Christmas night drinkies
Many years ago, my then-girlfriend (hi Mand, if you're reading) and I went to a friend of hers for the traditional Christmas night drinks and release of anger and annoyance at having to deal with family in such close proximity and having to be nice to them all day.

The theme for the night was daiquiris, and a fair bit of domestic bubbly wine. Many daiquiris were consumed, and we were all getting very merry. Which was appropriate, to have a merry Xmas.

Bear in mind we had eaten a traditional Christmas meal that day: Turkey, potatoes, peas, etc.

Then the rum ran out. So we substituted the bubbly instead. Which wasn't too bad, with the strawberries, they just became bastardised champagne cocktails.

Then it started to go very wrong. The strawberries ran out. Given how pickled we were, we reasoned that the next best thing to strawberries in the kitchen was strawberry jam. So we made the drinks with that. And champagne.

Shortly after consuming a few of those, the ex locked herself in the bathroom, and sat in the shower/bath, wailing for her best friend, and refusing to let anyone else in to see her. Then the vomiting began. Somehow, miraculously, she sat in the bath and vomited between her spread legs, and didn't get a single drop on herself. The rest of the bath however wasn't so lucky. She ended up pushing undigested peas into the plughole and rinsing them down.

The person whose place it was found peas with their shampoo bottle 3 days later, where it had somehow splashed up and behind it.
(David CopAFeel Used to be The_Elcat - Spouting crap since 1970., Sat 26 Mar 2011, 12:14, Reply)

'whatever possessed you to get a wicker toilet?!'

( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 11:35, 5 replies)

Leicester
As we stood in the queue for a post club kebab T slopes in turns to us and says "We pulled there." The obvious response of "What do you mean?" was then met with "Those girls from the club invited us all back to theirs for some more drinks." "Wahey, why are they waiting outside instead of coming in here then?" "Oh no they're not, they jumped in a taxi and told us to get in the next one and follow them back so we would know where to go." Face palms and a savage beating followed.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Sat 26 Mar 2011, 10:12, 3 replies)

when we first passed our tests, driving to the pub was a novelty
this did not last beyond the age of 17, clearly.

anyway, one evening we decided to go to the hacienda for a night of major clubbing. my friend evie and i offered to drive. we started off by enjoying the delights of "the george" in stockport, which for anyone who has ever been to stockport, is really not that delightful. after last orders, we were going onto town, so everyone piled into my beetle or my friend evie's peugeot. as we rounded the corner by "the george", evie's sunroof flew open and our friend sam popped out of it, shouting and waving at the happy stockport revellers.

two seconds later, the blues and twos fly out of a side street and evie gets pulled over. we could only drive on and wait. about 30 mins later the second car pulls up, still driven by evie. but minus sam. it turned out that the police had tried to give evie points - on the basis that the driver is responsible for all passengers - and sam had barged in to give them some serious abuse.

when she told them that her name was "samantha blow-job" and she lived at "42 fuck-you avenue", the police reached the end of their tether, chucked her in the back of the van, and drove off with her. we did not know what to do. she was 16. and most of us were leathered. so we called the police station.

"hi, have you got our friend? slim, long dark hair, about sixt- eighteen. eighteen." they were helpful at first. then turned steely.

"name of sam? yeah. we've got her." hung up.

what else could we do? gigantic cool clubbing no longer an option, we slunk home.

she eventually rocked up the following afternoon. apparently the sergeant had kept trying to interview her, and she kept laughing at him until they locked her in a cell and left her. at about 5am she woke up. not in a cool club. not snogging some hot bloke. not tangled in a heap with her drunken mates to relive the night before hitting mcdonald's for a hangover cure. cold. alone. in a cell.

the policeman who had woken her up was smiling at her. "it's not funny now, is it?" he said. sam shook her her head. "do you want to go home?" he continued kindly. sam nodded. he burst out laughing. "now THAT'S funny," he said, and slammed the door shut behind him.

they let her out at lunchtime in the end.

just realised this is probably a massive re-post. sorry, but suck it up like good little bitches!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 10:03, 2 replies)

The grapes of wrath
A simple night at the pub with my mates. After a couple of pints R starts whining like a bitch that he should probably go home, he is feeling a bit rough and he has work in the morning. Cue much whip crack noise making and calls of underthethumbery. This only gets worse when he then phones his missus to get a lift home. We really go to town making him feel like the most worthless cuckolded man on the planet ( in that caring way that mates do).

