Not mine I'm far too nice for this sort of thing
I shambling drunken idiot at my student local managed to clear a busy Friday afternoon pub

He went wobbling off to the bogs for a crap. Where we guessed he dropped his trousers, sat down... puked into his trousers, thought somthing like "oh dear I seem to have some vomitum in me strides" so stood up and pulled his trousers up and promtly shat himself. Then wobbled off back into the pub eminating the kind of smell that would have wrinkled satans very nose and dripping shit and puke out of the bottom of his trousers. The pub cleared
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 12:50, Reply)

A messy night in Manchester, 1997
One of my first nights out in Manchester whilst I was at Uni was to the infamous "The Venue" club on a Wednesday night. £4.50 to get in, and 50p a drink all night. Bargain.

As a new little fresher from down south, I heard the words of my dad ringing in my ears not to spend all of my student loan on going out, so sensibly popped £20 in to my wallet, took out my cash card and left it at home. A quick bus into town, a night of lots of cheap beers with shot chasers and a few hours later a cab back with everyone else. Spirits were high, as I staggered up to the door and looked for my keys.

That I'd left in my coat pocket, in the club, in the centre of town. Arse.

I jump back into a cab, get to town, pay the cab, get my coat, check my keys are there and head back out on to the street. Root around in my pocket to find some money for a cab back home and only find a single gleaming nugget. Double Arse! By this point it was raining, about 2:30am and the combined effects of the shots and the beers in my stomach had fully taken hold.

Being fairly new in Manchester, I didn't know where I was, or how to get home. Thankfully the council had decided to put up several large maps around the city, with helpful "You are here" dots on them. The only problem was I was now so inebriated I could barely read them, let alone try and work out the way home. Eventually I ended up heading in approximately the right direction and staggered back home to Salford. Yes, Salford. Not somewhere for a posh southerner to be walking to in the middle of the night, very obviously the worse for wear.

After what seemed like ages, I finally found my way to the Uni, swayed through it, out the other side and on the final leg back to the student residences. Knowing where I was, meant that the beer taxi was now in full flow, I was striding along at a fair pace. Fate, however, decided to put a lamp post in my way, and *CLANG* I walked straight into it. This hurts lots. Even when drunk. It also sprung my glasses off my face, and into the gutter.

I'm glad no one saw me, writhing in pain, virtually blind, trying to find my glasses in the gutter, soaked to the skin that night, but they would have had a darn good laugh at my expense. I think I finally got in at about 4:30am.

Still - a number of useful life lessons learnt - keep your cards, keys and wallet on you at all times, and lamp posts are immoveable objects.
(superdaveuk, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 12:50, 8 replies)

I could've humped a film star...
...I had a particularly weird drunken night out whilst in my 4th year at uni, many a shot was shooted and when finally arriving back at my friend's house a long way from my house it transpired that there were exactly the same amount of girls in the room as there were boys.

That revelation came quite late to me and I was left with a proper weird one. I tried to talk to her and work out how I was going to get home but she kept trying to lick my neck. Eventually I realised that my only course of action would be to offer to walk her home (hoping that the night air would freshen my mind and sober her up a bit so she'd stop with the licking). It wasn't that far to her house, when we got there she started crying about the fact that she always ended up alone after nights out, I stupidly offered to come in and have a coffee, listen to her tales and then leave.

We had coffee, I went to the toilet (for a wee) and when I re-entered the living room she was stark naked playing with herself. I gasped out loud and felt the liquid sloshing about in my belly begin to rise as it dawned on me that she looked like the dead woman from room 237 in Kubrick's The Shining (the greenish one, not the one Jack 1st sees). I legged it, I literally legged it out of the door, she ran after me and tried to drag me back, pulling some buttons off my shirt as I clambered for the door. I fell down the steps in the front garden and knackered my ankle but kept running, staggering, moaning and with my chest exposed (I am and always have been a weed, I must therefore have looked like one of the new breed of zombies that can run, sort of).

I went back to my friend's house but there was no reply on the door... I must have made a lot of noise as their neighbour came out to see what the fuss was... she was massively hot and I'd mucked up a chance with her the week before so I asked if I could come in and get warm, calm down a bit and order a taxi.

We sat down, she made me a cocoa, all was well with the world again. I told her my story, she laughed. I was beginning to think the world liked me again until the mad stomach pains meant I had to have a shit. Never a good thing to do when alone with a girl you hardly know but...

