This is the story of my last drunk
But first a little backgound:

10 years ago I had a good job, people respected me, I earned loads of money, attracted a good woman, we got married and we had kids. We were both heavy drinkers - worked hard, played hard. But she had no trouble stopping when the kids arrived. Given enough reason most people - even the heaviest drinkers - can stop and can control their drinking. My wife could get drunk just like I did but she only did it a couple times a year - christmas , weddings that sort of thing. But eventually there came a time for me when I had to drink every day and I had to drink to pass out every day.

I went to AA in 2002, it was either that or us my wife told me. She rang them up and found out when the meeting was and sent me there. I didn't like it - people where talking about their "feelings" and it was in a church and they were holding hands and praying and I was thinking any minute now the tamborines would come out. I don't talk about my feelings and I don't beleive in God so AA isn't going to work for me. I went back home and told my wife that they'd told me that I wasn't an alcoholic - I was lying. I knew straight away from what they were saying I was an alcoholic. They spelled it out to me. Once I started drinking I couldn't stop and when I managed to stop it would only be a matter of time before I picked up another drink no matter how bad it had been, no matter how strong my resolve. My resolve was not enough and I knew it but I told my wife I was OK and so then I started to drink secretly.

I started to drink in secret a lot of the time. Waiting till everyone was in bed or putting it in my coffee or hiding it in the garage. I was trying to control it - If only I could just drink 2 bottles of wine a night I'd be OK. But of course on top of all the drinks I'd be sneaking during the day 2 bottles of wine would send me into blackout and in blackout I'd go out and get more booze. This went on for years.

My wife couldn't understand how I'd fall down drunk after sharing a bottle of wine with her over dinner. I started to act strange, to her I was turning into a mad man. I remember her telling me she was desparately worried that I'd turn into the kind of man who would kill his wife and children before turning the gun on himself. I terrorised her and my children, eventually I engineered a situation where I would leave and make it look like I was the injured party. It was always everyone else's fault - If you had a life like mine you'd drink - that's how I saw it. The reality was I wanted to leave so that I could drink as much as I wanted and now was my chance.

I lasted 6 months. God knows how but I managed to hold onto my job but I was pretty much drinking 20 hours a day and passed out the other 4. Alcoholism is a progressive disease. It never gets better it always gets worse. The quantities you consume go through the roof no matter what you try to do. This means you end up pretty much in blackout all the time with only brief periods of lucidity. During these brief moments of clarity all you want to do is kill yourself.

After 4 suicide attempts I ended up on a bridge. The highest one around. I was stone cold sober and the most rational thought I had was to jump - I knew I could not go on drinking and I knew that I could not stop and stay stopped. But I didn't have the balls to go through with it. So I did what I always did when I was frightened and anxious and didn't have the courage I went a bought a bottle of vodka. I wasn't surprised how easy it was to get a bottle of vodka at 7:30 on a Monday morning I'd done it a thousand times before.

I was too proud to drink it in the street. It was pride that was killing me really. I would rather off myself than admit I had a problem that I couldn't solve. I had missed a deadline at work and that's why I was going to kill myself. I was willing to scar my kids' lives, leave them without a father and their mother without an income to bring them up because I was too proud to admit I had failed. I had failed to control my drinking I had failed at everything else in life. I was too proud to be seen drinking in the street so I went to my usual drinking establishment - locked inside a toilet cubical at the train station.

It was my intention to down it quickly and then hurry back to the bridge, climb over the railings and just fall into the water. I knew I had 20 minutes or so before it kicked in and I'd blackout at which point I'd fall off, hit the water at about 90 miles an hour, break every bone in my body and drown.

I came to in a small room sat beside two police officers. To this day I have no idea what happened on the bridge. They had been with me for a couple of hours and they would not leave me until I had seen the psychiatrist. I was in hospital. I remember asking them why they were there bothering with the likes of me and they said that they'd rather be here with me than out there chasing some chav in a stolen car because they thought that I might have a chance at rebuilding my life. It was the first time in years that someone had shown an interest in helping me. All my friends and family had lost hope years before.

I saw the psychiatrist and he asked me if I wanted to be sectioned or if I wanted to admit myself voluntarily to the psychiatric ward. I asked him what the difference was and he said about 6 months, so I chose voluntary admittance because I had to be back at work soon bacause they wouldn't be able to cope without me would they?. I was completely off my rocker.

It was a locked ward. They gave me librium to stop the seizures you get from withdrawals and they showed me the same care and love that the policeman did. On the first night I had another moment of clarity, I didn't want to die this time though. I just realised that the game was up and I also realised that I couldn't fight it alone but that didn't matter because it seemed that everything would be ok because other people were willing to help me if only I asked. All my pride had gone, my ego was well and truely deflated but somehow it felt ok even though I was locked up and unable to get any booze. Ordinarily I would have been climbing the walls butinstead some kind of calm descended.

Over the days it became clear to me and the staff that I was not insane I was just an alcoholic. The psychosis was temporary. Alcoholic psychosis is short lived. Take away the alcohol and the psychosis goes. They suggested that I go back to AA. Up until then I hadn't even realised that the problem was my drinking. I went back to AA and since then I have never left.

Just a little less than 3 years ago my lifelong obsession with drink left me and as long as I practice a few simple daily steps I'm pretty certain it won't come back. I now know a new freedom and a new happiness. I don't regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. I comprehend the word serenity and I know peace. That feeling of uselessness and self pity has disappeared. I have lost interest in selfish things and gained interest in other people. Fear of people and of economic insecurity has left me. My whole attitude and outlook on life has changed.