We did have the good grace to feel a little bit guilty when we visited him in hospital the next day after the emergency procedure to whip out his buggered appendix. Such a lightweight that boy.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Sat 26 Mar 2011, 10:00, 4 replies)

My brother,
well, he likes to dress like a viking. Not on his own though, he has viking buddies too. This story's bout one of them. The one they call Smiles. Smiles is well well over 6ft. A big guy. Their leader, (we'll call him batman) while not so tall is very very big. Roughly 20sumtin stone I reckon. A lot of it muscle. Not a guy you like to see bearing down on you with an axe.

Now after their shows they like to set up their viking camp and sometimes drink from a big keg of mead. A potent drink. Smiles had had his fair share and late in the night suddenly had gotten a touch of the crazies and went on (for him) a rare violent rampage. Batman was to his rescue almost immediately and after a bit of drunken fisticuffs had quelled the big guys rage and put him to bed in the tent.

Everyone relaxed. Fun resumed. Until an hour later. A roar bellowed from the tent and again Smiles was on the go. He stumbled from his tent and over to the fire. A mad look in his eye he grabbed a burning timber from it. Then stopped. Then looked at the timber in his hand. Then screamed an altogether different scream. More high pitched and urgent. He then dropped the burning timber but continued screaming as the blisters formed. Bandages and cold water later Smiles went back to sleep. Burning timbers burn.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Sat 26 Mar 2011, 8:17, Reply)

Not myself in this case.
But I just woke up to my housemate pissing on my chair because he thought it was the toilet.

I think that's pretty special.
(Captain Backfire, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 6:03, 1 reply)

One from a few years back.
I'd forgotten about this last night when I was writing up my rather more boring response, but here it is. Probably the second or third time I really drank, my friend and I decided we wanted to watch the Indiana Jones boxset from start to finish. Even better, we were going to drink lots of beer and get as stoned as we could.

We decided to get as much beer as we could, so my friend Ryan and I decided that around 30 beers each sounded good. Beers acquired, we went back to his house and started smoking. By the time we remembered to put the DVD in, we were so drunk/baked that although we had it loud enough to hear the sounds from the other side of his house, we couldn't understand what any of the characters were saying. Still, we stuck with it, and watched the first film.

Around 2AM, I recalled that I had to be at work in 6 hours, and being 16 or 17 at the time, I'd catch hell if I missed work because I'd been out drinking and smoking the night before. With that in mind, I told Ryan goodnight, and set off to walk home, drinking my last bottle of beer as I went. Unfortunately, in my drunken state it didn't really register that I lived a good 15 miles from his house. I got to the highway at the end of his road, and based on where I woke up, it seems I crawled about 100 yards up some person's lawn, and passed out beneath the bushes in their garden. I woke up the next day an hour late for work, missing my glasses, with no idea how I'd gotten there, or where there was. Eventually I called up my mother for a ride, and got dropped of to work a good 90 minutes late.

It wasn't until I'd been working for a good hour that I went to the bathroom and realised the entire right side of my face was covered in crushed berries I'd apparently slept on. It was a long, hot, horrible day at work that wound up seeing me cleaning up my own vomit a couple times to make sure nobody knew how out of it I was.
( Ithyphallophobia, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 4:39, Reply)

I got really drunk...
And woke up married with two kids.
(AtticaFlinch, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 2:22, Reply)

My 30th birthday
started out in a sedate enough fashion; I went for a curry with my family. We went to the pub afterwards, and some of my mates turned up. Once my family had left, things quickly got considerably more refreshed. My mates and I went on to another pub, and eventually left at 0300 after a fun night of drinking, shouting and shape throwing. On the way back to my flat, we spotted a house party happening in a flat round the corner. Somehow we blagged our way in. We also somehow managed to steal find some Buckfast wine.