20 minutes later I woke up sat on the toilet, sheepishly I went back downstairs, she was still there (and looking amazing) I told her my new story, she laughed again and then I developed a cough, that only happened when I said a word with an 'S' in it.

I left shortly after, I never did see her nude... ho hum.
(Ross McBingobangobongo bingobangobongo, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 12:30, 19 replies)

Went round my to see my mates and chill out after a bad day.
but stupidly ended up doing massive drugs.

I finally thought I'd managed to get my head together enough to get home.
However, when I got to the bottom of the stairwell, I saw this elephant man with massive eyes.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 11:28, 4 replies)

This is something of a crowbar, so sue me, but I am firmly of the opinion that
People with posh voices should not use vernacular phrases for drunkeness.

I once met a terribly posh girl, who was also incredibly fit. Thus I lusted after her, right up until the moment she said, in response to my asking how she was, "Well - last night I went out with Katie and friends, and oh my god - we were completely hat-racked."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 11:00, 21 replies)

I've mentioned before when living in Edinburgh
I briefly stayed in a hostel - grusome. The plan was that I would work and accumulate money for a rental deposit, but it was hard going. And the fact of living in a hostel - no privacy, no music or films, no cooking facilities and having to eat takeaways every night - depressed me into a state of abject misery. The hostel was like something out of Orwell, a large room with single beds against the wall, with cheap white plastic chairs at the head of the bed, as a pathetic kind of divider. Maybe ten people stayed there, about a dozen regulars (who I despised) and the rest a floating population.

My friends picked up on on my sorry state, and one kindly came through to visit me, bringing some MASSIVE drugs. We went out for a few jars then went to The Venue (very Irvine Welsh kind of place), where we necked the pills, danced like maniacs, babbled a lot of shit and generally behaved like goons who were completely out of their faces. Because that's what exactly what we were. Super cool!

A long shit-faced walk back to the hostel seemed to take forever, and I don't remember getting back in. The next thing I do remember is coming to, squatting down in front of one of the plastic chairs on the other side of the room, pissing and shitting myself. I must have mistaken on the white chairs for a toilet and made my way towards it, with my toilet-seeking guidance system suffering severe malfunctioning. The worse thing was, of course, that I was next to some poor bastard's bed - pretty damn near their pillow, in fact. I scuttled through to the bathroom, got toilet roll and cleaned up as best I could.

Just hope that poor bastard slept through it.

I haven't taken massive drugs since.
(McChinaman banned, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 9:58, Reply)

Five years, one month and four days ago
I came home drunk and registerd for B3ta.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 9:40, 10 replies)

Chilling in the jacuzzi with friends
Ended up in a timewarp going back to the 1980s.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 9:22, 1 reply)

A few years ago I went out for a night on the piss
The next morning I had a hangover. I felt terrible.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 9:12, Reply)

CAT boots invasion
During a big party at my house, a small group of us, for some reason, went on a little walk downtown. Outside a newsagents, we found a pink pair of CAT boots, and stacks for newspapers for the next day. I nab the boots, a friend takes the papers, and we head home. "Boots!" thinks I, "hilarious!".
As the night went on, and I got more drunk, everything blurred, but I remember boots...

Waking up the next day, I rouse the partyers, make a big greasy breakfast and send them on their way. Opening the front door, I found 3 more pairs of CAT boots lined up. "Gadzooks" I exclaim, "well isn't this hilarious, I was so wacky and somehow aquired 6 more boots! This is so funny and random, what a legend I am!".

Imagine my shock and disappointment (and skintitude) when I am told that in my drunken stupor, I had gone back out, headed to various pubs, and paid a total of £250 for said boots from other drunkards' feet.
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 7:39, 2 replies)

Sometimes its too easy to be spontaneous...
It all started on a friday night. My university flatmate Pete, (who for reasons of anonymity I have changed his name to Pete, instead of his real name: 'Peter') asked me if I wanted to join a protest in London the very next day. It being only a fiver and being my first proper protest I suprised myself by wilfully joining.
This is my story.


The coach ride was dull and cramped. Not being the shortest of students I suffered for 6 hours the drive from manchester to London.
When we got there we joined the main bulk of the march. Never before have I seen so many people in one place, the mood was positive and the atmosphere buzzing. My 5 friends and I followed the protest up until Picadilly Circus. We waited there and started taking some fairly decent pictures.

Then we saw the group of around 400-500 anarchists with black and red flags walking down the street heading straight for the police line. When they got close they charged and broke through. Jumping at the chance we followed the group through the police line before it had a chance to close. We then followed that group around London while they generally tarnished the protest's cause and we got some decent photos.