I don't plan on getting uttley drunk ever again because I don't plan on drinking again. For the majority of people, like my wife, alcohol is harmless - they get drunk every once and a while and it's not a problem, it's funny. But if you are an alcoholic of my type some day sooner or later you'll pass over the line of no return and you'll never be able to drink safely again. It suddenly goes from funny ha ha to funny peculiar and eventually it ends up in tradgedy. The only hope you have then is to admit you have a problem and ask for help..... .....and return all the traffic cones of course
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( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 10:53, 27 replies)

Just a teensy bit drunk...
Back in the day I'd attended an all-night house party. A great bash and I was roused by the host around 5am and politely told to make myself scarce. I stumbled downstairs into the weak light of dawn and found myself facing an almighty dilemma. Was it to be a good hour's wait and intolerable 40min ride on the night bus, or was it to be a quick jaunt home in my shiny hatchback?

I did the maths. It was 5am, I'd probably been passed out for at least 2hrs and I'd had my last drink about an hour before that. My mind struggled with the well-known equation: time (t), equals alcoholic units (au), divided by risk of being pulled over (r). Totting it all up, my calculation of t=au/r indicated that I was perfectly fit to drive. So I did.

I pulled off, cruised down the High Street, turned onto the main road and was promptly flagged down by a police car. Bugger. Over wandered PC Plod.

'Had anything to drink tonight, sir?' he enquired politely.

'Maybe a beer or two maximum,' I replied as straight-faced as possible, 'but that was hours ago...’

Unfortunately, my kip on a booze-drenched couch had made me look and smell a little worse for wear.

'Please step out of the vehicle, I'm going to have to ask you to blow into this bag.'

'With pleasure, officer.'

And then...

'I'm arresting you on suspicion of driving under the influence of excess alcohol, I'm going to handcuff you and place you in the back of the patrol vehicle.'

Shit. Back of the cop car. Wasn't too bad - he put the blues and twos and we raced back to the station. I was duly processed and sent to a room with a big, big breathalyser, into which I blew and blew and blew again. But absolutely nothing happened. A faulty machine. Yes! But actually, no! As within minutes, a nurse had appeared to take a blood sample. The copper told me to come back when the results were in - and remember to bring my licence. I left the station, night bus all the way.

A week or so later the results were in, they showed 83mg of booze in my blood. The limit is 80mg! Three milligrams over the limit. THREE!

Back at the copshop they gave me two choices: hand in my licence, pay the fine and receive and instant ban for 12 months, or, should I so wish, though it would be exceptionally stupid on my part to do so (according to the desk sarge), I could resist the automatic ban and fight my corner in court.

Having just gained my freedom only months earlier when I passed my test, I was not going back to public transport or lifts from my mum. No way. I was going to fight it! Fight my 3mg discrepancy. I'd fucking show them. THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!

I sought the advice of several solicitors. None would touch my case. It was open and shut, I was over the limit, no matter by how l much, I was still over the limit and there was no defence. I retained an independent practitioner who calculated (properly this time) how much real-life alcohol I would have had to have drunk to be 3mg over. He took into account my weight, height, BMI etc. and came to the conclusion that the 3mg could have been accounted for by 1/4 of a pint of 5% ABV beer or a small mouthful of spirit.

But still, the briefs wouldn't take my case. I needed an angle. And then I found one. I'd read recently about chef who tried to beat a drink driving rap by claiming the sauces he had to taste in his restaurant all contained booze - and it was only this that had put him over the limit. He lost his case. He should have known what was in his sauces, said the magistrate, as he bloody well made them himself. His ban was increased to 18 months and his fine to £5k.

But what if he hadn't known what he was ingesting?

And there hinged my case. I was spiked your honour. I'd had my regulation two beers and then I’d moved to fruit juice. Or at least I thought I had…

A mate. A good mate who owed me a massive favour agreed to help me out. All he had to do, I told him, was explain to the court that he'd slipped a solitary vodka into my orange juice, you know, just for fun. After checking that his actions could not be construed as criminal, we had our day in court.

Defending myself, as no fool would touch my case, I rocked up at the magistrate's court with my loyal friend in tow. I took the stand, swore my oath and looked into the cold, dead eyes of the three magistrates about to judge me. They consisted of a 60+ year old woman, all twin-set and pearls, flanked by two blank looking men, both with double-barrelled names. Below me was the prosecutor, another stern-faced jobsworth by the looks of things.

The old lady started up, 'Mr Marshmallow, please give us your version of the events, we will then hear from the arresting officer and any witnesses you may call. The prosecutor will direct her questions to you, please address your answers to me.'

I told my story. I was at a party. I'd had a small drink, and then I'd settled down for a nap before I drove home. I didn't want to be tired at the wheel, did I?

'And what precisely did you have to drink?' asked the prosecutor.
I explained that I'd had two cans of Fosters and then moved onto orange juice. I also explained that my friend was acting as an impromptu barman, dolling out drinks to the party. He poured me my juice, and as I have so subsequently discovered, added a shot of vodka to it.

The copper was called. Reading from his notebook he described my arrest, the blood taking procedure and some other inane details. He wasn't asked to add anything further.

Then my friend, my loyal wonderful was called to the stand.
'Mr X,' began the prosecutor, 'is there any truth in the assertion Mr Marshmallow makes that you added a shot of vodka to the orange juice he'd asked you for?'

'Yes.' He stated quietly.

'Why on earth would you do that?'

'Well, well I wanted to the party going a bit!' He replied. 'I wanted everyone to have a good time so I was adding vodka to the juices, I was adding more gin to the punch, I was blind drunk and just having a laugh in my role as barman. I didn't know he was driving. I was just trying to give everyone a boost.'

'Rubbish!' The prosecutor cried. 'I put it to you Mr X that you are only here to try and help your friend. That this is a story the two of you have concocted to try and beat a very serious offence. Now tell me again, why would any sane person decide to spike people's drinks?'