I have no idea how long we stayed at the party, or indeed how I got home. But I woke up on the floor of my living room fully clothed at 1130 the following morning; a status check of myself and my surroundings revealed that I had a pair of pliers in my back pocket and a claw hammer in my jacket, neither of which belonged to me. More worryingly, I had dried blood all over my hands.

To date, I have no idea what happened. I worry that I might have tortured a tramp.
(square go, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 0:34, 2 replies)

Please Please Tell Me Now.... oh God, no
A few years ago...

~~~~~insert wavy lines here~~~~~~

I was very much into Duran Duran, and arranged to meet up with a bunch of people from an internet forum for an afternoon of drinks and merriment discussing the aforementioned frilly-shirt wearers. Unfortunately, meeting a load of strangers all in one go can make you a little nervous and, being a student, I was lacking in the money department - so I did what anyone who was conscious of waste would do and just drank whatever half-finished drinks had been left out on the table by the people who'd been sitting there before us. Lager, red wine, whiskey, it all went down the hatch whilst my wallet remained smugly fat...

...however, too much alcohol apparently makes me believe that I *AM* whoever I happen to be currently idolising at the time, and in this case it was Simon LeBon. I don't remember much of the evening after that other than standing on the table and murdering a few Duran Duran songs to my eagerly-awaiting audience, repeated trips to the toilet to speak on the big white phone, and then being bundled home in a taxi whilst insisting "No, no, you can't do this, Yasmin will be so annoyed when she sees me like this, what about the kids?"

I woke up in my own bed the following morning with no clear recollection as to how I got there, a small vom-stain on my pillow, and the enduring nickname of 'Aquavac'.
(Draco Rattus ate all the pies on, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 23:35, 5 replies)

I used to promote a club night with pals in the West End of that there London.
One night it was my birthday, so it was extra special and quite a few people from my youth had journeyed from the provinces to say hello etc. It was 'my night' and my new girlfriend had also proudly invited all her chums.

I got 'over-excited' during the day, and despite my best efforts by the evening was in a state of Advanced Refreshment. I walked into the place, played a fucking appalling 20-minute DJ set and blundered straight back out again into a black cab and went home to bed without saying a word to anyone. It was about 9pm. Go me, 'king of clubland'.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 22:30, 4 replies)

Coventry is a quality night out with other b3ta folk.
I was recently out in the windmill enjoying a few ales and meeting all manner of folk, Buddy Holly by Weezer played on the jukebox, we all sang along, I discovered that the bar had no cigars on sale, so after the two parties said their goodbyes and I'd eaten a number of strips of Noits kebab, we made a very long walk back to Druid's house, I noticed a couple of police officer in the kebab shop they stopped in and enquired if they had any cigars, sadly they didn't.
( Wildheart Baby. Drunken Mess In A Good Way, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 22:21, 6 replies)

early night
Few years back, met up with some work mates for a Friday night drink or two in a bar just off the Strand. One of the people we were with regularly turns into a lecherous twat after a few pints and was exceeding expectations very early and beginning to really get on my nerves...
So rather than continue to drink to the point where I would end up doing something I would really regret (punch him) I decide to call it an early night, left the pub at 10.30 feeling quite proud, mature and a little bit self righteous. Then broke a metatarsal, no idea how or why, walking the 50 yards to get a cab.
( sutit only the crumbliest, flakiest posts, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 22:17, 1 reply)

A quarter bottle of Southern Comfort is a bad idea.
At the bus stop, just before heading out on the town, my friends refused to sit near me, as I stank of the stuff. I jumped off the bus to find an alley for a quick pee, losing my friends and ending up in the student union bar, I found my friends after a very quick Newcastle brown ale and a shot, clutching another brown ale and shot, after that I don't remember anything.
I apparently bounced on the bouncy castle, had a few more drinks and headed home, I bumped into a friend on the way home and didn't throw up.

This was a quality night due to the fun I must have had.
( Wildheart Baby. Drunken Mess In A Good Way, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 22:14, 1 reply)

Tequila, it makes you crappy
When I was a student many years ago I used to frequent the tequila society. What was meant to be a top night on the pull ended in me nearly dead and a mate with a cracked bonce. I'd type it all out, but instead I'm just going to paste in the poem I wrote about it.



