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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

This question is now closed.

December 22nd 2000
It was the office piss-up, and by the time everybody left at about 10pm, I was seriously refreshed. A good few then wandered up the road to one of the old town pubs (as they are far superior). However, after 5 minutes of shambling about trying to find the bar, I gave up and left.

I was at the stage where the world starts sounding a little distant, and it feels like you're wearing somebody else's spectacles. Anyway, I meandered in the general direction of the bus stop. I remember walking past the same shop fronts at least twice before I ended up at the the bus stop. I checked the times, and the last bus was due in 5 mins. I was then attracted like a pissed moth to the bright glow of the McDonalds across the street so I ambled over there where I hastily devoured 2 quarter pounders before going back to the bus stop just in time.

I settled down on the bus, but after five minutes I needed a pee. "It'll hold, it's not far" I thought. Another five minutes passed and I was struggling. My face was red, I was jigging about and my kidneys were beginning to throb. I had to get off and go behind a wall or something.

The bus pulled up and I declared to the driver that "I'm going to have to get off, I'm busting for a slash" before jumping off. I trotted down a side street and down an alley whereby with great relief and an exaggerated sigh I emptied my bladder. After peeing for about a week, I zipped up and went back to the main road to find the bus wasn't waiting for me as I had inexplicably expected it to be. I had forgotten that buses have a timetable to stick to and typically it had driven off after I had disembarked.
"Oh bollocks" I muttered. The next bus wasn't going to be for at least another nine hours. So I lurched the remaining 2 miles home. It would've been 1.5 miles but for some reason I followed the bus route home, striding along slightly sideways much like an emu in a crosswind. An emu with a small stone in its shoe.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 14:31, 3 replies)
Having a pea:
I'd just discovered Ecstacy, and, as such, was on an INCREDIBLY strong pill. Almost (almost) too high, at a house party (as in, it was in a house).

Chatting to some geezer, for some reason, I remember him giving me the advice "Never look in a mirror when on a pill."

So I was having a lovely time, but needed a slash, and off I went to the bog.

In I go - the door opens outwards, and the bog is to the left, over which there is a long mirror.

So I'm having a nice slash and dear CHRIST am I high but god this slash is good this pill is good this music is good these people are good CHRIST I am so high I am so, so high ooo that's a nice slash lovely lovely lovely ...

And I hear a noise.

A nice noise.

Girls. Lovely girls. Girls laughing. Lovely girls, laughing. Let's hope they're experimenting happily with bisexuality GOD am I high lovely girls laughing laughing lovely girls laughing away what are they laughing at what do they see, lovely girls laughing, laughing at me ...

Laughing at me?

Laughing at ... what? At me?

I slowly come to my senses. I am standing at the toilet, my cock in my hand, my nose millimeters from mirror, staring - intensley - at myself.

The door was wide, wide open.

I had been like that for several minutes.

The lovely girls laughing? They were openly pointing and specifically laughing at me, inviting their mates to enjoy the spectacle.

I had neither lifted the lid nor had a slash.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 12:54, 14 replies)
loopy in the dark
Finally the atavistic void of booze coma spits me out with disgust. The motion carries through into reality, throwing me off the train seat. With a wet thud my face hits linoleum. Concerned by this sudden tumult my body stretches out flimsy probes of consciousness. Some of my lower senses try to get back to their post of duty. And they return to a scene of utter turmoil. The looming sense of dread in every new detail they encounter turns this progress into a bullet time effort.

The doors of perception have been kicked in, warped and split they hang off their hinges. Smears of obscene scrawl on the walls, furniture and equipment thrown about by a giant hand. Every piece of furniture sliced open and gutted from its padding. Through the thrown in windows a cold wind plays with ripped up memories. The whole place is reduced to piles of tangled debris. Stench of burnt plastic, heavy, some patches still belch out acrid black smoke. Worse was only avoided by the ankle deep flooding from a shattered sink.

Something does not feel right about this orgy of demolition though. It is too complete. In all its fierce finality a tinge of sobriety is imminent. This suspicion turns out true and now the physical damage means little. The very core, a work of decades, is gone. From first crude efforts, coordinating hand and eye, the balance to stand up, to the more recent middle term memory, sense of decency. Gone. That must have been a well informed enemy. Before the cold fist of desperation closes around them, they just so manage to deploy lizard mode.

It just about suffices to not soil myself and get my limbs sorted. Every step back into reality lasts forever. Propped up on my elbows like a geriatric seal, i adjust my eyes against the dark. Grab hold of the railing on the wall and pull. Shake some life into protesting legs, atrophy, almost-cramps from a night of dance and sleeping in a pile. Blind carriage windows on one side. Shrubs and dirt fading into pitch black on the other. And of course the alcohol poisoning does little to improve my usual myopic self. Too vain to wear glasses in night life. Prise open the hydraulic door and stumble across this perimeter here.