It wasn't looking good. The magistrates seemed summarily unimpressed. I could see the 24 month ban and £10,000 fine coming my way. It was time for the nuclear option.

'I told you,' my lovely, gorgeous mate said, 'I was just trying to liven everybody up. I thought I'd try and get everyone pissed - even those asking for plain orange juice.'

'I'm sorry Mr X,' she said, 'I simply don't believe you. Give me one good reason, other than trying to aid your friend that you would take it upon yourself to do such a thing?'

'Because,' my friend said in almost a whimper, head bowed, staring at the ground, 'because I wanted to get him into bed. You see I’ve fancied him for ages but I’ve always been too scared to tell him. And when he told me he’d been arrested, I knew it was my fault and it was killing me. So I came clean and I told him what I’d done. I’m so sorry Albert, I truly am.’

Silence.

Who could argue with that? The magistrates can't appear to be homophobic, the prosecutor can't push her angle any more. It was now a simple case of unrequited love and a single shot of vodka. 100% believable and 100% untrue.

The prosecutor dithered. There were no further questions. The magistrates retired and reappeared over half an hour later.

I was called to the stand again.

'Mr Marshmallow,' the battle-axe in the middle addressed me, 'Mr Marshmallow we accept your reasons for being over the limit and find in your favour. May I add that I hope you have learned something from this experience and that in the future, you make up your own drinks and keep them close to you. This court has faced many cases of young women ignoring this advice and finding their drinks laced with far worse than vodka. And as for you Mr X, you must think long at hard about the consequences of your selfish actions. You could have destroyed your friend’s life for the sake of your own personal fascinations.'

The two of us silently absorbed our lecturing, and then shuffled out of the court and into the glorious light of day. A big high-five on the court steps and then off the boozer over the road to celebrate. He drove home.

tl;dr - I fought the law and I won.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 13:33, 53 replies)

STAY ABOUT FROM MY ODDBINS!

( .Yeti., Thu 14 Feb 2013, 13:34, 8 replies)

Train journeys are only bearable when cnuted...
... but getting the last train from Londinium to Exeter of an evening can turn a lovely drunken sleep-filled commute into a half dazed nightmare should you wake up in Plymouth or Penzance (I've done both once). Hence, as the train I was sitting on terminated in Exeter I knocked back a few tins of gin, showed my ticket to the man and happily passed out into my Chuck Palahnuik safe in the knowledge I'd not overshoot into another country. When I awoke the train had stopped in Exeter, only it had stopped quite a few hours before. Everyone had alighted, the inspector had done a check through the carriages, the driver had pulled into the sidings, they'd switched off all the lights, locked up and gone home.
Half dazed nightmare doesn't cover it. Half-cut shit-the-bed scream-fest would be more appropriate.
The swishy doors in between the carriages don't switch off so, should you be stumbling back and forth in a panic, it's a bit like being in a shit episode of Star Trek. Upon calling 999 I didn't really know which service to ask for ('Ummm, I'm locked on a train'). The police told me they'd contact the controller to try and help me. I cleared the fact that I was going to have some fags and wouldn't get fined. 15 minutes later the controller was on the phone telling me to make my way towards the front of the train - which is very apparent in the pitch fucking dark. Once I was located and helped off (Christ they're high when you're not at a platform) I say rather sheepishly to my saviour
'I bet this happens all the time'.
He looks at me wiheringly and says 'No'.

So I recommend drinking cooking lager and not spirits for long trips, should you not wish to experience half an hour of completely random terror.
(garetha, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 10:49, 6 replies)

Early Tub Girl.
I’ve repressed this one for years, due to reasons that will become abundantly clear.

My first shag was a bit, um...memorable for all the wrong reasons.

I was about 18, at a house party, lots of grog, young people getting drunk etc etc.

I got completely shitfaced, could hardly stand up, but ended up in a bedroom with a...err...slightly larger than normal equally drunk girl. It was her bedroom, and she was rather keen for me (or any bloke with a pulse) to stay the night. She was a bit rough, bit of a scrubber, but I had the beer goggles well and truly welded on.

We fumbled around for a bit, and much to my excitement, started doing the deed, like, you know, real sex and stuff! Gosh, it was better than I’d imagined, and best of all, large girl was an enthusiastic partner. Very enthusiastic. Sort of...like, really really enthusiastic, directing the action like a control freak hippo on heat.

I had just started shagging her doggy style, looked down to admire her large flabby white buttocks, and saw that she hadn’t really done a great job of wiping her arse when she has last coiled out a shit.

Farrrkin gross, man. The faint smell of shit set me off, and despite trying to pull out I chundered all over her back and the bed. There was a pause, then the chain reaction kicked in, and she projectile vomited all over the bed too.

Pure Class.

So, there I was, balls deep in a large girl, in a sea of mutual vomit. I momentarily stopped humping, “this is not very nice, it’s gone too far”. I thought.

A couple of seconds of silence... the stench of freshly regurgitated pizza wafting through my nose...then she loudly screams...”don’t fucking stop fuck ya! Keep fucking going, keep fucking going’”.

Jesus Christ. What kind of animal would want to continue after that little interlude?

I felt obliged to keep going, but the whole experience was becoming, errr, way too sordid. And smelly. After a bit, I clambered off the bed, and despite the enticing (not) offer of bum sex, made my exit.

I stumbled around the house, coated in a slick of vomit, found my clothes, stole a towel and stumbled home as quickly as I could.

Never saw her again.




