock and my sister under the other. He told one of my best friends that she'd given him swine flu. I was told the next day that he had fallen asleep leaning against the bar and my brother in law had to stop people from stealing his shoes.
How he was awake and at breakfast before us the day after I will never know.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 19:55, 1 reply)
My parents are a really cosy couple. They do everything together, and it's nauseatingly sweet. For as long as I can remember they used to share a bottle of wine in the evenings while watching TV, allowing themselves to relax after a long day of work or bringing us lot up. The fire would be on, if we were lucky we'd get a sip, and we'd just get to see this whole other side to our parents, who were more like friends than grown ups.

Unfortunately they don't do that any more. Since my dad was diagnosed with Parkinsons, he can't drink with his medication, and usually just falls asleep in the evenings. My mother doesn't like to drink by herself, since she thinks it's unfair that my dad can't join in. Some nights it's just like it used to be, they make jokes, they make fun of the television programs they're watching. But more often than not it's watching them in silence.

I'd give anything for them to be able to share that bottle of wine again. My parents are, and always have been, honest, hard working people. It's hardly fair that the one luxury they ever really allowed themselves was taken away from them.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 17:53, 24 replies)
This is all I have this week, so eat it!!!! -
My Dad rarely gets drunk in front of the family; however there was a time in the 70’s when he was a bit of a wild child. He was into punk and had a fairly large Mohican at the time, made up of a lot of different colours and rather large.

Anyways he was travelling back from a gig in London on a train and a bit worse for wear. Opposite him sat an oldish type of chap that was just staring at my dad’s hair. After about ten minutes of him wondering why this old chap was staring at him, he decided that he wasn’t going to take it anymore and piped up with

“What are you staring out old man have you never done anything crazy before in your life?”

To which the old man replied, without a pause.

“Got drunk once and had sex with a Cockatiel I was just wondering if you were my son?”
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 16:33, 14 replies)
The Dancefloor Crack'd
At my Sister's Wedding, my drunken Dad 'rode' a chair around the dancefloor to my Uncle belting out 'Rawhide' on the karaoke.

Then got told off by the Hotel Manager.

I'm getting married in June - the shame....
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 15:41, Reply)
The Most Interesting Man in the World
His parents were so proud, they got drunk to celebrate... for the rest of their lives.

He has lived in 30 different places and worked 40 different jobs... in the 45 years he's been alive.

He once snorted massive drugs off several supermodels in his Honda Accord.

His blood smells of Vodka and cheap lager.

He has a story for every situation imaginable.

He is... the most interesting man in the world.

"I don't always go on b3ta, but when I do, I prefer QotW."

Because /talk is a dull chatroom for mongs
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 14:13, 28 replies)
The Morning After the Night Before
Forbidden from the raucous party downstairs at an hour befitting our tiny little frames, the next day my sister and I awoke as fresh as two morning daisies.

Bouncing out of our angelic sleep, we went in search of mummy. Daddy worked at night, so he must never be awoken - particularly at the ungodly hour only very small children seem to be able to manage - but cautious investigation of the dragon's den revealed only one slumbering figure, and those stinky feet were definitely not mumsies.

Where could she be?

In the kitchen? No.

In the dining room? Nope.

In the garden? Little hands couldn't reach high enough to get to the key, but the glass door revealed a total absence of mum.

In the downstairs loo? Oh, there she is! We can see the light under the door! But why won't she answer our knocks? Keep knocking!

Tick tock, tick tock on the clock. No reply.

At a loss, we waddled our keening selves around and around, until the only place to go was the room that was oh-so forbidden last night - the lounge. Curtains drawn, so still cloaked in gloom, the detritus of one hell of a party unveiled itself before our uncomprehending eyes. Empty bottles colonised the big trestle table, along with discarded snacks - peanuts and crisps and strange cheese things. A bounty! But we were NOT supposed to touch.

Back to the bathroom we went, but there was still no reply to our hungry knocking. So we waited. And waited. AND WAITED.

Our grumbling stomachs growled at us. Remember how when you are young, 30 mins is an eternity? We had been utterly abandoned ALL DAY, and FOREVER! We must fend for ourselves, just like wild things - create a new society in our empty home; forge our own ways to survive! We would go make a child's paradise in our new lounge kingdom, with crisps and peanuts aplenty...! We would plan and mount a daring raid on that table top bounty; liberate it for our new regime...!

