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This is a question Nights Out Gone Wrong

In celebration of the woman who went out for a quiet drink with friends after work, and ended up half naked, kicking a copper in the nads and threatening to smear her own shit over hospital staff, how have your best-laid plans ended in woe?

(, Thu 24 Mar 2011, 16:02)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

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Lady Like Behaviour
Cider and black. Explains it all really.

Fell backwards through a fire escape and had to be helped up because I like an upturned turtle stuck on it's back.

Had a massive go at a friend (who later added she was impressed with the long words I managed considering I was absolutely mangled drunk) while leaning on hand drier for support. Said friend was being encouraged by onlookers to just slap me and shut me up.

Fell asleep on toilet in club for approx hour and half.

Can't even smell the stuff now without wanting to heave....and this was TEN years ago.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 12:39, 6 replies)
Five mini wheels in my bed.

I had no tools, I could not find a wheel-free car in the morning and, for the love of God, how did I get the spare anyway?
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 12:21, 3 replies)
A dog directly under the window was barking incessantly.

Somewhere in the distance, a toilet flushed, and all I could imagine was a mix of urine and faecus slooping down the pipe in a stinking mess, detailed with stained toilet paper.

Dear Christ what the fuck ...


Seriously what the fuck ... and ... that's not my ceiling ... this is not my bed ...


I rolled over in bed my head spinning my guts wretching fuck fuck fuck it doesn't come much worse than this oh god ...


There was a huge amount of hair in front of me. Did I ... ? Did we ... ?

The hair rolled over, to reveal the smiling face of a girl ... from one of my lecture groups? From the media centre? From ... where?


"Welcome to Peckham!" she beamed.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 10:54, 2 replies)
Insipred by Mong Goose below....
You know those impromptu nights where you havent even planned to be out, it just happened - the ones that usually turn out to be the best nights evaaaar and tales of drunken mayhem get passed around at every other subsequent night out. Well.....

I remember arriving in Sunderland at 3:30 to have late lunch with a friend who was manager of a bar in the same company as the bar I manage in Newcastle, which turned into a few drinks after the day staff finished work at 6, which turned into meeting a load of other staff who were heading out clubbing for a friends birthday....

Flashbacks include...

- Getting slapped for snogging someone, by her best mate whom I'd apparently been chattng up two minutes beforehand.

- Stealing a basket of sugar sachets from Wetherspoons to make "cocktails" with at all the other bars we went to.

- Falling off a 7ft wall covered in those shards of glass attempting to break into (what turned out to be NOT) my friends house after she snapped the key in the lock.

- Having a mild panic attack at being stuck in a wheelie-bin after trying to climb the same wall a 2nd time.

- Punching someone in the face after they called me gay for having a "man-bag"

Thankfully I was woken up by the Area Manager of the company in the same bar I had arrived at for lunch the previous day, luckily he saw the funny side and made me a coffee before driving me back to Newcastle.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 10:38, 2 replies)
Why is there a "For Sale" sign in our living room??
and why is there a flashing yellow light in the kitchen?
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 10:18, 6 replies)
Nervez meanz booze
Cor, the shame still burns about this one, a good five years on.

I was due to meet with a girlfriend’s best friend for the first time. She’d come in especially from t’other side of the Pennines: they were old university friends and didn’t see each other as often as they’d have liked. So it was kinda flattering to be asked along, to meet the friend and thus further worm my way into my girlfriend’s life.

I was a bit nervous, to be honest. New people who you have to make a good impression on means a high-pressure situation. I thought about not going, but that would’ve been damned rude. A friend who worked behind a bar gave me some advice. He said I should have a couple of drinks before meeting them: not enough to make me stinko, but enough to take the awkwardness away.

So after work I popped along to the pub where he worked for a couple of whiskies. He’s a nice chap and we had a nice chat and before you know it, it’s three hours later and time to meet the ladyfriend and her lady-friend. But in that time, I’ve had more than a couple of drinks and, frankly, lost that undervalued ability to remain perpendicular to the floor. I was a bit hazy.

I don’t remember much of the meeting, but I do remember thinking ‘I’m coming across as a right arse’ and getting increasingly disheartened by my inability to make a good impression. That just made me sulky: I didn’t even consider the possibility that it was due to me being boorish and pished. So the drinks continued to flow, as they do when you have an obligation and you don’t want to be there, until I was rat-arsed.