We trudged back to Sam's Dad's house after a very, very long day. Also missing our coach home. We sat on the sofa thoroughly exhausted and planning a nice sleep. This is when things changed. Sam's dad Ralph decided it was time for some bevvies to top the icing on what had been quite a nice day, and bought us a few in a pub. The pub closed and we decided, you know what? To hell with it! Lets see if there's another place open.
There was...

We drank

We danced

We smoked

We drank

Smoked

Danced

Smoked inside

Drank two doubles, each, again. Danced on tables.
Smoked, drank and danced at same time.
Decided it was a good idea to finish peoples drinks when they said they didn't want them.

~
Scene missing
~

Flat on face in a living room

~

In a bathroom trying an interesting way of cleaning the bath using secondhand just drunk vodka
~
Scene missing
~
Now picture this:
Waking up in a strangers bed, starkers, soaked in piss, head exploding/imploding with 2 of my friends laughing their heads off in the doorway. Slurred and painful enquiries with some effort gained me the knowledge that my trousers were practically soaked in my golden bladder lemonade along with my pants. And i'm in london. 200 miles away from my accomodation.
It didn't look hopeful.
I hate you, Pete.

Got them to buy the cheapest tracksuit bottoms in any shop then walked around london for 6 hours until the next coach back.

In terms of length, was only last weekend so not that long ago...
( 6821isnotmyPIN Bored cig., Tue 29 Mar 2011, 5:04, 8 replies)

Fireworks of the wrong kind
Went out to a much anticipated bash for a workmates hubbies 40th.
Held out on a local farm estate , we were asked to bring sleeping bags if we wanted to party late and then crash out in the barn or one of the 4 yurts they had hired.
There was to be outside catering, A DJ , adult sized bouncy castle, fireworks and as much free booze as you could handle.
Unfortunately the fireworks started early after workmate found her hubby in a clinch with one of her neighbours, and it transpired that they had been having an affair for quite some time.
Discretion being the better part of valour, myself and 90% of the other guests decide it would be prudent to leave as watching a marriage in meltdown wasn't exactly party material.
So at just after 11pm a continious stream of taxis arrive to ferry people away from the unfolding disaster.
Instead of the party of the year, myself and many others found oursevles at home before midnight and I probably wasnt the only one logging onto the internet instead of partying till the early hours as expected..
I think you can count that as a night out gone wrong
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 1:12, 5 replies)

Tonight, goodbye cruel world.

( SteveFrench Cardio is for homo's. do you even lift bro?, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 23:34, 12 replies)

At a house party early 90's
By the time the Police had visited three times to ask us to calm the party down, everyone could tell they were getting a little pissed off with our 4am drunken shenanigans.
Caroline however thought it would be a good time to show the visiting police officer how much she enjoyed the Kebab she had just eaten by puking it back up all over him.

Result was an instant end to the piss up, taxi for us and a night in the cells for Caroline.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 23:16, 2 replies)

It started with a missed train...
March 2001, Deftones at the Docklands arena. Lovely day out in London, fantastic gig in the evening. It only started going wrong when we tried to get home... Our little group (of 7) first has to negotiate the other 10,000 or so people trying to get on the Docklands Light Railway to get out of there. Knowing we were on a tight schedule to get the last train we bundled our way through, successfully gettting a train, then transferring to the Jubilee line to fuck off up to Waterloo...

We were running out of time; we sprinted up the escalators at Waterloo underground, just in time to... miss our train home by 2 minutes. Fucksticks doesn't even come close. So, the only other train heading even remotely in the direction we need to go is at 1am, going to Eastleigh (closer to home than London but still 30 miles out West in the wrong direction). Fuck it, we'll get that. "Excuse me, Mr Train Guard, but will we be able to stay in the station at Eastleigh until there's another train?" "Of course, son." Liar. Bastard. We're chucked out of Eastleigh station upon arrival. Double fucksticks!

Then (our one and only bit of luck for the journey), lo and behold outside the station is an MPV taxi. It has a passenger limit of 6 but the driver takes pity on us, breaks the law and takes us back to our home town. Result! Minus a fuckstick. But it doesn't end there...