A well deserved lengthy piss is celebrated. You know the kind, where you feel time tie together in a little bow, so cavernous seems the extent of ones bladder. I nod my regards to my todger and the steaming fount of beer scrap he sees off. Now back to my cave. Oh, wait. Where is it that i came from again? Dozens of wagons, and they all look the same. Doors are locked. On the outer perimeter, a massive fence topped off with razor wire grins its sly wink. Lizard is confused, its senses in the soggy autumn night reduced to the simplest of tasks. Then voices between the cars, torches shining through the arrays of dirty steel.

Paranoia of thousands of man-hours spent in post apocalyptic FPS games. They must not find me here. Run away. Stumble across the broken gravel and try not to noseplant. Crawl through here, under the train. Try to get out. What are they yelling? They will do bad things to me. It is bad to be here. Hide behind that house. Try to get into the dark. Fuck, no, another fence. Back there? Oh no, here they come, here they are now! Cornered. They yell. I grunt and throw wild glances. Focus! Must get away. Grabbed now. Struggle! More of them, not a chance now. Dragged off. What will happen? Then a wave of merciful black descends again.

Eyes fly open with a start as a heavy wave of nausea and pain sees me to. Another train, same kind of it as before, but now the sun is slowly breaking through the fog. Some drone on the outer edge of my consciousness. Ah, that must be the cleaning dude shaking me. Okay, thanks, mate. I'm out of here. All good. His grasp on my language is as useless as my understanding of.. well, everything, really. The various kinds of hangovers mingle well with the booze still merrily sloshing about upstairs. But i can walk, and see straight too. The dude gets me to a road before leaving me alone, spitting a curse out for a farewell. And now i am twice as far from home as before.

At least i am composed enough to know i have to walk the buzz off before anything else. Well, wasn't that a fine night out? Let us top it off with a spot of sightseeing before breakfast. So i start off west, cross the river, and then leave the village. Walk into a forest, with birds merrily buzz-sawing my dried up bloody prune of a mind, country casuals with their expensive mutts showing disdain for the wobbly, bug eyed kid on their turf, and eventually end up at this lake. Totally worth it after all. And so i sat, the lazy rays of a rising sun warming my bones, songs without words bedding my mind in Kool Whip delusion. And the older i get, the better i was. What else can we have, really?
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 12:35, 14 replies)
"Your hand hurts because you punched a church"
This doesn't really compare with most of the current tales of woe, but maybe it should be told.

This typical night out features our heroes, little brother Marcus, and associate Ben. I won't bother changing names as I'll only get confused.

Marcus lives in the pub he works in rent-free and therefore gets credited, every month, with nearly a grand and a half of which only £50 is needed for mobile bills and the suchlike. Ben has not worked for more than three weeks at a time for the last three years, and is rather partial to anything which comes in white powdery form.

So, payday and a "drink Monday" session in grotty, good old St Neots. A couple of lunchtime beers swiftly descend into "OMG! Eight for a bluey at King's Lane Garage! Better get three gallons!" between about six of us.

By the time the three gallons are consumed, Marcus realises an evening in Cambridge, it being student night, might prove successful for him and Ben (who hasn't seen any pink for a good six years by this point). I was asked to tag along in case anything ridiculous happens, and also because at this point I am holding most of Marcus' wages to stop him spending them on a whim. This is crucial: he can have the money when he wants it but has to wait an hour.

By the time we get the bus, Ben has run home and drunk half a pint of Merlot, and Marcus has started on his eight bus beers. Luckily, they seem to have drunk themselves sober, and the first hour in the abomination that is the Regal goes without a hitch.

Fresh air, however, does not agree with the amount of boozes these snoutmen have consumed, and before long we are being kindly asked to leave on account of the two drunkies trying (one successfully, one not so) to piss under one of the outside tables.

An altercation ensues thereafter with some rather posh CUSU rep, out with a group of over-priviledged, away-from-home-for-the-first-time Cambridge Uni freshers. Shouting was involved, insults were exchanged, this rather stacked young man misheard Marcus and thought he was being racist.

Twenty minutes of convincing them not to go back in the Regal ("I can take them on!" "You can't, there's thirty of them") and M&B realise it's only an hour or so until the world's worst strip club opens and a couple of drinks in nearby Fountain are required.

Stumbling into a bar at half ten on a Monday night and loudly demanding "THREE FUCKING BOOZES PLEASE" does not, actually, get you three boozes. Ben is dismayed by this. Normally a very passive man, he decides the church up the road is to blame ("fucking organised religion!") and punches it. (Next day, of course, he has rather swollen knuckles, and zero memory. This could be due to the double vodkas Marcus was putting in his Old Rosie - well, he was paying, after all.)