And then I was woken by a landlord of a pub.

From what my girlfriend told me, what happened was I became an ever-increasing arsehole, getting more and more drunk, and then I went to the gents. And that was the last they saw of me for a good half hour. Until 20 mins after closing time when they had to ask the landlord to go in and check on me: he was wary and assumed I was up to something nefarious in there. But no: he found me standing in a cubicle, stone-cold asleep, head propped against the wall. I can’t remember if my cock was out. I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t have been, but you never know for sure do you?

I returned to my seat to find the pub empty save for an unhappy girlfriend and her friend, who then asked me the killer: “Are you an alcoholic?” That’s an impossible question to answer because if you say ‘no’ it just sounds like denial. But I’m not. And neither, Mr Landlord sir, do I do drugs in your toilets.

I didn’t make the best impression. They left me to go and get a burger and stumble home.

Stayed with that girl for another few months, though. Don’t know how I managed that.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 10:17, Reply)
I remember the what but not the why
A few months back, I made the mistake of a night out in Sunderland. After a few bars, I ended up in the same club we always end up in, independent. It's dirty, smelly and full of wankers, I don't much care for the music either. Any way, after an hour or so of bad dancing and failing to catch any ladies eyes, I wanted to go home, I asked my mates if we would leave soon, one kept promising that we would soon, but we didn't leave.

I turned around to go by myself when a cute blond walked up to me, grabbed my hands and started dancing with me. Soon she looks into my eyes, smiles and leans in for the kiss, which I gladly accept. We kissed for a while, I don't remember how long, but when she stopped, she asked if I'd like to go. Result I think, as she leads me out by the hand, frequently stopping to check the inside of my mouth with her tounge.

We get in the taxi, kiss more, I pay the driver, we kiss more, get to her door and.... She tells me she's in love with a guy I don't know, cries, kisses me, realises she hasn't got a key, kisses me, cries, kisses me. By this point I realise I'm throwing myself against a barred gate, and that my knight shal not be crossing the moat and storming the keep.

I leave with a heavy heart and no phone number, starting the lonely walk back to town for a taxi. I phone my mate to see if they are still in town to share a taxi, they confirm they are and will wait for me. I blunder my way back, a few wrong turns are made but I make it back, assuring a chav the girl he had pulled was not "a stinker".

I got to the club, bought a beer and found my friends, sharing the tale of my adventure, which they found far funnier then I did.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 8:46, 2 replies)
How to make your life
one long night out gone wrong:

(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 7:12, 4 replies)
shower? yep
Fix hair? Sure
Shave? Kinda
Nice clothes? Nice enough
Condom? Nah, not gonna pull, just gonna have fun

Now I am a father
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 4:32, 4 replies)
These stories?
Shit like this is why I don't drink.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 3:38, 4 replies)
so, the first time was when i went out one night in brighton
a club called the gloucester i think. rock night. bit of a mosh. happy days.
suddenly everyone falls over, i think, all i mainly remember is feeling my knee bend the wrong way and there being what i can only describe as a crunch as the happy group of moshers fall, mainly onto me.
agony ensued, and i limped to the bar and promptly ordered double vodka and orange x2 to numb the pain. i did this repeatedly, until i was so drunk i had to sit on the floor. a girl gave me her number at some point, i couldn't even talk i don't think so how the fuck that happened i have no idea. my friends decided to go to a party and, what with me now being so drunk they helped me, one on each side, out of the club and down the road ignoring my protests that i couldn't walk, assuming this to be alcohol related and not injury related and pausing every now and again when i threw up. the party wasn't even on, i remember that, after what seemed like eternity, the big door opened a crack and a general no party air eminated from the address.
eventually i got myself together enough to take a look at my leg.
this revealed a hugely swollen leg, it was like two legs in one, and my friends immediately called an ambulance which took me away in a whirl of painkillers and friendly paramedics.
it was 5 weeks before i was mobile again, i spent this time lying on my bed talking rubbish on the internet, and at some point during this time decided to use my webcam to photograph this:

the swelling had subsided somewhat however the bruise was now from my groin to my ankle, and some of it was still visible nearly TWO years later. apparently i'd ruptured a ligament in my knee. if i stood up the gravity force on my leg made my knee feel like it was going to explode. toilet trips were a real drag.
learning from my past mistakes i went out with my friend to crawley two years ago, i drank a reasonable amount of vodka to lube me up, it certainly worked and in bar med where they were playing cheesey choons, and, with no-one on the dance floor except us we linked arms and danced to cotton eye joe, swinging round each other laughing hard, round and round we went, laughing as the world spun and continuing to laugh as i slipped over backwards onto the floor throwing my drink into the air. my friend laughed even harder when it was almost instantly apparent that i'd broken my wrist, quite nastily. i stopped laughing at that point and seeked medical attention. off to hospital again where they gave me drugs which made me forget stuff and i woke up in a cast. it was purple (look, here's me braving my obvious life threatening injury to feed the wildlife, what a guy!)