Reaching my house with one mate and my brother in tow, I discover that my father has forgotten we'd be back late (admittedly it's now 4am and we thought it'd a little bit earlier than that) and has put the door on the latch; I can't get in. Double fucksticks again! So I start ringing the doorbell and the house phone. And then a police car turns up. Triple fucksticks. "No, officer, I'm not trying to break in, this is my house. I live here. No, really." Thankfully they believe me and eventually beanojam senior wakes up and lets us in. Minus a couple of fucksticks for that.

And then my mate D snores on my bedroom floor all night. Noisy bastard. Still, it does you good to get out and about once in a while.
(beanojam isn't really Ricardo Flange, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 22:06, Reply)

Lost in Canada
A friend, Mark, was off on his first big overseas trip, a season snowboarding in Canada. Upon arrival in Vancouver, he checks in to his backpackers and proceeds to get utterly shitfaced in town. At the end of the night, he finds himself inexplicably unable to get back into the backpackers. So, the only logical course of action is to break in. Some local must have seen this and called the cops, as they soon turned up shining torches in his eyes. The conversation, he recounts, went like this:

Cop: "What are you doing?"
Mark: "Trying to get into my backpackers.
Cop: "This isn't a backpackers. It's somebody's house."
Mark, after looking up and realising that rather than a multi-story inner city backpackers, he is trying to get into a suburban bungalow: "Oh, yeah."
Cop (pointing down): "Where are your shoes?"
Mark (realising he has no shoes on): "Hey, what happened to my shoes?!?"
Cop: "Do you know where you are?"
Mark mulls this over, mentally retracing his steps as far as he can remember, and answers: "Canada?"

Amazingly, they found out where he was staying, and dropped him off without charges.
(tboss, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 22:04, 4 replies)

first night in spain
first time at an all-inclusive hotel. after travelling for 28 hours, i wanted something cool and refreshing. malibu and lemonade seemed to fit the bill nicely.
unfortunately, due to the all-inclusiveness of the hotel, i drank more than a bottle of malibu before honking in my still-packed suitcase.
spending the second day of a holiday very hungover and washing chunks out of your best dress is not fun.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 22:02, 6 replies)

Blade 2
Usual stuff, went out, got drunk, wnet clubbin, ate a large pizza, back to mates house to crash...

Well a few of us went back to crash and since they were not tired they put on a movie.....Blade 2

Well I fell asleep at the beginning.....and when it got to the nightclub scene I woke up....and thought I was still in the club...

Semi conscious I jumped out of the chair I was in and started dancing only to be laughed back to full consciousness by my so called mates

Still not as good as the first one though!
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 21:42, 10 replies)

I got so pissed I fell asleep on the toilette.
I woke after god knows how long with numb legs and dribble down my shirt. Slipped out of my shoes to creep into the bedroom so as not to disturb The Lovely Mrs Ring Of Fire...and found myself standing in the public bar of my local with a shoe in each hand.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Mon 28 Mar 2011, 21:35, 8 replies)

A roasting of the pea...
Admittedly, not so much the actual night out itself, but the aftermath. So back in the distant mists of time known as the mid nineties, a younger (and much thinner) tjn is off out to celebrate his friend’s 21st…

…so of course we have to go out and get completely blathered. But it's a Thursday night... I have to go to work in the morning... ah, it'd be rude not to show my face - plus I'll be sensible. I'll have a few in the pub and then leave them to it when they move on.

...which good intention lasted about as long it took to me to get to the pub and see that it's a special offer on vodka - a triple shot for the price of one. so of course, I'm putting it away like a mong with a box of chocolates.

eleven pm rolls around - of course I'll come to the club. yes, I've got to be up at six but an hour or so won’t hurt. so of course, 2am hoves into view and I'm absolutely shitfaced. if Oliver Reed had been in the room, he would have looked disapprovingly at the state I was in. so I stagger off into the night... should I go for a kebab? no, got to be up in a few hours. I get in, set the alarm for six, and fall into a sleep not at all dissimilar to a vodka induced coma.

I wake up. it's light out... oh dear - that’s bad. it's ten am... I should have been on an industrial estate ten miles away two hours ago. the room is spinning... this is bad. I jump in the shower, and neck two mugs of lemon alka seltzer in a vain hope that they will do the gastro-intestinal version of the relief of Stalingrad.

