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)

Nice, reminds me of what little I remember of university.
First time I attempted to hold a party in my parents house, I found myself mounting a hungover cleanup operation. Thought I'd got away with it, until dad lifted up the bin, which had been stuck to the floor wither Archers, thus unleaching an almighty, peachy aroma, and sealing my fate.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 20:23, closed)

A click for the Terry Thomas reference.
The guy is responsible for me adopting "Well, hellooo..." as a chatup line.
We had rats in our (university owned) accomodation in my first year, so I can't identify with inspections of any kind taking place.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Mon 28 Mar 2011, 20:55, closed)