and it delayed me doing my first solo skydive for a whole two months. i completed that without the aid of alcohol and without bursting or breaking or tearing anything at all. if only i'd had some vodka i might have had another tale to tell.. or not! oh i almost forgot, my friends called me 'Joe' for fucking ages, cunts.
pretty sexy eh? - and sexy splits too!
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 1:48, 2 replies)
Night out gone wrong.
Was supposed to go like this:

Have a few drinks at friends house, go out for more drinks, return back to friends house and stay on his couch.

What actually happened...

Got trollied before I even left my mates house. Ended up in a club. Lost everyone in the club. Got pissed. * BLANK *

Now replace the blank with fragmented flashbacks of waking up in the club, slouched against some seats. I was woken up by a girl drawing on my face with a make-up pen. In my confused and drunken state, I then grabbed her shoe and threw it. The shoe then hit a bouncer.

The bouncer politely removed me from the club and deposited me outside. I had no coat, no money and felt the first waves of nausea, it was also freezing. I was rescued by a school friend whom I hadn't seen in ten years. She told me I could wear her 'top' (a very tight, small, ladies fishnet top thing) which I stretched and ripped to fit over my tall frame. She then bundled me in a cab and paid for it, dropping me off at my mum's house.

As if that wasn't good enough, she gave me a peck on the cheek and waited 'til I had walked through my gate into the garden.

The next bit of memory reveals that instead of going to the comfort of my bed at my mum's house, I instead walked a mile to my friend's house and began banging on his front door (at roughly 4am), since he didn't answer, I decided to climb the drainpipe and bang on his window on the first floor. The drain pipe snapped, sending me to take a direct and somewhat agonising blow to my coccyx and leaving me winded in his front garden.

A few minutes later the police arrived, to find me semi-conscious, with make up smeared across my face, wearing a girl's top in a confused and drunken state, asking them if they could 'let me in, as my mate said i could sleep on his sofa'. Thankfully they didn't arrest me, they just took me back to my home.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 1:28, Reply)
A night of bad decisons
A week ago last Friday, friend and bellow b3tan Ghost Giraffe and I decided to get drunk as all assinments had been handed in. What followed was one of the most gross things I've ever done.
Started drinking at mine, forgot to have dinner (bad desicion number 1). Met up with some friends birthdays in the SU, and decidinig a few more ciders were in order. Having met said friends, and deciding that it was too boring for us, we headed off to the local rock joint for a bit of crazy metal antics. On the way, one of us came up with te great idea that it would be great to run there (bad decision number 2). After nearly having several heart attacks (Plymouth Union Street is deceptivly long), we arrived, got more drunk and I skanked off the stage ripping my jeans :(.
On our way back, we espied a bottle on the high street. Being drunk and inquisitive, we staggered over and discovered that it was a bottle of breast milk. So begins bad decision number 3. GG dared me to drink some, and I said I would on the condition he did.
I have never tasted anything as foul before or since. We had no idea how long it had been there or who it even belonged to. Both of us ended up despereatly trying to expel the contents of our stomachs to try and get rid of that vile taste.
Don't drink boob milk kids. Just don't.
(, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 0:42, 3 replies)
Oh God, I just remembered.
I'm a bit of a twat on alcohol. I'm even more of a twat when it's free alcohol, and there's a lot of it. Especially when it's at a party in my honour. I'm informed at the final count, I'd necked roughly 8 pints, a dirty pint, and a baker's dozen of shots. Yup, I was arseholed. Completely out of my skull. My pie was truly over-egged. And as it was my leaving party, someone asked me to make a speech. The video, in all of the horrid glory, is here:


Also, to add insult to injury, I woke up the next morning, shaved, and covered in writing, which on further examination turned out to be signatures. In lieu of a leaving book, apparently I offered my own body as a writing surface.