I fumble my way to the bus stop, and away we go. the bus is grinding its way around all the houses to get to where I'm going. the lemon alka seltzer is not having the effect I need, to say the least. in fact, it feels more like... ooh, hang on... I don’t feel very well... I *really* don’t feel very well... in fact, I think I'm going to be BBBLLEEEAAAUUURRRGGGHHH...
I'm sat on the lower deck of this bus, surrounded by old ladies on their way to the market, spasming like john hurt in Alien while expelling a nights worth of vodka and the alka seltzer chasers. but because this is all I've had, all I'm bringing up is this luminous green drool... which is then running the length of the bus aisle and out the door next to the driver like a small Day-Glo waterfall... it's becoming a cross between a re-enactment of The Exorcist crossed with Speed...

the driver...oh dear. he stops the bus, comes back to where I'm sitting and asks me to move to another seat. I offer to get off, as I'm pretty horrified and if he'd have told me to get off his bus I'd have said fair do's. But no, the man is clearly a saint as he just sighs, tells me to move to another seat and tapes off where I've been sat, and sprinkles his little bag of sand around to soak up what I've spread around. He's clearly used to dealing with drunken tossers.

so, I move to the back seat, and surrounded by dirty looks and tuts from the old bids, we set off again. we've still got miles to go, and after a short period of relief following my earlier expulsion, I realise the evil forces of vodka are rallying for a counterassault. oh no...BBBLLLLLEEEEEAAAAUUURRRRGGGGHHHHHahhhhh...
As I'm now sat on the back seat, this is running like a river the length of the bus till it meets the previous stream... past all the old bids who are looking even more disapproving and are tutting up a storm... thankfully, I'm almost at my stop. I get off, go to work and endure possibly the worst hangover I've ever had. shakes, more heaves, the lot. but I man up and struggle through, and by sunday I'm feeling vaguely human again.

A few months later, I've been out for the night again, and I'm stood in Abdul's kebab shop on oxford road - purveyor of fine foods to pissed up leery tosspots. I'm getting my usual, when I notice a couple of the lads in the back of the kitchen looking at me, nudging each other and giggling. One comes out to the counter and says 'alright mate... you work in altrincham don’t you?'
to which I respond that I have done, just depends where the work is.
'Oh, right. because I saw you on the bus one morning heading out that way - you weren’t feeling very well were you?' I dont think I'd ever really appreciated what people mean when they say 'I wish the ground would have opened up and swallowed me' before that moment.

length? all the way down the aisle of the bus like I said... and luminous green.
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 21:06, 2 replies)

It started off so promisingly.
Many moons go (not that many moons), I was a student. This gave me ample opportunity to broaden my mind, and deepen my intellect, through the time-honoured tradition of substance abuse. During the days, this meant plunging large quantities of coffee through my face whilst dozing through lectures, before nights of pouring beer after warm-flat-student-union ‘beer’ through my face. Ah, that was the life. It was on one of those balmy, barmy student evenings that this incident takes place.

The night started out rather well, with us all out in town drinking in ‘proper’ pubs, with such scary novelites as ‘beer that doesn’t taste of socks’, and ‘people older than their early twenties’. Such was the excitement of such a treat, that rather a lot of beer may have been consumed. So far, so good. Many beers later, and a greasy kebab (from a proper shop, not even a van! What luxury!) and we just about staggered home to halls for a well-earned sleep.

Well, that was the plan. On arriving back at our crumbling, educational-Alcatraz we went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and found a stranger sitting in the kitchen. This was very much not part of the plan. On ascertaining that the polite young lady having a cup of tea was NOT about to mug us (we were terribly middle class and sheltered) we found that she had just moved in to the building, having got a job working on campus, and needing short-term accommodation. So far, so much an obstacle between us and sleep. The lady then produced her secret weapon; a litre-bottle of Wray and Nephew Overproof rum.

‘Wray’ is magical stuff. It has several wonderful properties. One, it is stronger than Chuck Norris (our bottle didn’t even bother with a number…). Two, it tastes like a fiery death. Three, it is near-impossible to dilute; the taste being so strong that an attempt at dilution just ends up with larger quantities of wray. My choice was simple, I had to tell this confusing stranger that she was NOT to poison us any further with her devil-juice, and go to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy Lines~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later. Five figures sit hunched around a table. I am inexplicably among them. A single shot glass sits in front of each of us. Half of the wray is gone. Eyes are streaming. The air smells of petrol and kebab grease. Speech is nearly beyond us, and the drinking has clearly taken too much of a toll. We are definitely going to bed soon.

‘Aha!’ somebody cries (remember, we discussed the middle-class thing). “I have a way of making this less painful, and more like we are having fun! Let’s alternate the wray with shots of this Cinzano that I have in my cupboard!” (again, the middle class thing. I won’t mention again). “That’ll get the party started!”