----------------------------------Lines of Wavy--------------

My mum finally awoke. Vague thoughts of aspirin and tidying thronged her throbbing brain, alongside litigation promises against the makers of Babycham. Having fallen asleep on the loo for a whole hour longer than usual bratling-breakfast time, mum staggered toward the lounge feeling rather zombie.

Sadly, she staggered right back out as a large cushion smacked her right in the face with a 'whoopmf'.

It was shrapnel - my taller sister had unjustly sealed herself (and the food) in a Sofa Cushion Fort of Girlie Evilness; my many poo, bum and wee-based insults only hardened the tyrants resolve. I maintain my throw cushion barrage was mere judicious force.

That was a sharp end to our Lord of the Flies management of the lounge; a ballistically thrown cushion smacking my mothers face neither helped her hangover nor her temper.

But from the safety of an anonymous internet forum, I would like to state that my sister is a complete wee-wee breath bum-face, and you can't tell I said so.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 13:51, 3 replies)
Does losing a lung count?
Most of the time my parents are fairly tame when drunk - maybe their jokes get slightly cruder, and double entendres tend to slip towards single entendres. About the worst that happens is my mum's wine allergy kicks in and she ends up being almost able to cook a fry-up on her face. However, there's a few times when it goes that little bit too far, and there's one particular incident that always springs to mind.

I must have been about 8 or 9 at the time, so I can't remember all that much. I remember my dad going out for a drink with a couple of workmates (including an uncle), and then he was in hospital for a few weeks with pneumonia. I can remember going to visit him every now and then, but whenever mum brought me and my sister along there was always a very slightly tense air between her and dad. "Fair enough" says I, "maybe she was just worried about him".

It wasn't until later that I found out exactly *how* he ended up in hospital - something my uncle was only too happy to inform us of. Y'see, it turns out that after closing time, my dad felt like enjoying the company of my mum. But, given that she was all the way back home, he'd decided to settle on the next best thing that looked vaguely similar - a postbox.

(For the record, yes my mum is about the same build and complexion, especially after the wine, but still - easy to see why she was so pissed at him)

Luckily he passed out before he was able to do anything more than hug it while bawling my mum's name, but not quite so luckily my uncle was too twatted to do anything more than leave him on the pavement for the night - hence the pneumonia, and eventually losing a lung.

My dad's no longer allowed out on the piss.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 11:26, 94 replies)
We had to coax my uncle out of a tree
I'm from one of them huge Scouser families where all the uncles have moustaches, navy tattoos, permed hair and indignant tendencies and all the aunties smoke B&H and have cackling laughs. Family holidays would generally consist of a whole tribe of us taking over a campsite and playing rounders until it got too dark or we got too drunk.

Anyway, one holiday about 6 caravan loads of us were doing our usual barbecue and rounders all day thing, with my dad on homebrew duty, as usual. Instead of the normal 3 litre pop bottles of tame, 5% lager that he usually made, he'd been doing some kin of garage alchemy and produced 5 gallons of 12% bastard bitch brew. We all indulged heavily, even us kids, and after plenty of bickering, shouty laughter and some vomiting here and there, we all packed ourselves off to bed when it went dark.

There was banging on our caravan door around midnight. One of my aunties, in disarray, to report that my uncle had disappeared. So, of course all 15 or so of us scoured the entire campsite calling him for what felt like hours until we found him perched in a tree, hooting like an owl. We tried everything to get him down; coaxing, chucking stones, spreading a sheet out and shouting "jump" (though the sheet was on the ground, so I dunno what good that would have done.) Eventually, he was dragged from the tree and frogmarched back to his caravan, protesting.

An hour later he disappeared again, though this time he was found safely with his head down a toilet.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 11:07, 7 replies)
I Think They Call It Foreplay
My Dad wasn't that good with home repair. We kids knew one of the doors to the bedroom wouldn't close, and that my Dad couldn't be bothered with fixing it. So, after an afternoon of drinking, even the youngest of us kids could guess what was up when we heard the bedroom door slam, then slam again, then, with muttered curses and cracking plaster, repeatedly slammed with mounting rage. I could only hope Mom was anesthetized by that point.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 10:41, 4 replies)
My parents are the best fun
My parents are bloody brilliant. They are 67 and 65 years of age and still to this day put me to shame in terms of their energy, lust for life and work ethic. They are - I'm glad to say - great company to go for a drink with. I'm so glad I can do this as I know so many people who would never dream of going for a pint with their folks. They've just left after spending the weekend with Mrs Kerrymonkey and I. They did 3 nights out in a row starting with a wedding on Friday. They don't make them like that any more.

