One new years eve
Myself and my mate Jay were invited to a party hosted by Jays landlord held at the shared house where he was living. I took a slab of Budweiser along and it was a lively enough party with drinking games, loud music and much fun and merriment were had. Everything was going swimmingly and after polishing off the lager and most of the other guests had left my mate suggested we crack open a bottle of Jack Daniels that he had got for xmas and stick a much watched video of The Killer on the telly. While watching this Hong Kong gun fest and bolstered by the warm glow of alcohol we decided to have a "See how many BB gun pellets you can take being fired at you from close range" competition.
Jays BB gun wasn't a particularly puny firearm and only the week before we had proved its veracity by firing at the metal letterbox on my front door, covering it with many dimpled dents so to fire it at close range onto skin wasnt a particularly good idea.
Perhaps i should have been warned that i had had far too much to drink and should really go home when even firing the said gun at my chest failed to cause me much pain. Instead we went onto bigger and better things when Jay bolted his room door and to prove his mastery of all things martial arts (drunk fu) he punched it and bent the bolt. My stupid fuzzy steeped in alcohol brain at this point decided that i wasn't going to be outdone by this so taking an almighty swing i hit the door and took it off its hinges.

Finally the shock value of this utterly senseless property damage coupled with the dull ache in my hand and the realisation that we had gone through three quarters of a bottle of Jack got through to me and i realised it was time to leave. I remember walking out the door and apparently travelled home in the beer Tardis as i have absolutely no recollection of the journey.

My next conscious memory gentle reader is one of pain. Oh my fucking god what had i done. Not only had i got a monstrous hangover (eyeballs replaced with red hot chilli soaked marbles and a tongue which tasted like a lavatory carpet) but i looked and felt like i had been savaged by a giant steroid pumped octopus. My chest, arms and legs were covered in angry round bruises and my hand was on fire.
The lasting legacy of all this is that because i didn't go straight to casualty, tried to man it out and put it off till a week or so later the knuckle on the little finger of my right hand is definitely not where it is supposed to be as it is around half an inch further up my hand. These days i definitely do not mix my drinks!
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Fri 29 Nov 2013, 12:16, Reply)