“Who is this idiot? Can’t he see we are on the verge of death? I’m going to bed, you swines!” I thought, as I meekly held out my shot glass and thank whoever was filling it.

~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy Lines~~~~~~~~~~~

Another hour or two (or 6) later. 2 figures sit hunched around the table. One sits in the sink. One is lying on the floor. The wray and the Cinzano are gone. No more memories are formed.

~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy Lines~~~~~~~~~~~

It is morning, and there is a knock on my door. My brain quickly registers 2 things. 1) Today is the day for ‘room inspection’, and 2) I am still in bed. I sit up in panic, and get as far as leaning on one elbow.

“Um… Hello.” I say, to the surprised building-inspector-lady, in a voice that manages to sound much more Terry Thomas than I had wanted.
“You forgot we were coming, didn’t you?”, she says, with no hint of irony.
“No.” I say, the Terry Thomas voice making a disturbing reappearance.
“You need to clean your kitchen.” She says, before sweeping dizzyingly out of the room, in a manner which she clearly imagined indicated menace and finality.

A t-shirt and some slippers later, and I head to the kitchen to survey the damage. Every piece of glassware in the room has been ‘used’. The shot glasses were mostly on the table, but one was in the freezer, and another in a jar of honey. All other glasses were spread around the room. I moved into the room, and managed to leave both slippers stuck in drying, shrivelling lake of Cinzano that was covering large portions of the floor. I picked at a mug on the table, also stuck down with the cinzano glue. As it ripped from place, my nose and brain finally caught up, and the smell hit. From here onwards in the morning, it is your fairly standard tale of bunderous hangover, and guilty cleaning up.

Cinzano is not a smell that works well with hangovers, especially when it has been partially responsible. It is also not a smell that exits easily from a room. Months later, after significant (for students) cleaning, the room never lost those tangy undertones. It probably still has them.

Length? Far, far too long. Unless you mean my penis.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Mon 28 Mar 2011, 19:47, 2 replies)

I don't know why you people are all complaining.
I've gone to Wongs' Restaurant several times on my nights out and enjoyed it immensely.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 17:43, 3 replies)

Akela, I will do my best.
It's hard to believe now, but 12 year old me was a well behaved, serious little cub scout. All dib dib dibing my ging gang goolies and tugging my woggle like nobodies business (dear god, i feel like I am channelling the spirit of Eric Morecombe). I was dutiful and knew my sheep shank from my bowline and could knock up a bivouac in no time flat. I was 'sixer' (I think that's what they were called) to...well...presumably 5 other scouts, (if that's how it works, the memory isn't holding up too well here I have realised) and as such they were my responsibility on the 12 mile night hike we had planned.

I'm not even sure that we would be allowed to do this, these days, without a qualified adult chaperoning us - cos that's healthy, a grown man willing to spend his night walking 6 pre-pubescent boys into the dark woods...but anyway, off we set, with my scarf done up neat, my map and compass safely in their waterproof pack, my whistle and my torch ready and food all nicely wrapped. I led us across the first field. To a ditch. I looked left and right, across and figured it would be easier to navigate the ditch than walk the length of it to the edge of the field where, presumably, there would have been a bridge. Unfortunatley it was wider than it looked. And deeper. And more full of stagnant water. Still, we manfully...well...boyfully...made it across. Although Keith cried.

Once I'd counted heads to make sure the short ones hadn't drowned, I got the map out to see where was next. Or at least I would have done. But my waterproofing, expert though it was, had been let down by, well, not closing the waterproof wallet.

Anyway, onwards and upwards.

Soggy map abandoned, navigation by the stars not being an option by dint of me not being a 17th century navigator and working on little but the vague idea that the Scout camp was near Brentwood and Brentwood was 'behind that church over there', we set off again across the field. And then the next field, and the next. And next. And then we were at the church. Have you ever tried getting 5 11 and 12 year olds to walk through a graveyard in the moonlight when they are cold, wet and already exhausted? It's not easy. Not easy at all. Scott held my hand. Andy held my other hand. Dave and Chris hugged each other. And Keith cried. Again. Although in fairness, he'd been at his Nan's funeral two days earlier, so I think Graveyards were already a sore point with him.

But still, I took my responsibility seriously and led them through with little more than mental scarring and one case of stinging nettle rash from suggesting to Scott that he could 'push into those bushes so no one can see you if you need to pee'. (It's OK, the rash was only on his arms). And then we were off again. We'd made it to the road. Well, lane anyway. The thing about footpathless country lanes with no signage or lighting or roadmarkings is that they look remarkably similar in both directions...