They were both young Irish immigrants when they met, fell in love and married in England in the early / mid - 60s where they lived until 1977. During this time my Dad had a pretty good well paid job with a construction firm. My four older siblings were born during this time. Life was rather good.

Now Dad is an ace Irish Coffee maker. He just has the knack of getting the whole coffee to whiskey to brown sugar to cream levels just perfect. In years gone by when they had people over for dinner or drinks Dad would very often at the end of the night make a round of Irish Coffees for everyone. This was very much my Dad's domain.

One night however they had guests over for an evening which was a mixture of relatives and friends. It was quite the night by all accounts. plenty of whatever booze was popular with folks in the early 70s - cans of SKOL? Fuck knows. Now as much as Mum loves a good shindig she has never been much of a drinker. She'll have a few but is not one to knock - em back. On this night however she was flying and had a right skin full. So much so that she insisted on making the Irish Coffees that night. Dad was clearly reluctant but eventually relented and let her off while he continued chatting with his mates.

So off trots Mum - all 5ft nothing of her - to make the Irish Coffees. She's in the kitchen on her own and they can hear the kettle boiling and spoons stirring etc as she gets to work. Finally she enters the room carrying a tray of what can only be described as glasses of hideousness. For while she had perfectly measured out the proportions of boiling water - whiskey - cream and sugar, in her inebriated state she had omitted the all too crucial coffee. She had essentially made hot whiskeys with cream on top. She's never lived that one down and nearly 40 years later to poor girl still cringes with embarrassment when Dad gleefully reminds her.

Best parents in the world.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 10:07, 4 replies)
Stay off the tranny-booze
A few summers ago I ended up at this fate they stage in Regents Park for the benefit of the hippy element hipster types of North London to do a spot of corporate sponsored tree hugging with lashings of clandestine consumerism thrown in for good measure. Not usually my cup of tea, reviewing a load of sanitary products made out of coconut fibre and the like, but it was a sunny day, I’d heard they sold booze, and they had demonstrations of ferret racing running at quarter hour intervals throughout the afternoon. That pretty much had me sold.

So, off to Regents Park I went with a mate of mine named Mark and his little boy, Stan. Nice little kid. Stupid fucking name, but a nice quiet well behaved little boy. The three of us get up there. After a bit of pissing about outside we manage to get in (the fucking place had security, for fucks sake – I know all this organic bollocks is expensive, but that really did take the piss). Anyway, we’re in - Stan’s happy playing about with the other little nippers, his ragged mop of blonde hair shaking about as he ran round in circles and amused himself. Mark and I, keeping a watchful eye over the boy, are happy to discover a stall that sells pimms. By the pint. Now, the thing with pimms is that it tastes a bit like liquidised strawberry jelly. It’s really rather nice. And the other thing about pimms is that it gets you absolutely wankered in less time than it takes a your average lib dem leader to sell their soul to the dark side. A swift two pints later and Mark and I are feeling the fruity effects of this wonderful, exotic falling down water.

“Jeeezzzeee, I’m actually pretty damn wasted,” says Mark. I concur and we decide its best to walk the tranny-booze off and stick to something less likely to fuck us up. Me – beer (the joys of not having a sprog). And Mark – coke (on account of having his trouser artillery make a direct hit on an unsuspecting egg five years previously).

Mark reaches out and grabs Stan’s hand and were off, walking at a fairly brisk pace round the perimeter stalls, trying to concentrate on not being as pissed as we felt and feeling like a couple of utter fucking lightweights.

Several minutes pass. Mark asks Stan, still clamped tightly hold of his hand: “D’you want anythin’ to eat, son?” - Silence- Mark asks again. Still the silence. Mark and I stop, turn as one and see, at the other end of Mark’s arm, held in Mark’s vice-like grip...