An hour at the strip club swiftly resulted in Marcus spending £240 on private dances, buying eight £6 bottles of Newcastle Brown (kept leaving the last one in the booth and forgetting he had it) and being told by a stripper that, if he stays until closing, he can take her home. It also results in Ben falling down two flights of stairs in rather spectacular fashion.

By this time, I feel like I should be claiming £7 an hour as their "special helper" and ordering helmets lest they hurt themselves.

10.30 hoves into view and me and Ben must get the late bus back to the Neots, and Marcus off to Grantchester. He's convinced he's pulled, so after much arguing we leave him in the strip club.

I carry Ben to the bus stop (he's light, but he never washes so he fucking stinks), whereupon he drops around 8grammes of tobacco on the floor in successive failed attempts to roll a fag. The X5 turns up. This is a long-distance bus, so no low-floor stroll for us, and the bus driver helps me carry him up the five steps. "He's not gonna puke is he?" I guarantee that he'll be asleep before Madingley Road, or we'll get off. Off we go.

On getting back to St Neots, I realise there's no way Ben is walking the half-mile alleyway home, so set about getting a taxi. This is after he failed to walk down the steps and I had to leave him at the top, stand at the bottom arms outstretched and have the driver give him a nudge. Luckily, the taxi was a people-carrier so I could lay him on the floor. Me and the cabbie pick him up and deposit him by the back door, as he's lost his keys.

The most upsetting thing, of course, is the fact that after spending £490 when the original limit was two lunch beers, neither of them can remember having stripper-gash rubbed in their faces.

The story continues, but I already find myself apologising for my intimidating length.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 11:06, 6 replies)
A Local Hero
Wavy lines back to the 1980's...

And it came to pass that the hero of our story staggers out of the club in the small hours of the morning, and even though it's October, decides that the best place of all for a little sleep would be the beach. Pebbles may be hard, but in his advanced state of inebriation they seemed as soft as down, and snoring was soon in evidence.

Many hours later, consciousness began to trickle back into the ragged remains of his brain, and various things were clamouring for his attention. As well as the usual raging thirst, thumping headache and distended bladder, there was something else. What was it, now? Oh yes, the ring of armed police staring down at him along the barrels of their guns, that'll be it.

Turns out that during the hours he'd spent peacefully sleeping on the beach, the hotel directly behind him had been rather inconsiderately blown up by the IRA. Apparently, having guns pointed at you is a great way to sober up, really fast.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 10:32, 2 replies)
My life is a episode of the Benny Hill show.
Some of you might be aware of an annual cancer fund raising event called the Playtex Moonwalk. Every year, hundreds of women in their underwear take a sponsored walk in the early hours of the morning to raise money for charity; they do it in Hyde Park these days to avoid letchers like me, but they used to do it in Battersea and the surrounding streets.

Anyway, a few years ago I went off to a party in Vauxhall on balmy May night. A good time was had by all, although I have to confess to feeling oh, so old in a room where I was one of the very oldest people. By 2:30am I was merrily squiffy and, the party being only about 30 minutes walk from my house, I decided to stroll off home. I walked out of the flat, up to Vauxhall station, and turned onto Nine Elms Lane. And there, striding purposefully towards me, were several hundred women in their underwear taking part in the Moonwalk.

I walked all the way home against the flow of a migrating herd of young women in their bras and each and every one of them, I swear, gave me a hostile little look with a thought balloon over her head that said, simply, "pervert". I was quite glad to turn off the main road and head to my flat.
I arrived at the door.
I put my hand in my pocket.
I had an awful moment of realisation.
My keys, I realised, were in my bedroom, and betwen me and them were two locked doors.
Having no choice, I turned around, and began the half hour walk back to Vauxhall. Walking back down Nine Elms Lane, I discovered that the Moonwalk had reached it's midway point and was heading back towards Battersea Park. For the second time in half an hour I was presented with the now familiar sight of hundreds of scantily clad women striding purposefully towards me.

I could hear the thoughts radiating from them, as they did little double takes looking as they passed me: "It's that pervert again!" they all thought. All of them. I bet.

I confess for a moment that I considered turning and running, until I realised that if I did, the saxophone would start up and we'd all start running. So instead, I once again had to walk for several miles against the flow of lingerie-clad womenfolk. I didn't know where to look. Honest.

Like I say, my life is an episode of The Benny Hill Show.

Not that I'm complaining.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 10:04, 10 replies)
A few weeks ago
What I was promised: A night of drinking and good conversation.

What I got: 4 hours of my mates talking about football until I couldent stand another second and went home to play dead space 2 on the x box.