Permanent marker is a bitch to wash off.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 22:36, 12 replies)
The English Larry David
Recent bachelorhood following a bad long-term relationship that ended apocalyptically has afforded me the opportunity and inclination - following the first few months of emotional numbness - to go out and do what the hell I like, when I like.

Two recent off-the-leash events have caused me to experience severe Larry David moments. Both involved work colleagues and copious amounts of booze.

The first started with a bottle plus of wine, followed by several two-quid cocktails. I came back from the bog in one bar to find that my coat had vanished and - thinking all my work colleagues had gone to the club next door before I went to the lav -- I assumed it had been stolen. Incoherent and inaudible investigatory questions to my fellow inebriated workmates on the dancefloor of the club next door yielded no results. I posted a facebook message at 3:30 a.m. "to the complete BASTARD who stole my coat", inviting them to "enjoy the gloves, the smints and the Neutrogena hand cream", and finishing off in style with a capitalised "CUNT".

Following messages of support, I added to the inventory of the coat pockets, mentioning the "packet of three" that I'd secreted in the inside pocket, in case I got lucky and congratulating the thief on being fully prepared for some hot action, should he pull.

The next day, also via facebook, it became terribly apparent that a kind, thoughtful colleague had in fact taken the coat for safekeeping, doubtless having noticed the state I was in. Bless her! Of course, I printed a retraction and an effusive note of thanks -- but Monday morning was still full of piss-taking. The coat was returned, with the hand cream, mints and johnnies in their rightful place.

The second incident occurred as a result of a conversational, self-referential expression, the appropriate use of which I greatly misjudged. It was a Friday evening, just after work, and was happy hour in the bar around the corner. I got chatting to a woman from another department and made a joke, to which she said something along the lines of an Emery-esque "ooh, you are awful!" My reply was a Duncan Thickett-like: "Yeah, I'm a right cunt, me!"

She gasped. Her eyes bulged. She said, "That's the worst word you can say!"

Most sensible people would, at this point, have apologised and tried to salvage the situation. Not me -- certainly not after five pints on an empty stomach.

"Worst word you can say? Bollocks it is. There's far worse! It's not a racial epithet, is it? Well, then!"

She hasn't spoken to me since.

I've decided that I'm not going to go on work nights out any more. If I were to go out on another one, well, who knows? I might end up standing on a bar stool, hanging my arse over the pumps, shitting on the drip tray and waving my cock at all and sundry.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 21:27, 1 reply)
But we don't have a Honda Accord...
Well... my partner is a DJ, and had been booked on a lovely all expenses paid weekend to DJ in Rome. Nicely just after my Birthday. We pay for an extra few days out there and make a holiday of it. So the both of us trot off to Rome. Courtesy of previous health issues, I have great difficulty in staying awake, and also tend to not drink alcohol as it mixes with my meds in a strange way, and I tend to fall asleep after a single drink. I'm much more inclined towards your more err... naughty substances, more likely to keep me awake. Being in a foreign country, this posed some issues. Most notably customs. Secondly, sources. All I could find was cocaine. I won't touch coke, it's nasty, I'm a 'phet queen. So I decided 'Sod it, back to the days of drinking Jager!' I picked up a litre bottle of Jagermeiser in duty free, and trotted off to the club with it. Up on the podium, PVC catsuit, dancing away as the other half spins his set. Crowd cheering... necking the Jager. About 700ml, one hour, and about 7 stone of body weight in, everything dissapears.