Here is a tale of messrs four
Monkey, Lurch, Mr Tickle and Evil Neil – your author
This tale, it is true, I have to admit
It’s a tale of how I royally ended up in the shit

A night one summer, 98 to be exact
Four lads went off, (two right off of the track)
A night of fun we had ahead planned
To drink tequila, leave our brains unmanned

It all manifested in Leeds you see
Home of our beloved university
We had joined tequila society
A group of much notoriety

We waltzed our way through the fine city streets
Conversing of what lay ahead, such hallowed treats
To get off our tits, and fondle the rears
Of the girls we found as we slugged down our beers

Two damn hours we waited to get in the door
And the entry price stung us like some high-class whore
The queue was immense, by the time we were admitted
Neil and Tickle had made a pact to get shitted

They threw back the Cuervo like it fell through their head
While monkey and Lurch looked on with much dread
They knew the night would come to no good
And they’d have to deal with these pissed up puds

Doubles quickly transmogrified into quadruples
Weakening their knees and dilating their pupils
Monkey, a student of sesame street kept score
They’d both drank shots numbering twenty-four!

All this in under an hour no less!
Although at this moment they weren’t quite a mess
So they washed it all down with two beers more
And made they way to the tart ridden dance floor

Like waltzers at a fair ground they started to bop
But then like a felled tree Tickle just dropped!
His nut hit the deck like a melon on mallet
His skull cracked open and out poured the claret

The game was up for Tickle you see
As Lurch took him off to casualty
Neil past this point has no memory
The rest here on in is the second hand story

As Tickle puked in a bowl in Leeds infirmary
Neil dances on with increased fury
His veins swam with piss and he thought he might
Be in with a chance if the bouncers would fight

So he bravely squared up, with a crane kick ready
It worked for karate kid, but he was more steady
Losing to gravity our hero deckward fell
Into the mire of the floor and the swell

He managed to make it out the Warehouse portal
With help from Monkey, but he did not chortle
Cos while my antics may make you laugh and moan
He was the poor fucker that carried me home

What a friend, what a mate, what a splendid chum
He carried for three miles this drunken bum
Although not entirely without a mishap
A swan dive to ten feet drop to rubble put pay to that

But cut and bruised he delivered me to Devonshire Halls
Our Uni home, where we resided and had balls
Although by this time he received no thanks
As the tequila had emptied my memory banks

I was out for the count, not roused by a slap
Although I managed regurgitation into my lap
Even the ambulance and its siren
Failed to wake me from my alcoholic environ

The rushed me to the place Tickle was sent
There he sat doubled over bent
Having his noggin glued back up
As he said hello again to his dinner now served in cup

My treatment was certainly not the same,
There was no chasm in my cranium causing me pain
Instead the decided they would equip
Me with an intravenous saline drip

You see dear listener I could not be awoke
Although the ambulance men tried with pinches and poke
My tequila slumber was far too deep
As the evidence through my mouth began to re-seep

I awoke from my nap at 7 o’clock
To be greeted by the face of a Doc
Do you know where you are? She mouthed to me
Am I in Stoke-on-Trent I replied hopefully?

Another pissed student, She shook her head
Probably would have been kinder to leave him for dead
Surely the world isn’t ready for this
Five foot ten of shambling piss

But my mistake was not without folly,
As the previous weekend I had been out on a jolly
To see my sister in grotty old Stoke
To see which of her friends I’d quite like to poke

Somehow I had lost a week,
In between then and trying to speak
But to me it made sense, but because of my deeds
I had completely forgot I was in Leeds

I re-awoke at 8am
Feeling still pissed but mobile again
I remembered a phobia I had acquired
About hospitals no less and then perspired

So like Johnny blue lightening I leapt off the bed
Unplugged the drip and away out I sped
Passed the doctor that asked “You alright?”
I said “Yerp” as the urge to hurl I continued to fight

Freedom was mine! I was out of the clink
Swearing “Fuck me, I need a drink”
Although now from the infirmary released
Sobriety had not returned, my brain still deceased

So nissed as a pewt I made my jolly way
Back through rush hour traffic with stagger and sway
Dressed in my previous nights attire still
Complete with matching last nights dinner, a half digested swill

The traffic proposed no great problem as I picked my way through,
But a toilet stop was badly needed; luckily wee, but not poo
So I stopped for a respite on woodhouse moor
Leaning on tree I shook off the last drips on the floor

Then on my journey I passed a lass I knew