God I hate football.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 8:36, 45 replies)
Not many b3ta stories involve Queen Elizabeth II, and a platoon of Gurkhas, so here goes
A few years ago, QEII is paying a royal visit to the country where I was working as a development worker for a well known charity. As we were funded by the British government, we all got invited to a reception at the British embassy. So we all dressed up in our finery and went. Did I mention that this invitation mentioned free alcohol………This last fact was picked up by several of my colleagues, including “Big Charlie” who was over 6’6’’and the wrong side of 20st.

Anyway, the reception came and went, we all shook hands with the Queen, and had some drinks. I then had to leave to get the train back to my workplace which was about eight hours away. No problem. Our boss had to leave too, as she had a meeting. Big Charlie stayed, which in hindsight was a mistake. A few hours later, he appears at our bosses house (which was next door to the office), completely off his head, with cuts and bruises, a black eye, and no recollection of the previous few hours, or even how he got there. The boss sobered him up, poured him into a taxi, and sent him home. She just assumed he had fallen over somewhere, which he had done before, after drinking a pint or twelve.

A week later, the boss goes to a committee meeting, comprising mainly of British expats. Comments such as ”the less we talk about the incident at the embassy the better” and “ I wish you could keep your staff under control” were uttered. The boss manages through casual conversation, to find out what happened after she left. Free alcohol and Charlie mix very well, actually too well. About a couple of hours after the Queen left, the embassy shut the bar. So Charlie reopened it. Not a particularly intelligent move I must admit. Especially as the people doing the security at the embassy, were Gurkhas. Apparently, it was the most polite fight anybody has ever seen. “Please don't do that sir, as I will have to hit you ” and “yes sir, I will be taking that beer off you ” were heard. His attempt at throwing a punch failed, as the soldier just stepped out of the way and watched Charlie go flying and make a dent in the floor .(For any readers who don't know, Gurkha soldiers are recruited from the mountains of Nepal, most are quite short, have a fearsome reputation for fighting skills, and can probably kill you in four different ways using just their little finger) Getting into a fight with them is like having a death wish, on steroids.

So for Charlie, meeting the Queen, getting blind drunk, getting into a fight with a platoon of Gurkha soldiers, being beaten up politely by said Gurkha soldiers, and finally been sobered up and sent home by your boss, who then takes massive flack for your behavior, yes ,I think that is a night out gone wrong.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 3:32, 16 replies)
weirdest cab ride ever
I was in college and feeling experimental, yadda yadda. Long story short, I ended up in a "double date" LSD situation with my best friend and her boyfriend at her house. My boyfriend was particularly skilled in "psychedelic entertainment" and was dropped off with a ginormous suitcase full of costumery, a dream machine, play-doh, bubble guns, papayas and other things you think might be interesting (but really aren't) on a trip.

We spent maybe 4 hours doing the usual - hiding play-doh around the house, battling the ladder robot in the kitchen, eating the roommate's food and then my best friend and her boyfriend were gone. They couldn't handle it and were in her room for the rest of the night, leaving us stranded. Genius boyfriend decided to call a cab, saying that he could handle it. He slathers all of his stuff together in his suitcase, I reluctantly get in, and it is probably the most awkward, longest cab ride, ever. We couldn't remember the correct address, so we were driving around for a while, while the cab driver's talking about who knows what, and we're both in the back with this gigantic suitcase that's dripping bubble soap with various costumery hanging out of it on our laps, topping it off with the most idiotic grins. We eventually recognized something and just asked to be dropped off. There was an awkward exchange of currency, and then the long walk home. I'm sure it's pretty standard for a cab driver, but I'm never volunteering myself for that situation again.
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 2:32, 3 replies)
Friday evening, drive 26 km to a party
Tuesday afternoon, wake up in the car which is parked on mum's front garden - notice bruises, scratches and blue paint covering 80% of body as well as the fact that none of the clothes you are wearing belong to you. Wondering where did that 90 odd hours go?
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 1:08, 1 reply)
my brothers mate
he had a house party a couple of years back and this definition of a party has stuck with me ever since.

A good party is one that gets broken up by noise control.

A GREAT party is one that gets broken up by the armed offenders squad.

it was a great party that night
(, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 0:18, Reply)
A friend of mine
bollocked off his chops on coke and booze strides down the street following a spectacularly rambunctious party. He's got that confidence you only get after a few too many lines and pints.

So he was duly impressed with himself when he saw a group of girls from uni giggling at him from across the way. He's in there, he thinks to himself.

And then he realises why they're laughing. His willy's hanging out.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 23:05, 4 replies)
Once upon a time,
back in the era when I could be classified as "but a nipper," I attended a boarding school for a few years.

This was before the days of readily-available alcohol, as we were a bit too young to be able to pass off a proof-of-age test. Nevertheless, some of us decided that it would be a good idea to go into the nearest town and "frolic." I use this term as I feel that it applies equally to the SU booze-filled antics of uni. In the sense that we decided to temporarily liberate some street furniture and associated roadworks paraphernalia. And temporary it would turn out to be.