... a little black kid, looking back up at us with wide scared-to-shit eyes. This definitely wasn’t blonde haired, blue eyed Stan. Not by any stretch.

Fuck. We’d, or actually Mark (that’s what I’d tell the fucking rozzers), had abducted a child.

With fluttering arseholes we set off back to our starting point, finding out the little black kids name on the way. Thankfully, we found his parents without too much delay and Stan was playing in the grass on his own, completely oblivious, nearby.

The kids mother looked so grateful, she thanked us both and I said: “Really stupid, I know – but we actually managed to take the wrong child.” And I sort of shrugged.

The lady asked, now a little suspicious and on full peado alert: “Oh, and where’s your boy.”

Mark waved Stan over. “Here he is,” he said.

The woman looked between her kid and ours. The two boys looked like a couple of extras from a Michael Jackson video; one very very black, one very very white. Taking her own boys’ hand she turned and marched away: “They could’ve been separated at birth,” she said, and stalked off muttering and shaking her head.

Both Mark and I reverted to Coke after that.

And we managed to get back to Mark’s place later without swapping Stan, inadvertently, for a kid of any other race or sex along the way. A pretty fucking impressive feat, I’d say.
(, Tue 1 Mar 2011, 3:34, 8 replies)
Bloody Baptists
My folks are Baptist and don't, can't, really drink. At all. So when my young dad was invited to a big knees up with his construction buddies at Christmas two years in a row, he got completely hammered on cheap Scotch. He weaved home and drunkenly greeted us at the front door with cries of "Preshents!"

First year it was steaks for dinner. (We never got steak-it was our lot to get burgers or dogs) Second year he took all 5 of us out to buy shoes. (we never got shoes all at the same time-he couldn't afford it)

Third year, my mom went and got him before the booze started flowing. Those frickin' carpenters & ironworkers were drinking my poor electrician dad into the poorhouse.

PS I love these stories.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 23:26, 2 replies)
See.... this is what happens when you choose a crap qotw (to be fair, not much choice this week!)
You get quite a few of the normal funny but not necessarily true stories, the genuine abuse that some people have gone through and the total piss taking ones.

All a good read normally, but no, not this week because, oh look, /talk are bored... seriously guys, have you nothing better to to? Actually, I'll rephrase that, fuck off you sad bunch of little twats and go back to /talk and continue to rip the fuck out of each other over there. Have you really got nothing better to do??
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 21:52, 39 replies)

I am a live in carer for an 87 year old chap and have been for nearly a year.
I was his wifes carer before she passed away 5 years ago.
They never had any children and I've always refered to the old boy and his late wife as 'mums' and 'pop', so he's my unoffical adopted dad so this story counts.

Anyway, he likes a drink and has done for about 50 years, he'll go through an average of a litre of gin a day, his choice and to quote him "I'm over 80 years old, I've earned the bloody right to drink and somethings gotta kill me so I shall die doing what I know."

This to me in some ways is a fair enough comment so if he wants to have a drinky he will, he still eats ok and it's actually very hard to tell if he's drunk or not and is usually only evident maybe twice a week when he needs a bit more help getting to bed.

About 3 days ago, I made him aware that I was gonna be changing his catheter bag for a new one as I needed a fresh sample for testing, not a problem and shall let him know when.
He's got a couple cans of special brew in the fridge that he bought about 6 years ago and went out of date about 4 years ago that he doesn't want to throw out, and yesterday he asked if I could fetch him his 'handle', which is one of those olde style pint glasses with the handle, so I go get it out of the cupboard and give it to him.

I then go outside for a smoke and a tinker with the motorbike and he calls me in.
He then tells me that his beer tastes funny, so me thinking that he opened the special brew told him that would be why.
He then points out he's only just poured it and where's he poured it from.

In his drunken state he had decided to help me get a sample for him by opening the valve on the bottom of his cath-bag and emptying the contents into a pint glass for me.
This was how he decided he was a bit drunk, because he instantly forgot he had done that and saw a pint glass with a 3rd of a pint in it and assumed it was what he was drinking.
One hefty swig of it later and deciding it was 'off' was when he and I decided he had had enough to drink.

I have no idea why he thought a warm beer would be in his glass, or why he decided that I could have his sample in a pint glass.