Apparently, not even halfway through his set, I pass out. Like turning off the light, BAM, out cold. Next thing I remember was waking up, puking a shitload of Jager over my boots, passing out again. Apparently I was out for a good few hours. Then I wake up again, heaving, but nothing left to puke. And promptly pass out again. I wake up again in a taxi (possibly a Honda Accord..) being bundled off back to the hotel with my man. Wake up the next morning, or possibly and bugger off to the Coloseum, right as rain. Next day, hop on the plane back to London, race against time back from Gatwick into central, to the next club, to DJ yet another set.
I avoided the Jager this time, and stuck to what I can handle...
He never DJ'ed at the Rome club again. And I haven't spoken to the guys we were there with ever again. I think I made far, far too much of an embarassment out of myself to even raise my head in Rome again.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 20:17, 2 replies)
the good, the bad and the ugly
new year's eve, 1993. i'd gone out clubbing with a couple of mates and was having a whale of a time. i'd drunk lots and danced like a tazered twat. i'd even run into an ex i'd had a bad break-up with and managed to sort out a few things with him, parting as friends. life was good.
as the club was owned by my mum's boss, i was allowed into the private upstairs bar. usually when i went up there, i'd have a few drinks with some of the staff and get a lift home. tonight, however, only 2 staff members were taking a cab, a couple who i didn't really like. i went back downstairs to find my mates who, assuming i'd be getting a lift, had already left, taking the remaining kitty money with them. i asked the staff couple if i could have a lift home, as it was on their way. the girl said yes, but the bloke(DEAN CORRIGAN, YOU'RE A CUNT) said there was no room in the cab and left me there, penniless and freezing, five miles from home and pissed.
uttering curses against my friends and cuntish men, i started tottering homewards.
has anyone else done that thing when they're pissed, when they start whinging about one of their exes and wanting them back? well, this is what i started doing. leaning against a wall with my face buried in metal railings, i howled like a banshee, drunken tears soaking my dress and making me even more frosty cold.
it was at this point that salvation appeared in the form of 2 blokes in a delivery van. they calmed me down, gave me a cigarette and asked where i lived. upon hearing how far from home i was, they insisted on giving me a lift. i was so grateful that i didn't even think about the possibility of them raping or murdering me.
they dropped me off right outside my house, waiting to make sure that i got inside all right. once inside, i kicked off my ridiculously high-heeled shoes and looked for some baby wipes to take off my makeup. when i saw my reflection in the mirror, i almost gave myself 7 years' bad luck. those railings i'd had my face buried in? they'd been coated with vandal grease, which was now spread in stripes all over my face. i looked like a ninja waffle. if i'd been the one driving that van, i'd never have given a lift to someone looking the way i did then.
still, it turned out my mates had a worse night than i did.
they got mugged on the way home and wound up in hospital for 2 days.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 18:48, 9 replies)
Mornings gone wrong
I'm so hungover right now that when I read the post below this one I had to run to the bathroom and throw up.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 15:19, Reply)
And that's the thanks he got
I spent most of my university years as a devout muslim, so spent a good deal of time playing scrabble while my livelier chums were out clubbing.

In my final semester I tearfully realized that I didn't have faith any more, and my excellent friends, in their efforts to get me out of the blues, were quick to cotton on to the fact that I could now 1) Eat pork, 2) Dance with (and perhaps even shake hands with) women and 3) Drink. When my good friend Joe heard the news that I was a filthy apostate he immediately handed over the sausage sandwich he was eating. Bless him. A group of buddies including Joe decided that a night out was essential, partly out of their innate philanthropy and partly because they were awfully curious to see what I was like when under the influence.

The plan was to go to a night of cheesy dance music- I think it was called "Buttoned Down Disco", a place in London famous for its easy going clientele. Before heading to the club, my friends gave me a wonderful introduction to alcohol:

"This is a "beer". It's fizzy, like lemonade. Try it while eating peanuts. Good boy, no need to drink it all at once. This is a "gin and tonic". It's posh. That's it, down the hatch. This is a "tequila". It's utter rat poison, but traditional for students to drink on a night out. Good lad, the tears will go away soon."

After this introduction to the world of drinking, I was feeling very good and pretty gregarious, despite the world shifting nauseatingly beneath me (thankfully Joe had warned me beforehand to stay close to supporting masonry, so that I could choose to have a refreshing lean against the wall should the need arise). When we got to the club I warmed up the dancefloor with a few alcohol lubricated moves (which felt amazing! Dancing while drunk is simply splendid). With the ladies at the club suitably impressed with my flailing it was time to start schmoozing. MY memory of it is a little hazy, but according to Joe I walked up to a girl, shouted at her "I'm the cleverest man in the whole world, bleaargh!", lost interest and proceeded to look at something on the floor.

Shortly after this I pushed my friend Tom down a flight of stairs, and didn't particularly care when he was rushed off to A&E (he needed stitches and does not hesitate to show me the scar today). Of course I didn't care, I was a combination of the Jameses Bond and Brown. Joe, however, decided that was a good opportunity to call it a night, and he dragged me homewards. He tells me that my chat-up technique had improved tremendously on the journey, and I was well on the way to scoring with a woman at a bus stop. The lady in question was a homeless sixty year old who was visibly trying to run away.