First stop was the supermarket on the other side of town, where we borrowed a couple of shopping trollies and proceeded to the nearest steep-ish hill. On the way we acquired some of the aforementioned traffic cone helmets and barrier lances and chariot-jousted our way to a good time. And all without serious injury.

Eventually tiring of this pastime we repaired to our school, now some miles away, pausing only to discard our trollies full of orange lights and temporary speed limit signs just before we reached the school gates. In a roadblock. Across the whole road. Just as the police drove past.

Unimpressed with our attempt at passing ourselves off as teenage, mid-night road-workers, they threatened us with arrest and we sobbed out our story. They then offered us an alternative to a formal dealing-with: that we were to return all the items we'd taken to their respective places. Fair do's. They took one of us in the car and drove all round the surrounding area, as we retraced our steps along the epic and circuitous route (no booze-clouded memory for another few years). We even, helpfully, picked up other stuff along the way as directed by the law.

As the sky started to get light we reached the supermarket and neatly parked the trollies. "Ok," says one officer, "I'd like to watch the sunrise from here with you boys, it's a beautiful day and I'm clocking off in a few minutes."
The other added "it's only a couple of miles back to your school, and if you run back after, then you might just make it before they find out you are gone. Eh?"
It was a strained half an hour of watching the sunrise, with our finest no doubt cracking up in the car, but they eventually let us go, and we returned without notice to the school authorities.

I realise that it could have been worse, but at the time it seemed like the worst night out we could have inflicted on ourselves - a ten mile forced march at night, fully laden, and a full day of school on either side to keep sleep at bay for more than is recommended.

Length? I was a bit too young for you to be worrying about that.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 19:58, 2 replies)
I was about 16 when my parents first went away for a week leaving me and my brother at home alone.

We, of course, did exactly what we had promised we wouldn't and had all our friends over.

It went without a hitch...some massive cleaning up to be done, but no evidence at all. Not a beer can in a bush or an ornament out of place. I replaced all the food that was eaten, I even checked that no one had played any tricks like hiding anything in my parents bed, or turning the pictures upside down. It was perfection and we'd get away scot free.

Except they came back, walked around, took one look at the place and gave me and my brother an almighty bollocking and grounded us both for the next two weekends. When they'd calmed down, i bravely asked how they knew and just got the response 'we didn't,But we do now'.

(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 19:09, 21 replies)
I regret having that house party.
A good few years ago I had the luck to be part of a very succesful business venture -- I spent a good deal of time doing hard graft in tight spaces, but it was worth it.
So, I decided I would treat myself and buy myself a good-old country manor (mining is a lucrative business). I decided that I didn't want to go for an old place, with lots of work to do, so I bought a place from a weird nuveau riche guy, whom I think was some kind of scientist.
Anhyhow, to the night in question:
I don't recall much, but what I do is pretty damn great -- champagne and drunken debauchery all around.
That's not the story though, the problem happened the morning after. You see, I had this rather attractive, but very efficient, housekeeper named Maria -- she was damn good at her job, but a little hot-headed. So, basically, she demanded that since I had given her the night of the party off she should not have to clean up as part of her job. I understood and told her I'd get some cleaners in, but she insisted that I clean it up myself. Ordinarily I would have told her to get her stuff and leave but she was damn good.
So, I spent the next few years, on and off, exploring the convoluted manor trying to recover all the debris from the party -- I'm told that in a parallel universe I have completed this task many times.
[my sincere apple-ogies if bean-dune]
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 18:10, 3 replies)
WARNING: Massive drugs story.
I lived in Ibiza for ten years and managed to survive the experience, more by luck than judgement. For those that don't know, it's a small island in the Mediterranean sea off the coast of Spain, renowned for massive drugs, alcohol, house music, STDs and general partying until you expire.

I worked hard during the summer season, then in the winter when all the tourists had buggered off, me and the mates would kick back and party hard.....VERY hard. When I look back at what we used to get up to, I shudder at some of the shenanigans that happened.

Anyhoo, after a particularly long sesh where anything we could get hold of was abused as much as possible, we all decided we'd had enough, and as I didn't have much cash left and lived on the other side of the island, I'd have to get the bus home. This seemed a much better option than falling asleep at a mate's house, and waking up to find all of your body hair had been removed and someone had been kind enough to colour you in using permanent markers. I was spannered, and you can't beat your own bed when you're in a state!

It was just starting to get light, so it was probably six a.m or so. Auto-pilot got me to the bus stop without too much bother (and it was downhill, which helps a lot), and having squinted, one-eyed, for about ten minutes I managed to work out that the first bus wasn't due for another hour and a half.