Who thought I had pulled last night, not seeing my spew
Passed her I dreamily went back to my halls
Back to my bed to rest my weary eye balls

I passed Monkey on my way in, what a fellow so stout
He was about to the hospital go, to come get me out
A gesture not needed now I was home
So guided me to my bed to leave me to groan

I awoke around one in the afternoon
Prepared for the hangover, ready for the swoon
But blow me those chaps in white had dealt me a clover
As I surfaced free from hang over

I headed to my sink eager for drink
But a strange sight made me stop and think
For rubbish now filled my porcelain dunker
Jeez, what a night so damn drunk I was drunker

But this presented me a riddle as set by a djinn
“If that’s in me sink what the fucks in me bin?”
I looked in the metal, right in the casket
There was no rubbish occupying this basket

Instead it was wet, yes quite moist to the touch
My mind raced at what would dampen the tin so much
And then through my nostrils the thought hit me
As the scent registered, in here I did wee

My ruin had reached a rather stale peak
As my metal bin came with a hole ripe for leak
The brown carpet beneath taken to the brink
Three carpet shampooings did not ebb the stink

This is where I leave you my friend
For this tale now I hope will live on in legend
A story of utmost foolishness and drunken revelry
And the explanation of why in Dev Hall Flat F225 smells a bit like pee



I make no apologies for length, but I am very sorry about the smell. And the shit poetry, I'm sorry for that too.
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 20:29, 12 replies)

Apparently, when sir Ian Mckellen decided to tell his family he was gay he organised a big party.
Unfortunately, he put the wrong date on the invites and no-one showed up.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 19:31, 10 replies)

Heroes
many years ago, probably around 1997, aged 19 my friends and I would frequent Heroes sports bar in Milton Keynes. Those of you who know the area, it is near to the railway station and is now a strip joint called Smiles, I think. Anyway, Monday nights were 80s Night... An amazing 88p for a pint of lager, dirt cheap even by 1997 standards. The night would start early, and we would bop around doing silly shoulder-jacking dance moves to the usual 80s cheese-pop, buying ostentatiously large rounds (well drinks were 88p ffs!) and generally acting more and more like a bunch of utter cunts as time went by and we got more and more drunk. Anyway ffwd to 2am, and I am safe at home. I think I may have gone to bed. Then wake up at 3am, stroll into mummy's bedroom still fully-clothed and turn the light on, demanding "where's the toilet?" apparently in an aggressive manner as if I'm accusing her of having moved the entire bathroom in the family home where I have lived for ten years. "Next door", my bleary eyed and confused mother says. I turn her bedroom light off and presumably go to the toilet. Ffwd to 4 am, still clothed, stride into mother's room again, turning the light on, "where's the toilet?". This time mummy looks cross and tells me to fuck off. Like a good little obedient son, I turn her light off and presumably use the toilet. Then to bed. Ffwd to 7.30 am. I am woken by mother's angry voice from downstairs. It seems my presence is required immediately. I drag my spectacularly hungover carcass down to the kitchen where it appears that someone has been sick in the kitchen sink all over the dirty dishes that had been left in there overnight. Mother was cross and blamed it on me, the only other person in the house. Yeah, prove it.

The moral of the story? Don't leave your washing-up til the next day.
(Freak Paw, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 19:12, 1 reply)

PUNCH! IN THE FACE!
Who's been punched? Proper hoofing roundhouse punched, in the FACE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bastard.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:57, 16 replies)

I had a bit of a 'do' at my gaff once.....
Never again! There were only a few of us, so I reckoned everything would be fine. It all started very nicely, but went downhill fast.

We'd been to a club in Romford and picked up a few hangers-on, who I had never met before. We were all a bit pissed when we got to mine, then someone else thought it would be a good idea to crack open a bag of coke and some E he had stashed away. I never touched any of it though, as I'm totally against that sort of thing.

I'd probably had a few too many Martinis, so next thing I know, honestly, is waking up in my own bed, alone, and somebody shouting that Stuart's passed out in my swimming pool.

The coppers and an ambulance turned up, but by then this guy Stuart, who I'd never met before or had any sort of contact with, was a gonner.

The law asked me a load of questions, but obviously I couldn't help much as I'd been asleep since the party got going so I couldn't help them, and I didn't even know this Stuart guy who must have been invited by somebody else. The other guys that had been there (there weren't any women as it was a bachelor party) didn't know too much either. We reckon this guy Stuart, who I'd never met before at any point in my life, must have taken massive drugs, tripped at the side of the pool and injured himself internally before he landed in the water and drowned.