And that's how we found ourselves, four hours after we had set off, back at the scout hut. The empty, locked Scout Hut. Keith cried. I gave up and cried. Then went to the phone box and called my parents.

In truth, it was worth it when my Dad bundled us all into the car and drove us with his fists clenched knuckle white round the steering wheel to the campsite where he proceeded to tear each and every (drunken) Scout leader more than one new arsehole each.

I never went back to Scouts.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 16:40, 8 replies)

Just this past week...
On a night out in Malta we head to a local bar for a few brews, a good night is had by all and by 1:30 we are all thinking of the 7:30 start the following morning. We gather our things and head out the door, at this point we realised our friend Steve was still at the bar swaying on his stool having an in depth conversation with one of the locals. He decided he wanted to stay a bit longer and get to know the locals a bit more, fair enough we said, the hotel is 5 minutes down a straight road, he can't get lost.

wavy lines to the next morning

On the coach first thing Steve was hanging out his arse. He tells us hes not sure what happend but he ended up on a beach on the way back to the hotel, the nearest beach is a good half an hour walk past the hotel, he eventually found his way back to the hotel when he passed some kids walking to school and asked the direction of the hotel we were staying at.

He provided much of the entertainment for the rest of the day.
(eggs and spam *insert witty sig here*, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 15:40, Reply)

Samsung Buckets
I had just travelled from Oz to Thailand to meet a friend. First destination after checking out the delights of the Koh San road was Cambodia. After an amazing but endurance testing trip (Ankor Wat is amazing), we decided we needed to change the pace of the trip and headed to one of Thailand’s many tropical islands in search of adventure

Now not knowing a great deal about the best ones, in our ultimate wisdom we ended up in a place called Ko Samed. Now for those of you that aren’t familiar with this place, half the Island is dedicated to drinking and the other half relaxing, we ended up in the drinking part obviously.

Generally we were surrounded by over aggressive Israelis, who travel as well as piles on a bumpy road, as well as the dregs of European society. Now I have nothing against Israel at all but if you have spent x amount of years doing national service you tend to be a bit of a cunt when you are let loose on society.

Now I haven’t explained the massive 11hr journey to this place. It started with getting up really early and not having time for a shit, so my travelling buddy recommends some Imodium. It works but by the time I get there I take the biggest shit I have ever undertaken. A shit that was all the colours of the brown rainbow, due to not having shat properly in two days, during this shitting marathon I also managed to piss all over my trousers, as in my haste I hadn’t taken into account that shitting in what is essentially a glorified whole in the ground is not going to catch the piss.....So the night started well. I would love to tell you that I changed those trousers....But that would be a lie. I have never sweated so much taking a dump, I was literally drenched with piss (only a few drops...honest) and sweat but gladly relieved.

Anyway back to the night in question. We headed down to the open air bar with steely determination that many drinks were going to get downed that night. Little did I/we realise that we would be almost paralytic after only one. Now not totally comfortable with Thai culture, we ordered something called a Samsung bucket. Now here is the 2nd mistake of the evening.

“Two Samsung Buckets please”

2 minutes later the drinks arrive....Picture a champagne bucket full of what only can be described as river water, however the exact mix, from what I remember, was 1/3 coke , 1/3 Thai red bull and 1/3 Samsung whiskey and the best bit, which was six straws strategically placed all around both buckets. So the penny finally dropped, we were drinking enough alcohol to fell a small elephant. As we were drinking with an Merican we had to show him the way we rolled here in the UK and he watched us drink them both through raised eyebrows......What followed next was memory loss mixed with a few moments of clarity.

- Somehow managing to offend some Thai women....Probably with the smell of piss but most likely our clumsy sexual advances and the smell of piss

-Also managed to offend the Merican we were drinking with. My friend has a habit of American baiting that can be quite annoying but in my pissed state I didn’t rein him in.

-Finding my mate in another bar on the Island, talking to a barman about how great Vietnam was and not what he expected. That’s because you’re in Thailand you nutter, the barman later explained to me that he thought he might implode if he told him where he was, as he was talking about Vietnam for a good 20 minutes before I found the fool/tool.

-Trying to hijack the DJ’s equipment by barging him out the way and link up our MP3 players. Got kicked out of that bar.

-Generally arguing with anyone who had the mis-fortune to cross our paths, even Israel’s finest were avoiding us.

-Watching and rescuing my mate from being taken home by a lardy boy.