Over the past few years he and his wife have done some daft stuff while drinking together so may add some more later, he's not my real dad but is as close to one as I've got while my biological dad is the twunt that he is.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 20:50, 5 replies)
Only the once
My Mother takes a dim view of drunkeness, and the story goes that the first time Dad came home drunk after they married, she made him sleep in the shed. She was a little more tolerant of me drinking, but not much.

So, some time ago my Dad and I end up having a drink and a chat. He's just retired, he's taking stock of his world, and the two of us are having the kind of father/son chat we should have had when I was 18. Trouble is, naturally, that I wouldn't have listened then. We were staying in a sort of holiday cottage at the time, and had gone down to one of the nearby pubs. So we were out about, say, three hours, and drank four or five pints each.

This was back in the day when I drank, and could happily put away that much without getting too silly. Dad, however, hadn't got the tolerance that borderline 'problem drinking' gives you. We go back to the house, and Dad can't find the key. So I ring the bell. I have years of experience of presenting a relatively sober appearance to my Mother, my Dad is out of practice. When she opens the door he's still trying to get his keys out of his pocket with a typical drunken expresssion of confusion on his face. Sort of 'Why have the laws of phsyics gone funny right now?' puzzlement - we've all done it.

"You're drunk!" whispers Mother in a tone that leaves no doubt of the amount of sh!t my Father is in.
I am not to escape, though, as she rounds on me:
"And I *know* it's all your fault!"

Oooh. Serious doghouse.

So - in my entire life, this has been the only, only time I've ever seen a parent drunk.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 17:13, Reply)
My parents drink.
My parents drink every day, way more than the limits set by president Tony. But they don't get drunk - ever. Technically they are hammered but you would never know. A bottle of wine each, a few large scotches or vodka for mum is a weekday night. Needless to say they aren't going to last too long.

But I repeat, they don't get drunk, they don't shout or scream, they don't order pizzas, they tend to watch a crap movie on fiver and fall asleep - then be up and chirpy at 6 in the morning - I would not be able to do this. Nor have breakfast, or actually function - I know what I am like on a Saturday morning.

Besides their casual alcoholism, holidays as a child were somewhat interesting. As exotic drinks were available, usually poured rather larger than normal, and usually stronger than back at home.

One lingering memory, is that of my obese mother, naked, pooing and vomiting into the bath. I shall never use that bathroom again. I shall also never allow her Baileys, following flaming Zambukas. Who say's it's the young that cause the most problems. (I was 30 at the time).

Length, well her bikini line keeps her ankles warm.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 16:32, 2 replies)
Not my father, but my grandfather.
My Grandad is firmly of the opinion that he has never been drunk in his life.
This is not true.
When my Grandma died, my Dad, Uncle and Grandad got together in the family manse before the funeral to tell stories, reminisce and generally get all that unmanly crying out of their system.

Several hours later and they're all plastered. They're having a very drunken argument about Wesht Bromwish Alby-un, wish ish the besht team ever. And Grandad announces he's going to show them the shirt signed by the 1968 team, the legendary cup winners.
"Bullshit!" cry my uncle and Dad.
"Ish not! Ish true! I'll show yoush ungrateful buggersh."
And so my Grandad storms upstairs.

Twenty minutes later, he storms downstairs again.
"Matt! Grant! What do you think of thish then?"

And lo, he is indeed wearing the famous shirt.

And bugger all else.

I think if my Grandma could've seen them, she'd've laughed her considerable arse off.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 16:11, 6 replies)
My Mother
My mother used to work as a families liaison officer for "wait for it"
Alcoholics Anonymous.
Well one particular Christmas she announced that she was off to the office party, which consisted of a West End show, a nice meal and then home.
All good and well you think, when you consider who she was working for, well to cut a long story short the phone rang at 1 in the morning, it was a policeman could I please come down to the local railway station and collect my mother who was as pissed as a fart and her equally pissed workmates.
I was so embarassed my mother could barely stand, one of her colleagues had thrown up in her handbag, another was vomiting in the gutter when I arrived.
I had to drive them all home, but the best bit was calling home at 07:30 to ask if she had had a restful night and being told to "fuck off", the upside was of course after this when she starts to crow about the evils of the demon drink, all I have to do is remind her of that evening.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 14:27, 8 replies)
My father,
when properly badgered, tends to piss in the kitchen sink rather than move himself the many miles to the bathroom.