And then four years ago I was arrested......six years after it had happened! Luckily, the coppers doing the investigation seem pretty shit-thick, so if I keep schtum for a while longer they'll all fuck off and I'll be owight.
(Mao's stepson is doing his bit for East/West relation's, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:11, 7 replies)

Another long-distance one
My housemate went out and got ratted for Santacon last yeat. Deciding he'd had enough quite early, he left his mates and jumped on a train at Charing Cross, intending to head back to Crouch Hill. Once the alcoholic haze had faded, he found himself in Penge, twice as far away from where he wanted to be as when he started, dressed like Father Christmas and being badly mocked by the locals hanging around at the train station. It took him another three and a half hours to get back, by which time we were starting to get quite worried aboutabsolutely laughing our arses off at him.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:07, Reply)

I woke up with no eyebrows and badly singed hair
following a night out at a Manchester discotheque (it was the 70s) on magic mushrooms and an obscene amount of alcohol.

Having managed to get myself and my cohorts ejected from said disco, we took a shortcut back to where we stayed over some rough parkland which had been commandeered by some gypsies. We approached a group of them, all sat round a blazing bonfire. They were not pleased to see us, to put it mildly, and suggested we find an alternative route.

I told them it was public land and we could go where the fuck we pleased, and to demonstrate this concept I kept walking. Right through their bonfire.

Man-made fibres were really popular in the 70s, so I lit up quite spectacularly, and had to be rolled on the dewy grass by my mates to put me out. The gypsies had retreated to a safe distance and I bade them a good evening as I went on my way, smouldering noncholantly.

This was all conveyed to me the following morning - I don't remember much after getting chucked out of the night club. The most worrying after-effect was where one leg of my nylon underpants (I know, yuk!) had melted and fused to my inner thigh. I didn't seek medical attention and it took weeks for new skin to grow and the blistery, nylony mess to peel off. I still have a strange blotchy scar 'down there' to remind me.

Happy days...
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:04, Reply)

My brothers stag night.
Since my own stag night is only 4 months away, and this is going to come up in his best mans speech at my wedding, I thought I'd post the tale of how I failed miserably at being my brothers best man.

The year was 1997, it was november and it was my brothers stag do 'oop north'.

The plan was to go and watch him play rugby in the afternoon with some friends and any one else that was out on the 'do', and then to turn out in the evening on a pub crawl after getting something to eat.

I'd been drinking all afternoon with his friends and mine while at the rugby and later on we'd headed back to the grooms house to have a buffet that his wife to be had put out. It was during the buffet part of the night that I foolishly decided that what I needed to do in order to liven up the stag do was to drink a bottle of Southern Comfort.

I don't remember the first pub we got to, but the first pub was as far as I got.

Apparently I was found lying in the trough of the urinal, trying to pick up some change that I'd dropped, by the bride to be's brother.

My mum was phoned to come and take me home, and the next thing I remember is waking up in bed, stinking slightly of piss.

Not my finest moment that one. And I've never lived it down.
( Evil Bastardo, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:55, Reply)

Wee Pea and an Epilogue
I've been living and working in Oxford for a while now, and before it's recent refurb and change of hands (and styles, sadly), I was a semi-regular attendee at friday nights of one of the towns most, er, salubrious estabilishments, the Zodiac.

My story takes place on one ill fated night, where, after imbibing the requisite amount of alcohol to find the place charming, I made to leave and find my way home. Now, for some reason, and here comes the dumb thing, I started my (short) journey home at a different angle than usual, 90 degrees different as it turns out.

So I proceeded to take my exact (or as close as possible) route home, just offset somewhat. So as the night goes on and the alcohol takes more of a grip and I get more and more disoriented, I am instantly transported (in my mind at least) to a road leading to my parents house.