I actually rather enjoyed myself, but I guess my friends didn't appreciate the evening much, which is my tenuous excuse for posting this under "nights out gone wrong". They've steadfastly refused to buy me a drink since.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 13:22, 15 replies)
So proud that someone from my hometown inspired the QOTW
Leaving do from my first proper job, ended up leaving early cos I was too drunk. Was shoved in a black cab to go home, but not before I had been sick over a low fence outside the pub, and my momentum in leaning over the fence carried me over the fence, face first into my own vom.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 9:37, Reply)
The biggest blunder on Earth, there are far too many stories of woe surrounding the Man with Many Nicknames so I shall recount the most horrifying.

The scene: a squat party someone in the darkest depths of Hackney. The time: 2007 or thereabouts, and around the time of our protagonist's mid-February birthday.

Now, Crevs is well known for being unable to remain human under the influence of alcohol and drugs. Borderline insanity beckons after a line of ketamine, so you'd think that two tabs of extremely strong acid might be best avoided.

Not so Crevens! After dropping one he immediately drops the second, claims he feels alright, and then vanishes. He's discovered minutes later standing in a toilet - in the actual toilet - having dropped one shoe down and trying to flush it clean, losing the other shoe to the watery depths in the process.

Alright, thinks our associate who discovered this misdeed, not such a bad blunder for the man who broke his foot on a children's roundabout aged 19. Let's dry his feet off best we can and get back to the party.

Whereupon he promptly disappears again.

Twenty minutes later, and he reappears on the balcony of some sort of mezzanine floor, naked except for the shoes he recovered earlier, clearly tripping his very visible balls off. At this point, he recounted when sobered, he "realised" that he could "change reality", and - as you do - set about doing such a thing.

Unhappy with this naked ginger man upsetting all and sundry, a number of unknowns decide to take him down. However, being slightly LSDeluded as he was, he kept getting back up when floored, as he thought he could "easily take on the hardest ten blokes in the room". Except there were only two of them, and one was a girl. Whose nose he proceeded to break rather badly.

An ambulance is called and our hero is dragged outside. Unfortunately he wasn't for waiting around, so another friend had to keep him in one place by hugging him, and eventually by tripping him up and laying on him. All this while Crevs writhes around naked sporting a rather sizeable hard-on.

Dispatched to the hospital, he wakes up the following morning in Charing Cross, gets dressed (in clothes belonging to another friend that he had mysteriously acquired, and two non-matching shoes), discharges himself against medical advice, picks a direction, and miraculously ends up at King's Cross at the same time as everyone else from the party, to catch an early train back to good old Neots.

No-one can comfortably discuss this event to this day - those who looked him in the eye said it was to see the sole of a madman.

Length? His flapping about in the breeze was the worst bit.
(, Sun 27 Mar 2011, 9:02, 4 replies)
'tis the season to be jolly - and covered in one's own poo
Boxing Day 1995 and I was sharing a house with two mates. Waking up at about 10am with a mild hangover my two housemates were already in the living room, cracking open a bottle of whisky. They offered me one to take the edge off, but I politely declined saying "No way, I don't wanna get hammered, we've got the house party tonight"

The house party was significant because it was sure to be thronged with posh ex-university totty. I was fresh from a Computer Studies course so of course I'd almost forgotten what women looked like. As a host and bedroom-owner I had a better than usual hope of some xmas bouncy-bouncy.

So. Intending to take it easy I trundled off to the local for a few beers and a day of meeting friends and family. It was a great day, but my memories for some reason get fuzzier as the day goes on. Fast forward about twelve hours and fifteen or so pints later I was in a right state, Piecing together the events the next day this is what happened next.

Staggering into the house blind drunk I fell, face first like a felled tree. I was unconscious in the middle of the packed living room, only coming to several hours later. They didn't realise what a state I was actually in, so stuck me in the corner of the room on a sofa.
Luckily when I came to there were only a few people left, but that anyone had to see what I did next - this is the bit that bothers me to this day. After dragging myself to my feet I suffered a massive bowel eruption - it was shit or bust time.