I only discovered that he does this sort of thing, when, at Christmas past, whilst we had family in and were all pretty Wombled, he decided to slink away into a darkened kitchen and tinkle into the glasses occupying the sink. At the time it was more disgustingly amusing than plainly disgusting. Still, the gran did nearly have another stroke.

At least I got to the bottom of why there were pubes in the sink when I went to go and do the dishes!

p.s. it's his own sink in his own house (not that it makes it alright)
p.p.s. this is my first QOTW - woo.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 14:18, 13 replies)
Back in the mid
1980s my grandfather had an allotment in a village outside Derby, and an arrangement with a local farmer to get cheap horse manure to use as fertilizer. One Friday when I was 4 or 5 my grandfather called up my old man and asked if we'd like to come down from York (where we lived at the time) and help him do some work on his allotment. Sure enough, Saturday morning we drive to Derby early, and whilst I'm engrossed in helping my grandma make chips with a potato cutter, my father and grandfather toddle off to the farmers with a barrow to pick up a load of shit for the allotment.

Hours pass. My mother and grandmother are wondering where they've got to, and decide to check the local pub. We walk up there, to find my very drunk father, my very drunk grandfather, and a very drunk friend of my grandfathers being hosed off in the carpark by the landlord.

Apparently my dad and my grandfather had picked up the shit from the farm and had been wheeling it back to the allotments (which was next to the pub). On the way they'd met an old Navy friend of my grandfather's, who suggested a break for light refreshment in the pub. They'd sat outside, barrow of shit at their table, and sank 'several' pints when for some reason an argument erupted. My grandfather, being a reasonable fellow, had dipped his hand into the squishy barrow of horse poop and thrown a wet clod directly into my fathers face. My father then responded by throwing shit back at him. This then degenerated into some sort of three way shit flinging competition, with my relations, and my grandfathers friend, jumping around like drunken chimps, flinging faeces at each other until the landlord came out with a hosepipe and separated them.

My grandma made them both sleep in the conservatory that night.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 14:00, 7 replies)
My parents found out I'd spent a night in a tent with a girl when I was a teenager and decided that it was high time they told me something which is forever burned into my memory bank.

My mum has only ever been drunk once... the night she got pregnant (I didn't need to ask which time as I'm an only child). The doctors told her that she needed to relax, and the best way to relax is to get pished.

So they lagered her up and set about it (my wife has since embellished this with seedy unfounded details of the positions they used... so much in fact that the word 'dipping' still makes us cringe years later).

Afterwards, she followed the other instruction - climb head first off the end of the bed and keep your legs up on it to help the wiggly little fellas find their goal... for 30 minutes.

Dad went downstairs and watched Match of the Day, another reason I'm an only child I reckon.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 13:55, 4 replies)
At first, it was a little bit frightening
I think in order to understand why I found this event so ab-enhancingly hilarious, you need to understand a couple of facts about my dad. Firstly, before this event, I had barely seen my Dad drink, let alone dance. In fact, movement is not one of his fortes. My Dad makes Al Gore look like an out of control hedonist fun-junkie. Sensible, frugal, and restrained.

Secondly, his visual appearance. He is 6 foot 5, and skinny. He also wears old-man style trousers, pulled up past his waist as far as possible without obscuring his field of vision, and of course, with a t shirt neatly tucked in. Due to his indomitable fashion sense, this leaves a good old gap around the ankles to excite the ladies, exposing some serious grey nylon sock action. Pulled all the way up the calf. Worn with sandles. (Ladies yes he *is* single, please, form an orderly queue in replies)

We were on a boat (mother fucker), in the waters around Turkey. It was one of those old-style wooden jobbies, with about 10 tiny cabins and a skeleton crew. Damn scurvy. Ha, no, 3 living crew members. One evening's sophisticated, exotic entertainment featured 'music' and 'beer' on the 'boat'. Liberal application of the local 'Raki' (Turkish Ouzo) combined with some peer-pressure and general good-natured frivolity had left Daddy-o rosy-cheeked and over-confident.

On comes 'Kung-fu fighting', one of those 'you don't know how to party properly so i'm going to bloody-well-show-you' types starts going around, dragging everyone to their feet to dance. I can't believe it, but my Dad willingly gets up and joins the group.