-Stopping my mate from getting a slap from a Canadian who he had offended by accusing his country of producing shit music....My mate had a point there.

-Thought we were 10 miles from our beech hut, only to wash up next to it in the morning. So what we thought was an epic trip through many beeches and rainforests was actually a trip of about 1 meter.

Anyway be warned kids because that was supposed to be the fun bit. The next day I can honestly say was the worst day of my life. Paralysed by alcohol the only choice we had was to lie in our little beech hut getting bitten by mosquito’s ten times the size of our little ones and our suffering was only punctuated by frequent trips to boke our guts up, whilst trying to avoid people we may have 'spoken' to that evening.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 14:52, 32 replies)

Meat Tenderiser
A couple of years ago I lived with 3 blokes who were about 5 years older than me and we had a gay old time. As the only girl I loved it and used to get to be all laddy with them, whilst wearing pretty dresses. All was good and great. Shortly after Glastonbury, one of them remembered he had a bag of about 100 pills somewhere, proceeded to dig them out and we eyed them up. Started chucking them down our necks at about 7pm.

Night ended with me and Leon in our living room, with meat tenderisers, smashing up shot glasses whilst he was wearing gold elvis glasses as protection for his eyes, and I was wearing a cat mask - where the only part of my face that WAS exposed was my eyes. One of our other housemates had to come downstairs and wrestle the meat tenderiser off me as I was saying how nice it would be to smash up our metre long glass coffee table. Aaahh, the good old days.
(natakins, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 14:43, 15 replies)

My elbow felt like a fortnight
in a bad balloon.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 14:31, 5 replies)

Don't you just hate those people that remember everything after a night out.
I am not one of those people in fact during my younger days I was the exact opposite of that. I would have long periods of the night missing and normally some grovelling/cleaning to do in the morning. Even to the point one night when I was sitting in a room with my friends patiently waiting to go out, having completely forgotten going out for the night and coming back and was quite surprised to discover that we were post club drinking not pre-club drinking.

So one night a few years ago I went to Barcelona with some friends to spend a few nights before heading down to the Benicassim music festival. On the first night as is customary on holidays we got completely shit faced. In the morning we were all trying to figure out what had happened, where some of our friends/mobiles/money were. One of our number was one of the aforementioned folks with a cast iron memory after a night of drinking. I naturally woke up with a large gap in my memory from about 1am onwards. Mr Memory then proceeded to amuse everyone with tales of drunken tomfoolery, arguments with prostitutes and one incident of bag snatching. Having told about half the group their individual high/lowlights I had managed to pull myself together enough to jump up onto his bunk and say "What about, what did I do, go on do me next." To which he replied, "Well Captain, last night you tried to get off with my girlfriend!".

I have never felt words before, but these were like a punch to the stomach, I felt physically sick and nearly burst into tears. I couldn't say or do or think anything. It is probably the worst I have ever felt in my life, both him and his girlfriend were good friends. I just kinda mumbled something sank back to my bunk, and wished for the world to swallow me up. When we had a chance I spoke to him and begged for forgiveness he was incredibly decent about it all things considered. He told me that when he saw it happen he had come over to have a go at me and probably hit me. He quickly realised I couldn't make a coherent sentence and kept on responding to his angry questioning about my indiscretion with looks of confusion and stories about fish.

He later admitted he probably wouldn't have said anything in the morning but when I asked like I did he couldn't resist dropping it on me like that. They are now happily married, although I wasn't invited to the wedding.
(Little Animal Disaster isn't finishing what he started, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 14:30, Reply)

This was told to me
so I have no idea if it's true, but she seemed sincere, and it's a cracking story so here goes...

I was chatting to a woman at a party, and I offered her some massive drugs, as you do. She politely declined, saying that she doesn't do that any more. Naturally, I asked why that might be, since she was clearly a party animal even without pharmacological assistance.

She told me that some years before, she'd set out on a night with her friends, the usual pub - club - freeparty nonsense that made up a typical weekend back then. Something must have gone wrong, however, since at that point it all becomes blank.

There was nothing more, apart from some hazy images, until she suddenly snapped back into the world some time later. She found herself standing outside her parents' house, ringing their doorbell, with no knowledge of how she'd got there.

Or, in fact, of how she had managed to acquire the three-year-old child who was dutifully holding her hand by her side.

The "blank" had lasted something like five years. The child was later proven conclusively to be her own. She still has no memory of the time, or indeed the father.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 13:20, 12 replies)