It's along this road that I seem to find myself accompanied by some caring folk (real or imaginary, I've no idea), who are shepharding me safely along. Unfortunately, after walking for what seemed like an eternity I just wanted to sleep, and spotting a comfortable looking bush, I conferred with my new friends as to whether or not I should sleep there. They concurred with me, and I strode over, gracelessly fell back, and.....fade to black.

Next thing, I come to, walking, in a suburban street I've never seen before, everything thoroughly unfamiliar. I attempt to find something I recognise, a road name, landmark, building, anything, with no luck. Eventually after walking in circles, getting stuck at dead ends, I managed to find a main road, and chanced my arm on one of the two directions.

Turns out I guessed the right way, and got home around 2 hours later.

For anyone who knows the area, I had managed to get from the Zodiac to a street about two miles down Banbury road, which was a few miles directly, even more by the circuitous road route.

Epilogue
That was quite a number of years ago, since then I've torn the rotator cuff in my shoulder, lost a mobile & pair of glasses and gained a gash on my head, as well as the usual drunken mundanery, all on different nights out. But since meeting the mrs. and having better things to do, I've lost all of my drinking abilities, which is safer generally, but also means that I now risk nights out going wrong on much lower amounts of alcohol.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:50, 2 replies)

There I stood; there I spoke; there I vommed
Three years ago I moved down to London with my then-girlfriend.

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

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

Thus I got six kinds of Wednesday.

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

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

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

No-one died, and I got the job. All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’.
(Land of Green Ginger It's dreamy weather, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:40, 3 replies)

Late one night, somewhere in the country
...my mate Duncan wakes up. Well, I'm sure we've all nodded off on the journey home after a heavy night, lulled by the gentle throbbing of the engine, to blearily look out of the windows and try to work out what station we're passing through.

Unfortunately for Duncan, he wasn't on a train at the time. Or even a bus. He was travelling home on his motorcycle.

And what had woken him was the lurch that the bike had made as the road turned sharply to the right, and -- not surprisingly -- the bike hadn't. The road was somewhat raised at that point, so he'd actually come to in mid air, sailing in a graceful arc toward a field of corn.

When he finally rolled to a halt, uninjured thanks to the relaxing effects of alcohol, he decided that the best course of action would be to spend the rest of the night in the field, and promptly fell asleep again.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:38, 3 replies)

Perspective
When your car breaks down on the M25, it's a night gone wrong.

When you're stuck on the hard shoulder in the cold for an hour, 100 yards in front of the car because you know it's not a good idea to stay in a broken down car on the motorway, it's a night gone very wrong

When you watch as your friend remembers there is a blanket in the boot and while he is getting it a lorry plows through him, that's...well...no other nights going wrong will really compare.


(although I should add this wasn't me involved, but my friend's younger brother).
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 14:52, 12 replies)

New Year In Scotland
goes on for several days. At one point a friend of my sister asked "What time is it?"

We all look at our watches etc. "Two."

"Is that am or pm?"
(McChinaman banned, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 14:47, 4 replies)

Think of the children
in my first month of teaching i went out with all the other young teachers in my school, they were already quite close and i appreciated them inviting me out.

me and the deputy head of chemistry jumped on a moving street sweeper lorry, then were dragged off by the police. i vomited in a taxi on the way home. i woke up in bed with the head of girls pe, a massive lembot.

in three years of teaching at that school they never asked me out again.
(Parmenu, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 14:45, 6 replies)

Wingman Fail
After a pretty normal night in the local, me and my bez are strolling home through the park. Its after 12 and its empty, a nice relaxing wander home, still jabbering on and putting the world to right....

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

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

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

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

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

"That was pretty crazy", mate understates. "Have you got my phone?"....
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 14:43, 4 replies)