Fucking sick.
( Ken Oath, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 3:01, 14 replies)

I spend a lot of my working day around traffic cones
When I get drunk I steal dissertations.
( Larry Death Anger Pain Fear Aggression, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 17:37, Reply)

Two people have now as for a pea pea pea roast. Who am I to not give to them?
I used to live in Bangkok, and also like a bit of a drink. As such for many years I used to wake up still langered with strange girls in my bed. The usual thing to do in this situation is grope around a bit, then have a nice drunken bleary eyed morning shag then send the young lady on her way, with the money in her purse to keep her kids in shoes for another month.

You think this is going to be about waking up with a ladyboy don't you. You're wrong. This is much much worse.

So I'd been away for a few years, and it was time to pop home to visit friends and family for a week. I arrived had dinner with the parents, and it was off down the pub for a session with the mates.

Now I like to think I can take my drink, but the combination of getting on the plane pissed, drinking for the entire flight- good old Thai air, they still ply you with drink to this day- then an evening down the local on top of my jet lag, and I was in a right state. At least I think I was, as I can't remember this part of the story, I'm piecing it together from what I've been told, and a little deduction.

So it's 2 in the morning, the local gorgonzola city club is kicking out, and I need to go back to the parents' house for some long overdue sleep.

But on arriving at the front door I had the old can't get the key in the lock problem, so in the end settled for sleeping on the garden path in front of the front door.

Now my dad is a baker, and as such gets up very early in the morning to go to work. So at around 5 he opens the front door to find me asleep on the path, wakes me up, tells me I'm an idiot, and sends me inside to go to bed.

I stumble upstairs climb into bed, and all is well with the world. I can remember none of this.

What I can remember, is waking up about an hour later- why is it when you've been on a proper bender you can only sleep for a short time, when what you need is a good eight hours?- in a darkened room, pissed out of my face, and a bit disorientated.

Now I thought I was still in my room in Bangkok, and true to form there was a nice warm body in the bed next to me. So what else could I do, but try and get it on. But things didn't go as usual, my advances were met with screams of Eden, what the fuck are you doing?

Yes, I had stumbled upstairs, and got into bed with my mum. Apparently she had tried to kick me into my own bed, but to no avail, so had gone back to sleep, with me sleeping in her bed. Then I woke up and tried it on.

At least these days when I get hampered, I always wake up next to my lovely wife.

Don't make the length jokes. Please don't.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 16:26, 13 replies)

A pearoast of my 19th birthday...
Had my 19th birthday while I was at Keele University and, by a happy coincidence, the same day there was a bash on at the student union - I don't recall what the bash was for, but some people were in fancy dress.

Anyway, I got extremely drunk and was dancing with this gorgeous blonde who was wearing nothing but a black bin liner (no idea why), and she had nothing on underneath... we were dancing very close! Cue fun size mars bar in the front of my pants.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I woke up the next day back in my room at the halls of residence, with the hangover of the century and very little memory of the night before. I did remember the cute blonde though.

I got out of bed... and there, on the floor, was a torn and crumpled black bin liner, with holes for head & arms to go through.

No sign of any naked females. None of my clothes were missing. My solitary condom was still in my wallet. Puzzlement ensued. How could she have got back to where she lived? She must have been stark naked...

For the next few days, I spent ages trying to find out who the cute blonde was, for all I knew she was now up the duff from a fuck I didn't even remember.

Had no luck finding out who she was, or where she lived.

A few days later, one of my mates confessed... That night they had dragged me back, alone, to my room in a paralytic state, and dumped me on the bed. Then, in their evil drunken state, they came up with a great idea for a jape.. namely, to get a black bin liner and a pair of scissors...
( calibrax loves teh hamsters (not in that way), Mon 18 Feb 2013, 16:17, Reply)

Some of my thoughts
at the risk of triple T'ing and the howls of derision from the usual couple of wanker-trolls with superiority complexes.

A disease is when a pathogen/virus/bacteria enters your body without your knowledge or conscious effort thru any number of avenues.

An addiction is when you body or mind craves a substance so much so that you will forgo all other things, places or people in order to get that substance and then ingest it. Physiological addictions tend to be far harder to overcome than psychological addictions. Having said that I'm in no way negating the fact that using you will-power to battle your brain over your body is any less of a serious battle.
But that's it to me - addiction is ultimately overcoming your overwhelming desire to take a drug with your will-power. You may need all sorts of assistance to beat that desire but at the end of the day you make a conscious decision to either lift the bottle to you lips or not. Addiction is not a disease.

Now I know I'm going against a lot of modern medical doctrine here. I don't have an argument really other than - as I've said you chose to do the things you do. Sex addicts penises don't accidentally fall into vaginas. Heroin doesn't invade 1 junkies bloodstream from another's and start to multiply. HIV and most of the Heps still do tho - shoot safe and don't share, kiddies!
Personally I feel that as soon as they managed to find a way to call any addiction a "disease" was when every person who didn't have any will-power got a free ride to say "Don't you judge me!". As far as I'm concerned a psychologist telling you that alcoholism is a disease is akin to a microbiologist telling you that the bacteria you ingested attacked your immune system because you were weak willed.

I don't like AA. A higher power never took me to a meeting. I drove my straight, sober self. I have the Blue Book - not really relevant anymore. But Bill did a lot of good shit at the time. If you want to scare your self sober by reading try "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey (which I know was bullshit but hair-raising non-the-less), "I'm Black and I'm Sober" by Chaney Allen or even "Scar Tissue" by Anthony Kiedis. (Google them you lazy bastards!)
The other thing I don't like about AA is the negative emphasis. EDIT: And the constant focus on staying dry. Spending all your time obsessed with not drinking isn't healthy - all you end up doing is thinking about drinking. All the time. I'm a great believer in pro-activity and silver linings.Spending your life focusing on how you've managed not to have a drink each day seems like a wasted effort. Go out, have fun, do shit that you enjoy doing. Then quietly reflect at the end of the day that you couldn't have done a lot of it if you'd spent your day drinking. I love taking my daughter fishing at the end of a busy day.