Hmmm...how to make ninety minutes pass in a pleasant way without any more self abuse? The sun was just coming up, and about 100 metres from the bus stop are some steps which take you down to a tiny beach used to launch fishing boats from. That'll do!

''I'll watch the sun come up over the horizon. It'll be ace'', I think, in my wankered state. First mistake; I'm on the west side of the island, and last time I checked the sun comes up in the east. Bugger! I'm down on the beach by now, it's very pleasant and all I can hear is the gentle lapping of sea at the edge of the shore.

So I lay down in the shade and have forty winks. And then I wake up, after what seemed like maybe thirty seconds of kip, and the sun is completely up and I've clearly missed the first bus. Never mind, I climb back up the steps and walk back to the bus stop. Praise the Lord, there's a bus waiting to go so I fumble in my pocket for a couple of Euros, jump on, pay the driver and take a seat.

''He didn't half give me a strange look, that driver'', I thought to myself. ''I must look REALLY wankered still.'' The bus leaves, and every time it stops to pick up passengers, as they walk past me every single one gives me a lingering stare.

Half an hour or so later, I'm back home. Stagger in through the door, have a quick piss, can't wait to hit the sack, clean teeth, look in the mirror.....FFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!

Imagine Sir Alex Ferguson's face, he takes a big snort of Evo Stick, you staple his mouth shut, stick a peg on his nose and then kick him HARD in the jacobs. (I'd really LOVE to try this!) Imagine how red his face would be, and then multiply it by....ooooh.....a thousand.

I look at my phone and it's 1130, which means I'd been asleep on the beach for around four hours, in which time the sun has cleared my shaded part of the beach and was beating down hard on my distressed body.

I have never been so sore in my life. I couldn't even smile without being in agony. I stayed local for a few weeks until the redness had died down, as if my mates had seen it I'd still be suffering now.

It took the best part of a month until my face had stopped peeling/flaking. I chuckle about it now, but if I'm diagnosed with face cancer in the future, I'll know the reason why.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 17:45, 2 replies)
I found this today
Winner by proxy surely?

(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 17:24, Reply)
"Yeah Bob, Amsterdam was fantastic. The weed was nice and strong, the clubs.... er a bit hazy and the beer nice and cold. Next time you should come with us."
"I was there with you, you twat!"
"FUCK......." I haven't spoken to Bob in 4 years now.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 17:22, Reply)
I used to work in a crap student and townie nightclub in the East Midlands.
Started as glass collector, then barman, then cellar manager, then got on the management training thingy. I was, in my defence, 18 and stupid

Anywho, I'd been there nearly a year. I liked it. I thought I'd stick with it.

One night I found a turd in a pint glass on the bar. I resigned the next morning.

I'm not sure whose night went wrong there.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 17:09, 2 replies)
Take a look at the top reply in my profile.

(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 17:05, 6 replies)
Footballing 'legend'
Former Glasgow Rangers goalkeeper and legendary drinker Andy Goram once went out for a night on the beer in Glasgow.

He woke up the next morning in Tenerife aiport .... no passport... no money...stark bollock naked.

To be accurate he went out in Glasgow for a night on the beer more than once.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:52, 2 replies)
Where's Ugi? Oh - he's gone to report to the police station....
You know it's been a trying night when your holiday-housemates' breakfast conversation runs like that, so I had better elaborate a little... apologies that it's turned out rather long.

It was something like 1994 and I was in Scotland with a bunch of reprobates I knew from University. We'd hired a cottage for a couple of weeks with the intention of checking out the hill-walking by day and the drinking by night. With the odd distillery thrown in for good measure. My brother, Pencil, was also in Scotland at the time with the coolest summer-job ever and on his day-off I'd driven the hour-or-so to pick him up, we'd all had a pleasant day falling into streams and getting damn-near blown off mountains, and had retired to the local hostelry for the evening. All fine and dandy so far.

Now Pencil needed to work the following morning so I had to get him back to his digs overnight. I never drink-drive so while Pencil and my mates all get hammered, I stick to coke and in due course play taxi back across the glens. This is where things start to take a distinct turn for the worse because I'd borrowed my father's Citreon CX; a crazy vehicle that rose like a flying-carpet, looked like a space-ship and handled like a bowl of jelly. Not a great combination if you're 18 and have been keeping up with your older bro's cirrhotic mates all night. It also had electric windows which were....not...quite...fast...enough...oops. And so it was that I found myself driving across Scotland in the dead of night with my bro' throwing up more or less equally inside and out of the passenger door of the car.

But we're not done yet 'cos the car was clearly in need of a new exhaust and had been starting to make some noise during the journey up. One slightly-over-eager sleeping policeman later and it's sheared something - it's suddenly banging away and making a noise like a geriatric lawn-mower. Not to worry, thinks I, and I crawl underneath with a torch and bind the bits back up with a bit of cotton cloth, thinking that it'll never get that hot that it could possibly be a safety hazard....