When it gets to the chorus, everyone bopping along as non-committally as possible, my Dad, arms poised in Kung-fu 'crane' position, executes an elegant jumping scissor kick in time with 'UHHHHHHHHHH!!!' then sits calmly back down. There is a tiny bit of pride there, buried beneath the ball-crushing embarrassment.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 13:42, 9 replies)
My Dad once said to me
"Son, I'm not disappointed in you and I know you try your best, but I'd had a lot to drink that night and I think the alcohol killed off all the good 'uns."
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 12:20, Reply)
Pissing in wardrobes...
What is it about people who are utterly slashed that they need to piss in a wardrobe?

I'm been totally wankered on quite a few occassions yet not once has my addled brain thought pissing in a wardrobe to be such an uber idea, no matter how pissed I've been I've still been able to hold on to enough sense to find a loo or at least get outside and water some flowers.

I'm sure its an urban myth.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 11:52, 13 replies)
My parents both died of cancer.
They didn't drink, but they both died OF CANCER.

I am also a girl.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 11:03, 30 replies)
My dad lives on a boat
And since I don't often get the chance to visit, when I do we usually make a day of it. There are a lot of open fields down the river from where he is moored, so we sail down, moor up, and have a BBQ with more than a few beers between us.
On one particularly lovely day, we realised that I had forgotten to get buns for the burgers and so walked about a mile to the car and drove to the nearest shops.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was away, my dad had decided to move onto something a little stronger than beer, and knocked his keys into the canal.

When I got back, he was nowhere to be seen. I put the buns inside, looked in the kitchen, knocked on the bathroom door, nothing.

Going back outside, I saw one of my dad's plastic crates in the water, and assumed it must have fallen off the back of the boat, and so getting one of the poles, I hooked the box and lifted out of the water.

I then fell to the floor, and tried desperately not to wet myself, as, where the box once was, was my dad's head. He had jumped into the canal after his keys, taking the box with him, as in his drunken stupor, he had been sure that Dad + waterproof box = Submarine.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 7:07, 7 replies)
My mum and dad split up when I was about five
In the sense of "my mum left my dad because he was a useless semi-alcoholic" - sorry, Dad, but it's true. He had his good points - an excellent fisherman, a really good cook, introduced me to vast amounts of good music (from Pink Floyd and The Doors to The Orb), as well as books like "The Lord of the Rings" and "Shogun" - but domestic ties weren't his thing (man). Every time he got a bit tied down in one place, he'd up and leave. So after they split I rarely saw him - he worked here and there, in Scotland and England, coming and going.

At one point he lived in a nearby village, so my mum (feeling tired from raising the kids alone) packed me and my brother off to stay with him for a weekend. It was alright - we had a dinner of Mash and hamburgers, read books in the evening, went for a walk down the seafront on Saturday morning, and so on.

Come Saturday evening, Dad said he was going for a bath. We heard him running the bath as we sat on our bums right up next to the portable TV. Saturday evening TV was alright back then so we were glued to it like the typical 7/8 year olds we were. "You've Been Framed" and "Catchphrase" and all that.

Eventually I needed the toilet, and there's only one toilet, in the bathroom. I went to the bathroom door and said, "Dad, I need a pee!", as an 8 year old would. No answer. "Dad!" No answer. I went back to the living room and, all worried, asked my brother to come through. "Dad!" we both shouted. Anxiety was really gripping me. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in the bath, but maybe he'd drowned..! Maybe he'd... I didn't know what might have happened, but it was spooky and creepy him not answering.

"Try the door!" my brother said.

I didn't want to - it felt like crossing some taboo - but I was the older brother, so I tried the handle, and it obviously wasn't locked. So I opened the door - and there was a full bath, still steaming, and no Dad.

"Where'd he go?" my brother asked. I knew already. There was a pub in the square, just the other side of the road. After we plucked up enough courage to stick our heads in - the sign said it was 18 ONLY - we saw Dad there, standing at the bar, trying to make quick work of a pint of Tennants and a whisky.

He saw us, and knew he'd been caught. "Oh, alright boys?" he said. "I'll be back home in a while. Just go back and watch TV."

A few hours later, he came back.
(, Mon 28 Feb 2011, 4:52, 7 replies)

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