Finally - lower the bar. Don't hold others to your expectations.
A mate of mine hopped on the wagon a couple of years ago. His missus kept drinking most days and smoked a shitload of pot all day, every day.
She had offered to go "dry" with him but he told her that was her choice (as he should have) but she flatly refused to stop smoking. That was where he had issues. He could see her addiction and expected her to "give up" as much as he had (she clearly didn't have a problem with her drinking and was easily able to give it up). Yet his expectations were that she would be as "dry" as him.
I know it caused them a lot of problems - at the end of the day, he was going it alone and he needed to focus on that rather than worry about whether his missus was straight and sober.

To anybody who's dry or trying - talk to people you love openly about it. If they judge you then it's not *really* the end of the world (no matter who they are). If you drink bottle(s) of "hard" stuff a day go to a doctor when you quit because going dry without medical supervision can be far more dangerous than going cold turkey from smack.

My 2 cents.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 16 Feb 2013, 6:51, 7 replies)

My Whisky Story
I had eighteen bottles of whiskey in my cellar and was told by my wife that I had a drinking problem, and to empty the contents of each and every bottle down the sink, or else. I said I would and proceeded with the unpleasant task.

I withdrew the cork from the first bottle and poured the contents down the sink with the exception of one glass, which I drank.

I then withdrew the cork from the second bottle and did likewise with it, with the exception of one glass, which I drank.

I then withdrew the cork from the third bottle and poured the whiskey down the sink which I drank.

I pulled the cork from the fourth bottle down the sink and poured the bottle down the glass, which I drank.

I pulled the bottle from the cork of the next and drank one sink out of it, and threw the rest down the glass.

I pulled the sink out of the next glass and poured the cork down the bottle. Then I corked the sink with the glass, bottled the drink and drank the pour.

When I had everything emptied, I steadied the house with one hand, counted the glasses, corks, bottles, and sinks with the other, which were twenty-nine, and as the houses came by I counted them again, and finally I had all the houses in one bottle, which I drank.

I'm not under the affluence of incohol as some thinkle peep I am. I'm not half as thunk as you might drink. I fool so feelish I don't know who is me, and the drunker I stand here, the longer I get.
(Dante licked your nipple on, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 20:02, 1 reply)

I've always had a lot of class.
One evening I got so pissed I fell asleep on the toilette.
I woke after god knows how long with numb legs and dribble down my shirt. Slipped out of my shoes to creep into the bedroom so as not to disturb The Lovely Mrs Ring Of Fire...and found myself standing in the public bar of my local with a shoe in each hand.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Fri 15 Feb 2013, 18:35, 2 replies)

Frisbee Alan.
Let me tell you a story, a story of one man's tragic lifelong struggle with the bottle. Let's call him Alan (for that is his name).

wavy lines

Alan was born into a normal family in Wigan in the early 1990s. At first there was nothing unusual about him, apart from his buck-toothed pustule-ridden face and his lank, greasy ginger hair. A happy-go-lucky boy, he spent his time building Airfix kits and painting them. One fateful day, Alan was working on his latest creation (a Sherman tank, Mk II I think it was) and became so engrossed in his work than he reached for a drink and absentmindedly picked up not the bottle of Panda cherryade he'd been drinking, but the jar of turpentine in which he cleaned his brushes. An almost audible whoosh of pleasure rushed through Alan's body - this was it. Suddenly he felt better than he'd ever done before. All he knew was that he loved that turps like a miner loves gold, and he wouldn't rest until he had some more.

Wind the clock forward 15 years. No longer that optimistic, cheery (but cripplingly ugly and smelly) boy - now a mere wreck of a man, his abortive attempts at becoming a teaboy at a legal practice foiled again and again as he would repeatedly be caught drinking Tipp-ex thinners and shoe polish on his ever-lengthening lunch breaks. Once the jobs went, so did Alan's abilty to pay his rent. Now the bus shelter was his house, the bins his larder...only one thing remained constant: the turps. One by one even the local vagrants turned their backs on him as he would steal the sherry from their bedrolls, and the stench from his shit-filled corduroys became ever-more repulsive.

Something something something Darth Vader.

Cheers

I really can't be arsed to write any more, soz.
tl:dr Alan is an alkie with no dignity LOL
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 15:27, 9 replies)

Stereotypical Brit Abroad
When I was a younger chap (21 maybe?), my friends and I decided that it would be a superb idea to book ourselves on a gentleman's holiday to the magnificent resort of Malia. We drove our Honda Accords to to the travel agents to make the arrangements before doing MASSIVE DRUGS LOL.

Skip forward a few months and myself and four friends are in a bar on the main strip in Malia drinking cheap sugary drinks from a variety of novelty receptacles. As the night progressed I lost the ability to form actual words but managed to get the attention of a young lady through a series of grunts and provocative dance moves. I have no idea how it happened but the next thing that I knew I was walking with her back to her hotel.

After what seemed like miles we arrived only to be greeted by the hotel security telling us that under no circumstances was I going to be allowed to enter his establishment to plough this fine lady as I wasn't a paying guest and I was thoroughly intoxicated. As you can imagine this news didn't please me much. My grunts and provocative dance moves didn't have the same effect on the security as they did on my companion so we walked away from the entrance to discuss our options. My hotel was miles away and I was sharing a room with friends so that was out of the question so we decided that the best way for me to gain entry was to sneak in through the hedge while she was distracting the security.