Rather than staggering to the bog however, I walked to one of the bay windows, in full view of the street, and had a monster blowout- covering the carpet, my lower clothing and myself in gooey shit while my housemate watched in horror too dumbstruck to do anything. Pulling my filth encrusted undercrackers and trousers up I went to the second bay window and did an 'encore' of the previously mentioned bum blast. I then set about removing my clothes, wiping myself down with them and throwing the soiled clothing onto the sofa. Uttering my only recognisable words of the evening (a satisfied 'I won't be needing them any more') I trundled off to bed. The horror of what I had done, the reactions of my housemates (more sorrow than anger), and the sheer mess I made haunt me to this day.

Length? It stank for days - We had to leave the windows open in the middle of winter, just so we could breathe)
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 23:19, 7 replies)
the invincible warrior
second hand story, no apologies.

My mate Lee was out with a group of friends one night in Brizzle and one of the group was becoming a bit over-refreshed. So much so that, for reasons that no doubt seemed good at the time, something* was put in his drink.

At which point, he became THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! He decided that it was extremely urgent that he tell everyone at the table that he was THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! over and over again, until, perhaps a little unkindly, they suggested he try spreading his good news around the bar.

Funnily enough, not everyone took to meeting THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR! particularly well, and before long, it became time to leave in something of a hurry; Last anyone saw of him, he was picking himself up off the floor and berating his newest assailant "YOU CANNOT HURT ME! I AM THE INVINCIBLE WARRIOR!"

Our erstwhile hero awakes the next morning in a state of enormous pain and great confusion. Cut lips, swollen cheek bones, black eyes, bruised ribs, the lot. Having no recollection of the previous night, and thinking he may have fallen off the beer scooter on the way home, he decides the best thing to do is get himself up to A&E for a proper looksee if anything is broken.

A weary, worldly '18 hours of dealing with you idiots' triage nurse greets him with barely a raised eyebrow and murmurs... "hmmm. Thought you'd be back. We tried to treat you last night, but you kept saying you were invincible..."

*may have been more drink
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 21:53, 1 reply)
A sibling of mine
Managed to get herself assaulted by a psychiatric patient on her wedding night as she took a moonlight walk with her husband. Can't believe that was how she imagined her honeymoon!
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 20:56, 6 replies)
o dear
My tolerance to alcohol is pretty low to start with. I'd been on tour with my band and (being vegetarian) hadn't eaten anything proper for about 3 days. All was going well-ish until someone asked if I wanted to swap my 2 litre bottle of coke for a bottle of vodka? Yes. I did.
Sadly I now had no mixer. But no worries. I drank the vodka straight. I then played a gig (not too badly but rather fast but video evidence proves that nothing I said between songs made any sense whatsoever...). I came off stage to collapse at the bottom of the steps in a pile of my own (pretty much pure vodka) sick.
I woke up a day later in bed having apparently been carried out by bouncers who thought I'd taken some naughty drugs, been taken away by an ambulance (apparently John Peel got in the back of the ambulance at one point to check I was okay - my only meeting with the man and I missed it...) - the ambulance worked out I was just stupidly drunk and sent me home. OUCH!
The only other time I had an ambulance called out on me was on the top of a hill in Brighton. I was fighting drunk and refused to get in the ambulance and lay on the floor. My boyfriend at the time asked the ambulance drivers what he should do. They told him 'she's too drunk and she's too fat - we'd dump her if we were you mate'. I tried to roll the 2 miles home at this point (well we were on the top of a hill - I figured I could pick up momentum and roll all the way home...)
I guess that's enough shame for one post.
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 19:55, 4 replies)
It was late when I went out to the club.
No luck pulling by closing time, so I started walking. I saw some unbelievably smooth legs, short skirt, shapely ass, nice tits, and thought, "this is it." u
I walked, nay, I sauntered up more confident than ever before. There is no way this will go wrong. I smoothly glide up to my vixen, pull her into the alley, saying, "don't you dare scream, I'll slit your fucking throat."

Goddamn transvestite kicked my ass.
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 19:21, 5 replies)
This one time I hung out with this foxy chick by the pool
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 18:28, 2 replies)
turning to the man behind me...
I slurred, "I think I've pulled here."

I most definitely hadn't, and informing her boyfriend of my intentions ensured the only thing I took home was a black eye.
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 17:55, 2 replies)
*warning: contains Honda Accord*
A couple of years ago my then girlfriend and I drove over to Belgium to catch up with a friend who lived in Brussels.

Now, you know that moment in the night when something goes *click* and you think 'well bugger me, we're all thinking the same thing here'? Well, there we all were, sipping our drinks happily, wondering (I'm sure) the same thing, basically 'how the hell do we go about this'?