So it is that around 3am I am stopped by Scotland's finest, in a vehicle that sounds like a worn-out machine gun, containing a drunken bastard throwing up more-or-less-equally inside and outside of the passenger window, yelling "good evening orificier" at the top of his voice - oh yes, and is on fucking fire.

I give you a night out gone wrong.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:45, 1 reply)
Saturday last
S: Take this.
M: What is it?
M: *gobbles*
M: That's speed.

Achievement unlocked: Massive drugs answer
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:17, 11 replies)
Ah yes, now I remember.....
It was 2004, Im a engineer cadet onboard a bulk carrier (ship) and I had been in Poland for a month. Szczecin drydocks was the place and it'd been fun. Very good/cheap nights up the road, pretty easy time overseeing work with the 2nd engineer and altogether its going well.

Another company vessel was docking the day before we were due to leave, and my mate was onboard. I grabbed my passport off the Captain with warnings not to be back too late as it was engine trials the next day and i was away!

Szczecin drydocks is an island in the middle of a river, its a fair sized one but I strolled in the July sunshine and was soon heading up the gangway. I cheerily greeted the Chief Engineer on deck and he gave me a jolly sailors greeting, "Who the Fuck are you!?"....unpertubed I found mates cabin and told him to get off Champ Manager, were were off out on the piss!

Its a short ferry off the island and we're soon larging it up in town. It was a brilliant night out, but the last ferry back to the island was around 11pm. As 11 draws near, I inform mate that we can roll back whenever we like and ring the ferryman. He will come out and take us over as long as we buy him a nice bottle of spirits(£2/3 onboard, bargain)

So continue we do and around 3am we roll up through the dock gates, over towards the ferry jetty where I am still impressing mate with my worldly swagger and ability to call ferries at my whim.

However what I didnt know was crucially the ferryman's number. I think I assumed that there would be some kind of hotline telephone that would put me directly to him.... big mistake.

It was getting too cold to sit around on the jetty so we ambled over to a nearby wooden benched waiting room which like everything else was infested with giant spiders (of which I was terrified of).


I wake up with a jolt. Noise and light is now streaming into my brain. I have no idea what time it is, and I'm slowly realising where I am. I stand up, barely, and the worlds biggest special school steel drum band is practicing inside my skull. I wake mate, words hardly can form but he understands. We sit on the next ferry, its 11am....several ferries have already been today.

We part, as I'm vaguely aware we're heading in different directions. I reach the ship, brilliant. Theres an AB on deck telling me something about the Captain looking for me, hes not happy with me. Not Happy At All. Captain is soon right in front of my face and hes shouting, a lot. My passport and discharge book? yeah its in my pocket, what? Immigration are asking about me....?

Chief is telling me to turn to, I drag myself into a boilersuit and boots and I'm in the engine room.


Im finally allowed to knock off, and I pass out in my bunk for quite some time. When I woke up I was summonned to Captains cabin to be told that they wouldnt be logging me (which would result in a sacking) but I was forthwith banned from going ashore.

Same AB later told me the Captain had told him to go to my cabin, put all my things in a case and then throw that case onto the jetty. Marek, I thank you for taking your time.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:10, Reply)
I would have gone out tonight
But I didn't have a stitch to wear.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 16:09, 8 replies)
And then...
I went out for a night out in Manchester with my friend and all his friends from home... all went well until we decided to try and get home. Realising we were miles and miles away. One person piped up that he had already got the keys for his new student house that he’d be moving into in September (this was August), we should all go back there! So we did.

Along the way we had a few scrapes, the guy who’s house we were going to got on the bus with us, and then got off just as it set off, we all just stayed on and managed to work out where to get off (pre-mobile phone days) our friend Abbo Dan (name not changed) stole the surround from a traffic light and wore it round his neck for most of the journey. Some people decided that mooning cars as they drove past was a good idea, we were walking through Fallowfield at the time, which is not a million miles from Moss Side. Most cars beeped, swerved or ignored. One guy stopped and stared for a while as one of our party ran across the road, trousers round his ankles and tripped over the catseyes...

We got in, the alarm went off for a bit til the guy who’s real name escapes me but I know he was called Eggy remembered the code. Then Little Neil decided he was hungry. The house was utterly empty apart from a packet of supernoodles and some paprika...

There were no matches for the hob and weirdly, none of us (there were 10 of us) smoked, so being a genius he put a tea towel in the toaster until it caught fire, lit the hob and threw the flaming towel out of the window.

Then there was a water fight, some people were wanting to watch the telly and one joined from the water fight, turned the socket on and dripped onto it, giving himself an electric shock powerful enough to throw him across the room (I was not present at this point, the drama of this may have been exaggerated).