After walking through a very muddy field I found a gap in the hedge which I attempted to slip through unnoticed. Obviously my current level of intoxication meant that I was far less subtle than I imagined and another member of the hotel security spotted me. He shouted something into his radio and I took off back across the field and down the road. In the distance I heard the sound of small engines firing up and I knew that I wasn't going to be able to outrun them on their chav quads. I jumped over a low wall and crossed my fingers that they wouldn't see me. Sure enough I heard they fly past at which point a light bulb appeared above my head. If they are chasing me down the road, nobody is guarding the front of the hotel!

I proudly strode up to the gates, walked straight in and quickly found the room of my beloved for the evening. After what was probably a very inadequate amount of foreplay we were both in our birthday suits ready to make the beast with two backs.

A knock at the door and much shouting quickly scared the living bejesus out of me so I collected my clothes and climbed into the wardrobe. Luckily after a few sharp words, the security dispersed and we were left to make disappointingly quick and unsatisfying love.

The next morning I awoke and immediately speculated how I was going to get out of the hotel without being beaten up by security so I decided that a surprise exit was in order. I bid farewell to my conquest and sprinted out of the hotel. I will never forget the look of surprise on the security guards face as I ran hell for leather out of the front gate. As soon as I got to the place where I had hid the night before I jumped over the wall and waited for the impending sound of quads to zip past me. Not knowing how long they would search for me I waited for them to return before strolling back to my hotel for a kip.

I'm never normally a quick thinker especially when drunk so this ranks as one of my proudest drunken moments.

tl;dr drunkenly outsmarted Greek hotel security guards in order to get laid.
(CasuallyObscene, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 11:57, 4 replies)

I once drank some booze and then some stuff happened and it was well lol.
Now imagine that this post takes up at least three screens, most of it line breaks and vote it to win please kthxbai.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 17:35, 6 replies)

Pearoast including drunkenness and crustaceans
Some years ago I was working with a great bunch of guys who were the epitome of the 'work hard, play a billion times harder' ethos.
We'd secured a mahoosive contract to supply a large Danish company with some serious hardware and, as I was the 'Engineer' of the company it fell to me to be there when it arrived - fuck knows why, I wasn't doing anything to it but hey ho.
I'd been on the lash with the guys in the departure airport for quite a while when the flight was called and I was 'quite refreshed'. Luckily I was allowed on to the plane into first class, whereupon I was given more booze. And then more booze - rinse and repeat.
The plane was then diverted to Schipol - where I hit the complimentary (at the time - dunno if it's free now) first-class bar. An hour later, now 'heavily refreshed' I got on a plane to Copenhagen.
On bumbling out of baggage claim in Copenhagen I was at a loose end for a while until the car we'd re-booked could come for me.
I don't remember getting from Copenhagen to Roskilde. I don't remember booking into the hotel. I don't remember getting to my room.
I DO remember waking up thinking I'd got a Somali refugee camp in my mouth and a drummer's convention in my head. In my bleary state I looked for a familiar room landmark to let me have at least an idea of which country I was in. Luckily there was a brochure from the hotel on the nightstand next to a polystyrene box bound with blue tape that clearly I'd put there the previous night.
I opened it the box.

There was a lobster inside.

I looked again.

Still a lobster.

Where the fuck did I get a lobster? WHY the fuck did I have a lobster on my nightstand?
I had not a scooby, no frickin' idea.
I closed the box, went for breakfast and waited for my car to the factory, brooding on the fact that I had a/ clearly bought a lobster and b/ what the fuck was I doing with it?
I gave it to the hotel kitchen. They looked at me like I was a pissed Englishman trying to pass off a lobster to them - and they were right.
All was revealed when my lift came. It's not easy to raise the subject of random lobsters on your nightstand - to a man who has only just met you - but raise it I did.
Apparently there are lobster salespeople in Copenhagen airport who sell lobsters to travellers. I'd bought one and promptly forgotten, Thank god I didn't think it was a kebab!
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:53, 2 replies)

One year, I forget which, due to my penchant for the odd pint
Anyways. Directly across the road from where I worked was a pub. The first pint cold and clear as a Julian Assange rape charge hit my throat.
“MMmmmmm Cheers” says I
The second is also met with a resounding “Cheers”
The third ”cheers” my Dutch courage flowing I started to converse, stories of Amsterdam Stag Night’s ,Reading Rock Festival & Cayton Bay, Wallis Caravan Park Flowed.
Yet another pint “cheers” followed by pint after pint. Each one greeted with an uproarious “CHEERS”

My paranoia descended all of the male clientele looked like off duty Police Traffic Officers. The sound of Tracey Chapman on the juke box did nothing to help the situation, another pint? What the hell “Cheers” In a master class of humour I decided to take the piss out of bullshitting, self-aggrandising pricks in the pub.

It was at this moment I realised I was Legless.


I bought a bottle of Jim Beam and headed back home, I’d repressed most of these memories. Only way to keep what's left of my sanity. CHEERS
( hartley hare Just some prick who thinks it doesn't apply to him, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:13, 3 replies)

Hungarian national drink japery
On a stag weekend in Budapest last year we decided we had to try the national tipples. One of them was the hilariously-monikered Unicum, which tastes like Jagermeister with aspirin crushed up in it. Excellent at the end of the night to settle your stomach, apparently.

The other is pálinka, which is drunk in a stemmed glass, and comes in various flavours ranging from "really quite nice" to "somebody shoot me please".

One evening saw us in a cool-looking cellar bar called Cactus Juice. Me and another chap Nathan were at the bar, getting a couple more beers before our taxi arrived. Suspended above our heads was a giant green glass ball, with a tap on the bottom. Truly it was a beauteous thing to see.

"What's that?" we asked
"Pálinka" replied the barmaid "Honeyed peach flavour!"