Well, in a flash of genius, Melanie, our host, suggests we take a dawn drive to her family home for a spot of swimming. Awesome. You can practically hear the wah wah pedal in the soundtrack to my life...
So, ever the architect of my own destruction, I grab hold of another bottle of Vodka from the freezer, just to make sure we didn't lose the 'mood'... (we weren't *that* pissed, and I had only had a couple of beers) and we pile out into the deserted streets, leap into my car and away we go, picking our way through the pre-dawn woods and parks of Brussels (beautiful, I should add).

Anyway, sure enough, sunrise sees the three of us lying naked on the grass after a wholesome and refreshing dip in the pool. The girls have started to become acquainted (that one will be in the wank-bank until I'm ninety) when suddenly my girlfriend... well, not so much passes out as seems very much to have died. 2 minutes of faffing, rising panic and a sudden dawning of the urgency that we get her to the hospital. I attempt to dress her (ever tried putting clothes on a motionless wet person? No, don't answer that) and Melanie gets rid of the now empty vodka bottle. And of course it starts to rain.

So, we pile into my car which, unfortunately, has only two seats and no roof and, after heaving my unconscious girlfriend around it's cockpit now has no indicator stalk either (I hardly need add that I have no indicator stalk to speak of either by this point). Melanie assures me that the hospital is only 10 minutes drive away; she used to work there, so we eschew putting the roof up and just go for it.

Brussels was a far less enchanting place in rushhour, with no indicators, in a painfully obvious scarlet 1960s 2 seat convertible with 2 wildly pissed/near dead half naked girls in the passenger seat in the pissing down rain. You know that bit in Pulp Fiction, when John Travolta is driving Uma Thurman across town? Well it was a bit like that, except we were surrounded by angry milkmen and commuters and very much need a good towelling off.

So, we get to the hospital. Everyone recognises Melanie, so she bravely legs it, I end up being accused very strongly of feeding my girlfriend drugs and spend the next 6 hours sitting on the floor next to her bed shivering my arse off as she variously voms and moans and soils herself in a giant man-nappy. Turns out a mixture of being quite pissed, having very nearly no body fat and spending half an hour in an unheated outdoor pool isn't good for you; who could have guessed?

So yes... didn't *quite* go according to plan, that one...
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 16:32, 2 replies)
Nobody is immune!
When I was seventeen, I thought I was immune to hangovers. Sadly, that is no longer the case, as I sit here nursing a head that feels like a bunch of angry Vikings have been on a rampage through the more sensitive parts of my skull.

As to how I lost my hangover immunity though, well, it's a story of the best-laid plans gone horribly wrong, along with some not-inconsiderable stupidity.

At the time, Dad owned a pub on Cape Clear Island. It was in the most Irish part of Ireland you could get. Potatoes were held in a special reverence. People spoke Gaelic openly. Poitín wasn't so much frowned on as encouraged. It really was like something out of The Quiet Man.

I was staying with him during my summer holidays in 6th form. To keep me out of trouble, he had me running a shop belonging to one of his tenants, who had the slight problem of not being able to see a thing. That, and the last guy to run the place had a tendency of drinking all the profits. Looking back, I can understand why. Lovely thought Cape Clear was, by the Spaghetti Monster's tendrils, it was boring.

Through boredom, I turned to drink. It wasn't so bad at first, I was making a few friends and learning some of the local language. And then, the best laid plans turned foul. Whilst I was running the shop, I was to be paid on commission. Specifically, 15% of the day's takings. Which was fine, and kept me nicely ticking over. Until one day, an American family came in, and bought half of the shop's stock in one go. I was on that day, and by my standards back then, minted.

Naturally I was going to go out and celebrate. Seemingly a few other people did too, although my common sense decided to stay in and wash its hair. What follows is probably a very old story. I didn't just get drunk. I tried everything behind the bar. Some of it, more than once. Even Pernod, and Tia Maria and milk. What a horrible combination. Eventually, I left at four am the next morning, pissed off my tiny little tits, and somehow found my way into bed, only to wake up the next day feeling like an absolute train wreck. Which lasted for three days.

I've broken many promises to myself over the years, but I truly haven't drunk that much ever again. And I haven't touched Pernod since.
(, Sat 26 Mar 2011, 15:47, 4 replies)

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