Drink! Cars! Police! Fines!
Danny and I decided to go out. We went to go to the student union and take advantage of the 60p vodka on offer. As you can imagine, this was one of my less brilliant ideas. By nine o'clock I was singing. By ten o'clock I was sicking. By eleven o'clock I was at home, on the sofa, semi-conscious.

I was lying there in the centre of a party, and, come 5am, when it was beginning to fizzle out I was prevailed upon to drive everyone home. The problem was, I was a bit pissed still, and had no car. Danny hopped into the passenger seat of his, threw me the keys, and off we went.

I spent the next hour or so bombing about the city and Rotherham, having a whale of a time. A couple of hundred yards from home I noticed I had a police car behind me. Oh fuck. I drove onto John Street, adjacent to Bramall Lane and the blues came on. Oh fucketty fuck. The police came to the window and were overwhelmed by the odour of booze. Danny, paralytic, was covered in wine and had spilt a bottle on the car floor.

"Have you been drinking, Sir?"
"Erm, would you believe I'm teetotal?"
"No Sir. Breathe into this please."

Fuck fuck fuck.

"You're nicked, sunshine..."

I was escorted into the back of a police car, and was officially cunted. Still singing to myself, the custody sergeant booked me in, bollocking me for dancing on the spot and humming. I was asked what drugs I'd had, and honestly replied none. I wasn't believed, but they couldn't do anything about it. They called a doctor for a blood test; miraculously, despite feeling pissed as a parrot, I was borderline on the breath test. The blood test read 81. The limit is 80. They knew I had no insurance. They threw the book at me, then made me walk the 4 miles home in a shirt, at 8am, with 10p on me, in the freezing November morning.

Obviously I had to go to court. This was a worry. However, all I had to was stay in the night before, have a drink and early night then, with Danny and Vicky, go to court in a suit, say the right things and take my ban and fine on the chin.

The best laid plans...

Danny and I, at 8pm, were a little tipsy on Bitch Drinks and fancied a game of pool. We went to the Surrey and got plastered. Wending our way home at 11 I received a call from my girlfriend; would I like to go out for a drink at a cheesey new club. Erm, yes. Yes, I would. I got battered. The four of us got home at about 5, and I was ill. Feeling dire, I woke at 8, and walked back home, to get my suit, before driving to the court.

I was white and shaking. Due to my hangover, my awful awful hangover. As opposed to fear. We got bored. And when Danny and I got bored, we got mischevious. We spent hours imitating the burps of the Budweiser frogs and sliding up and down the corridors. Vicky was mortified.

Anyhow, the hearing was a farce; my brief didn't know the case, fucked up the facts, and I defended myself. I got the minimum punishment available; a years ban and a £100 fine. I also had to endure a severe telling off about my irresponsibility...

Went to the pub, did some trips then went to work.

Fantastic day out, in the end.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Fri 21 Sep 2007, 12:39, Reply)