Nathan and I looked at each other. Honeyed peach! That sounded delicious! Two were ordered, and downed at the bar as was customary.

Ho.

Lee.

Fuck

O_o

Honeyed peach? Undead peaches in diesel, more like. Nathan and I gasped, spluttered, swore, clung to the bar as consciousness wavered, then staggered back to where the rest of the group was sitting. Not only did our beers completely fail to mask the taste of the horror we'd just drunk, but everyone made us sit at the far end of the table as the smell of the pálinka was making them all feel sick...

tl;dr - me and a friend drunk some horrible booze and I described the experience beautifully
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 14:11, 6 replies)

I was once travelling with four girls through turkey and greece, which sounds alright but was actually a bit of a nightmare of petty squabbling and PMT
never again.
Anyway, I'd reached my breaking point. One of the girls was pissed off we'd come to greece in the first place, and was whinging about all the parts of Cappadocia she was missing. I hadn't actually invited her to come with me in the first place, she'd tagged along and knew my plans. I arranged for a cheap light plane to take us back to turkey to shut her up, but she said she was scared of small planes and insisted we take the ferry, involving 2 days of backtracking.
We were at a bar on the greek island of chios, empty except for an old greek man with silver hair and moustache drinking alone. He heard me speaking English and invited me over. Ignoring the others I began going shot for shot with him, downing ouzo like there was no tomorrow. In between shots, I explained my travails. He listened , and when the girls came over to tell me they'd had enough and wanted to leave he sympathetically yelled at them
"You fuckin' bitches. Leave us alone."
Then turning to me, he proclaimed loudly "Women are all whore cunts. Have another drink, my friend"
Now at this point I could have sided with my travelling companions and left, but the ouzo and three weeks of bickering pushed me over the line. When they gave me an ultimatum I didn't make eye contact but said "I'm staying right here"

I don't remember a lot of the rest of the night. I do remember him holding his hands in front of my face and saying "The life! The life is what is important. Fuck work" like it was the hardest won truth of his existence. The hangover was blinding, but the repurcussions were surpisingly advantageous. The chief whinging girl had left in the morning in a huff. She lasted about 3 more days of solo travel before packing it in and catching a flight back to london. The others fell into line, and even backed me when I suggested staying a few more days and hiring a jeep to explore the island.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 22:10, 6 replies)

Almost Asphyxiation
Years ago, out on the piss one night in Hobart, with my housemates Enormous Bruce and Little Joe. We had more than a skinful, smoked a million ciggies, spent all but a few coins, sun was rising over the horizon, so time to stumble home.

We made the traditional stop into Charlie Brown’s hotdog house for some lip’n’arsehole hotdogs in a pulpy white roll. Standing on the footpath, swaying in the non-existent breeze, dutifully scarfing down our hotdogs, then continue to ride the beer taxi home.

Once home, the lads passed out in their respective bedrooms, but I felt the need to chunder, so made my way to the bathroom.

Now, I find vomiting into a toilet somewhat crass, especially in a sharehouse full of blokes (too much bark painting), so I leaned over the (relatively) clean bath and made ready to regurgitate everywhere, with intent to sluice it down the plughole with some water.

After a few false starts and a lot of drooling, there was a familar heave of the stomach, a large lump arose in my throat... and there it stayed.

Fuck!!! Can’t breathe!! Choking!!

Reeling around the tiny bathroom, going purple in the face, gagging with panic, I was fucking choking on something big and solid. With one final throat tearing blurrrghh, out it came. I sucked in beautiful cool air...and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

In a pool of bile, at the bottom of the bath was a perfectly intact hotdog, the sausage was even still in the roll. How the fuck I managed to eat it, let alone bring it back up (and not die), still has me buggered to this day.

Anyway, I was so impressed, I immediately roused the other to come and admire my glutton/regurgitation skills, but um...they didn’t really seem that enthused. So, I carried it outside, and fed it to the fat greedy Labrador next door, then fell asleep on the lawn.
( Ken Oath, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 10:46, 7 replies)

Blue Smiroff - vol 1
From two decades ago...

When I was 17 my parents used to live in Oman. This is one of the countries in which alcohol was very difficult to get hold of, especially for a minor.

I'd been there a few times before to visit my parents over Christmas and Easter holidays from school, and I'd met a girl of a similar age there that seemed quite fun, so this time when I went over, I brought a half litre of Blue Smirnoff (50% alc) with me.

My plan was to go to some secluded cliffs at dusk, drink this together with this girl, and then - as I had heroically procured some very strong drink in this land of thirst and drought - she would be so impressed by my impeccable masculinity, and so romantically overcome with the warm desert breezes gusting playfully over our drunken bodies, that she would ravish my teenage anatomy into sexual oblivion.

However . . .

There is a seven hour flight to Oman from London. That’s seven hours of free drinks. But, even though the drinks were free, they still weren't coming fast enough. So - about half way through the flight - I cracked open the bottle of vodka for a cheeky small gulp or two.

Or three.

Or fou

iv e ? …. x


. . . . . . ? . . .


The plane lands and I wake up - and the bottle is empty. I've finished half a litre of 50% vodka. For some reason I found that confusing more than anything. Anyway - I got off the plane - and there’s a shuttle bus that takes from the plane to the airport. Apparently I manage to smash one of the windows of the shuttle bus, but I cant remember that at all….

We get to passport control, and they haven't sorted out my paperwork. AGAIN. I should have an NOC (No Obligations Certificate) to get me into the country, but they don’t have it.

So I totally lose my rag with this poor girl at passport control - yelling at her and shouting that “this always happens”, and explaining how useless they are, etc etc. I’m not a violent person at all, and I can hold my booze a fair bit, but I freely admit I WAS acting like a colossal drunken cunt.

