Pubs, no matter....
...how high end, or equally, low brow they may be, will at some point of their structural career be a place for us: Inebriatus-twatimus to try and get our barely dexterous digits into the knickers of them: Fitticus-beergogglius-babeimus.

Most blokes seem to get a slap, some actually find themselves playing uncoordinated tonsil tennis with a girl of questionable age while the poor few will just sit in the corner, alone, planning their revenge against everyone who is better looking than them.

If you're me though, you'll fuck the whole thing up with style.

There was a girl I liked, a lot. She generated the proverbial 'float' for my metaphorical boat. I was really quite into her, so I was keen to impress.

We, as a group, found ourselves undertaking a mid-summer pub crawl of epic proportions. It was brilliant actually as it was one of those days where I felt invincible. We've all had those days, the one's where the booze seems to be having a minimal effect, saving you from being wankered by 3pm.

The conversation was great too, everything I said was funny and well received. I was a hero among my peers, but more importantly I was a here to the girl who I was so enamored with that my heart fluttered every time her piercing blue eyes met with mine.

As the day progressed the group started to disperse into the night, dancing, falling or trying to play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire on the IT-Box. Me and the girl of my dreams were at the bar though, chatting, flirting, tentatively touching, tingling with tremendous tension (alliteration there, just for Pooflake), it was amazing.

It was at this point that she suggested we have a shot of something. Fine by me, I'm a seasoned drinker so I'm more than happy to carry on...

"Two tequilas" shouts my girlie....

Hmm, this should be new. I've never had tequila before, but hey ho, can't be all that bad.

We line up the shots, do whatever it is with the salt, and then knock them back. This is where it went wrong. In a big way.

The tequila reacted with me in a manner that is not to dissimilar to the reaction you'd get from a bottle of Fairy Liquid being placed in the Log Flume at Alton Towers.

The details are sketchy, but I do know I barfed over the bar, the barmaid, the floor and her. Not just a bit though, no, she went up a cup size from the amounts of vomit (consisting of a days food, beer, Guinness and a little bit of tequila). It seeped through her top, spilling out over her skirt and down her legs onto what I can only assume were quite expensive open toed shoes.

The pub, and this was a big pub mind, fell silent. I gurgled a bit and took in the sights of what I'd done. It wasn't good.

Predictably she ran out screaming with her friends in tow. I just stood there in shock. My mate came over, put his hand on my shoulder and said, in the most reassuring tone..

"You sir, are a fucking legend"

To this day I've not spoken to her, I've not been allowed to have this story die and worst of all, I'm still not allowed back in that pub!
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:52, 4 replies)

Excellent tale...!

I'm flattered to get a mention in it!

*clicks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:58, closed)

Tequila is the work of the devil.
Pure evil.

And it tastes horrid too.
(xanthine, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 6:18, closed)

...
you should contact her. If nothing else I'm sure she'll remember you :)
(Gazebo will eat you on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 11:30, closed)

Not....
...for the reasons I want her to though!
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 12:51, closed)