The neighbours came to complain a few times, and eventually we calmed down and tried to get some sleep. I went to a room and bedded down on the single mattress. Oddly I decided that to keep a bit warmer I would take off my shirt and drape it over me... then someone ran into my room and hid in the wardrobe, someone else came in after them picked the wardrobe up and knocked it down the stairs with the person in it (he was massive and the wardrobe – and occupant – were tiny).

Eventually sleep came, only to be rudely interrupted by the shouts of “let me get my trousers, at least let me get my trousers!” from one lad who had been woken up by a policeman and dragged down the stairs.

The rozzers had arrived just in time to stop us all from being quiet. Eggy had opened the door and when asked where he lived he, instead of saying "here" answered with a small village about 20 miles away. The police weren't happy with that fact.

I was 20 at the time, I remember because we wanted to report one of the policemen and he gave us his number... “it’s your age and your favourite number” he said “2069”

So we were evicted from a house we had “broken in to”, Eggy had to persuade them to let him go back in to shut doors and windows and set the alarm, then lock the door.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 15:29, 1 reply)
Tomato Ceiling
Sorry for the pulp fiction type timeline...

Was on a night out with my mates from college back in 200?, got to about 12 and I left the others to head of with the missus....probably hoping for some rumpy and/or pumpy.

Their night did not end with me leaving, but the morning after begun with a phonecall at about 8am. A crying girl is telling me there's been a break in at the flat. I realise its one of the lads' girlfriend and tell them i'll be round to assist (what i could do was beyond me, i just went for the show).

The house looked like someone had shook it like a snow globe. The sitting room was a bombsite, furnitre overturned, bin bags emptied all over and even tomato sauce had been fired up the walls and all over the ceiling. The bedrooms were just as bad, someone had pissed on a dresser, pushed a matress up to block a window, one room had a MASSIVE double bed that was moved across the room and it was fucking seriously heavy (that alone mustve been very difficult) and things were just all over the place. The kitchen floor was a foot deep in trash, the lads had been keeping their bin bags near the back stairs cos the back door wouldnt unlock and theyd been tipped out.

In all it was a fucking sight.

Apparently they'd come home from a house party to find this, the door was kicked in (but the deadlock wasnt on) and money had been stolen.

Now I did find it strange that the TV, PS2 and cool sound system, laptops and HiFi's were not taken but the £30 or so on the mantlepiece was gone.

Took me almost 5 years to find out what really happened. They'd came home for some booze at around 3/4am, but the mate who had the keys was at the house party (waiting for booze). So they kicked the door open. Upon realising this will look bad and they'd have to pay for the damage, they made it look like a break in....

Why the fuck they went to such unreal lengths was and still is beyond my ken, but the tomato sauce up the walls was just about the cuntish thing ive ever heard of.

The poor landlady must've lost a bomb on that......
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 15:24, 4 replies)
A New Life In Spain
I just remembered another tale which should have put me off drinking for a while, but didn't.

When i was about 19 I was really good friends with Ben. We used to go up the local pub and drink loads of shots and nick road signs on the way home, wee on people's driveways, the usual. The good thing was that we didnt want to shag each other, so we could actually be proper boy-girl-mates without that sexual tension and trying not to have bad breath after a fag etc etc.

One night we were up the pub, walking back to my house I shared with my Dad when we decided that we didnt want the night to end. "I know! Let's move to Spain!" somehow came up. So off we trotted, back to mine, I woke my Dad up to ask where my passport was and told him I was moving to Spain. He just wanted a quiet life and to go back to sleep so pointed me in the right direction and let me get on with it. I packed a bag for my new life in Spain, and we called a taxi to take us to Gatwick. We went via Ben's and he also packed a bag. We were all set.

£30 later and at Gatwick, i then proceeded to phone my work answerphone and leave a message for my boss saying I was moving to Marbella, and then rang 3 of our clients to leave them messages to the effect of 'thanks for your business, lovely working with you but im actually moving to Spain tonight'. Rang my Mum who was working a night shift and she went fucking mental, but I was too pissed to care. Sat down for five minutes while waiting for Check-in to open for an Easy-Jet flight, fell asleep and woke up at 5am, sober-ish and realised what we had actually done.

Had to get a taxi all the way back which was another £30. Didn't feel too clever on Monday when I was speaking to our clients who all found it hilarious, the best bit was finding out what we had actually packed;-

1 x denim skirt
1 x spotty top
1 x tin pantene pro v hairspray
3 x pairs knickers

1 x towel
6 x pairs socks.

Still makes me laugh.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 15:13, 6 replies)
It's not a real party
until they firebomb your house.
(, Tue 29 Mar 2011, 13:31, 4 replies)

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