A proper arsehole.

This attracts security for some reason, who come over to investigate what this excitable young man is doing. Spitting and swearing and screaming, THAT’s what I'm doing. And shouting and testiculating wildly in my paralytic stupor. The nice armed security men ask me to calm down, so I start on them, instead.

So they handcuff me.

But - because I was so utterly, totally refreshed, so unbelievably tipsy, I couldn't stand up with my hands handcuffed behind my back…

…and THAT’s the reason why I was an hour late meeting my parents when coming out of arrivals at Muscat International Airport. When my mum and dad DID eventually see me come out of the arrivals gate into the main airport, I was handcuffed, sitting down and being pushed in a wheelchair which was flanked by two armed guards, while I screamed "GET ME OUT OFF THIS WHEEL-CHAIR YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!! GET THESE FUCKING HANDCUFFS OFF ME YOU COCKSUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS!! FUCK YOU, AND FUCK YOUR FUCKING IMMIGRATION FUCKERS YOUR CUNTS!! YOUR FUCKING FUCKING CUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNTS!!!!!!"

Oh, they were SO proud.

Unfortunately, the next few times in my life I drank Blue Smirnoff, similar things have happened. I'll tell you about them soon.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 19:40, 4 replies)

taken from a previous QOTW
My wife and I stayed over one night at her friends' house after a nice big boozy dinner. THis was not your crappy student flat - we were all grown up and in nice houses with bought furniture and the like.

I woke in the morning to a pretty frosty reception. Not unknown - my wife doesn't really drink and I drink her share to avoid offending our hosts; with the usual expected consequences. THat morning I recalled how I had a strange dream that I couldn't get into the bed the night - the duvet wouldn't come off. It was all very odd.

She pointed ot the corner of the room from where I had apparently proceeded to pull up their fitted carpet and crawl underneath it to sleep before returning to bed a few hours later on account of the cold.
(Rammer, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 16:20, 4 replies)

My Mancunian friend drank all of his beer last weekend
he had an out-of-Boddies experience
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 21 Feb 2013, 14:51, 1 reply)

Cocktails in Hull
Circa 2006 I was walking along the huge strip of bars that is Hulls Beverly road when I saw a sign that said "All Cocktails £2".

Despite the fact that it was around 2pm and I had other matters that I should of been getting on with I stopped in for a drink. Given that this particular establishment had to stop serving upmarket and poncey drinks such as Stella as the locals referred to £2.10 a pint as 'daylight robbery' two quid was a not entirely implausible sum.

Vodka Martini please I said to the barmaid who then proceeded to look at me like I had just walked off the spaceship from 'flight of the navigator'

"eh?" she replied.

Ok a bit ambitious for £2, thought I. I'll go for something less elaborate, "Sorry, How about an old fashioned instead then?"

*blank stare*

"I'm sorry, but there is a sign outside that says 'all cocktails £2'. What exactly did you mean by that?"

"Vodka and coke" (Pronounced Cuhrke in the local accent)

I decided on a pint of bitter.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 18:38, 6 replies)

Three fellowes wenten into a pubbe,
And gleefullye their handes did rubbe
In expectatione of revelrie
For 'twas the houre known as happye

Greate botelles of wine did they quaffe
And hadde a reallye good laffe
'Til drunkennesse held full dominione
For 'twas two for the price of one

Yet after wine and meade and sack
Man must have a massive snack
Pies and pasties from Cornwalle!
Scottishe egges, round like a balle!

Great hammes, quaile, ducke and geese!
They suck'd the bones and drank the grease!
One fellowe stood all pale and wan
For he was vegetarianne

Yet man knoweth that gluttonie
Stoketh the fyre of lecherie
Upon three young wenches round and slye
The fellowes cast a wanton eye

One did approach, with drunkene winke
"'Ello darlin', d’you fancy a drink?"
Soon they caught them on their knee,
'Twas like some grotesque puppettrie!

Such was the lewdness and debaucherie
'Twas like a sketch by Dick Emery!
Except that Dick Emery is not yet born
So such comparisonne may not be drawn

But then the fellowes began to pale
For quail are not the friende of ale
And in their bellyes much confusione!
From their throats vile extrusione!

Stinking foule corruptionne!
Came spewinge forth from droolinge lippes
The fetide stenche did fille the pubbe
'Twas the very arse of Beelzebubbe!

Thrown they were, from the Horne And Trumpette
In the street, no coyne, no strumpet
Homeward bounde, must quicklie go
To that ende - a donkey stole

Their handes all with vomit greased
The donkey was not pleased
And threw them into a ditche of shite
They all agreed: “What a brilliant night!”

[Copyright Bill Bailey]
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:49, 2 replies)

Yer
BASTARDS. Besht freinsh.lkxola,cls;slk ruuurrrrrrrr

jmfuk,ttte5678bv
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:20, 3 replies)

Last night I was totally legless...
...so much so that I accidentally shot my girlfriend.

Oscar Pistorius.
( R.Soul hmmm, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 17:51, 10 replies)

Got stuck in the sunroof of a car.
I was trying to have a poo on the windscreen and the glass gave way.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Thu 14 Feb 2013, 14:13, 2 replies)

At my last birthday, I was taken home by three women. Not lying.
Actually taken home. Two butch lesbians supporting me, Mrs Vagabond carrying bags (she's too small and weak to support A massively drunken Vagabond).

Apparently I was beat-boxing the entire way, and slept in the hall.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 12:53, 2 replies)

Haiku
Got drunk did daft shit
Wrote it down on a website
No-one gave a fuck

- Bashō, 1672
( the_other_jeff_lebowski Croutons on my tits, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 11:59, 9 replies)