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This is a question Utterly Drunk

Now is your chance to warn others of the dangers of drinking to excess. On the other hand, what hilarious japes did you get up to while shitfaced?

Thanks to Battered for the suggestion

(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 11:55)
Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

I used to drink
There is a reason that I don't drink any more, that is I finally learnt from my mistakes. The last time I drank was about 5 months ago.

My partner was away visiting family and I thought I would indulge in a little mid-week tipple. Well, the first glass of Pinot turned in to a second trip to the local newsagent/off licence. I finally made my way to bed plastered. Woke up in panic the next day as I had go to work by train. Train arrives it's packed, I'm standing pressed up near the door with all the 6th form students, it's too hot, I can't take my coat off, the students are being noisy and the concocted smell of excited child, washing powder, cheap perfume and deodorant was too much. I felt hot then suddenly cold and clammy with that familiar wet mouth. I came with in seconds of vomiting in the hood of a girls duffel coat, but I managed to escape to the luxurious poo scented train toilet where I stayed for the remainder of the journey.

Although I didn't/couldn't chuck my guts up on the train. I did when I was at work and was over heard doing so, much to my shame.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 12:59, 23 replies)
Went out, had a few beers, came home, a few more beers and a curry in front of a DVD, bed.

(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 12:33, 7 replies)
Roasted Pea
One awful morning after consuming 18 pints of delicious Guinness, I was lying in bed with my then girlfriend, idly stroking the rigid, diabolcal quiver of my member.

She soon got out of bed and went to the bathroom, and I seized the moment of solitude to rid myself of the titanic fart i could feel brewing in my guts. I arched my back, squeezed, and immediately recoiled in horror as 18 pints of dark black liquid faeces erupted from my poor unsuspecting sphincter all over my thighs and bedsheets.

Quickly jumping out of bed, tearing up the richly stained sheets and wiping myself 'clean', I just managed to ball up the evidence and pull the duvet over the bare mattress before she came back in the room. I stuffed the Guinnessy shit-sheets behind an amplifier and showered away the shame.

Anyway....we had to go somewhere pretty smartish so thought I would take care of the accidental dirty protest when we got back.

Upon our return however, We were greeted by the sight of my dear old mum clutching a bucket full of cleaning products, with tears in her eyes.

"We have to talk..." she said

I assure you, Vanish Stain Sticks do NOT work.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 11:32, 13 replies)
omg i was so trashed i dun a shit in the washing machine lol

(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 10:57, 3 replies)
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
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 10:53, 27 replies)
I once stole a traffic cone when I was drunk
and also a couple of 'men at work' road signs
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 10:43, Reply)
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 9:50, Reply)
Dean Martin said
You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.

I like that ;)
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 8:55, 4 replies)
A horrid thing, witnessed.
It was many years ago, when I had just reached legal drinking age and was first visiting bars frequented by classmates and other lowlifes.

The bar in question was a popular watering hole, renowned for allowing people to get falling down drunk as it was next to the university and no one was likely to be driving anywhere. (At the time the legal limit was 0.20, so a driver had to be in pathetic shape indeed to get done for drink driving.) I liked to get a bit plastered there myself, but generally kept it within reason and was usually entertained by the drunken idiocy of others.

As usually happened, I watched a very drunken guy chatting up a pretty girl some distance from me. They were far enough away that I couldn't hear anything said, but their body language and his facial expressions indicated high levels of boasting and doing his best to get her to a room, and he looked to be having some success with this.

His expression gradually changed to one of distress, and the girl looked concerned. I saw her say something along the lines of "What's wrong?"

She found out when he puked directly into her upturned face.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 3:10, Reply)
Time travel in The Sir Colin Campbell, Coventry
They used to serve alcohol by the pitcher and a surprisingly meagre selection of batches and crisps (and when I say meagre I mean no batches left on the shelf and only ready salted crisps). In and of itself this would be fine but at lunchtime on a Friday when your sole customers haven't had any food yet but time to kill it bodes poorly. Several pitchers of cider later I turn to my colleague, "Just off for a piss mate. get another jug". When I returned the bar was heaving and lots of folk appeared to be looking at me. "Where did all these people come from?" I inquire somewhat bemused as when I left I had formed fifty percent of the clientele. Turns out I had passed out standing up in the one and only cubicle in the gents for a number of hours during which I involuntarily redecorated the entirety of said cubicle with a look we shall call "Autumn vomit".
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 2:15, Reply)
Don't drink at high altitude
Ski trip to Tignes (2100m up in the French Alps) + No liquid in a full day of skiing (altitude speeds up the dehydration process) + a night of drinking nothing except whisky = the worst hangover, by a country mile, I have ever experienced. Come 2pm I was in the foetal position in the bathtub, trying to cry with misery but so dehydrated I was shaking all over like I had Parkinson's, my fingertips had shrivelled as though I had just got out of the bath, and my body was literally unable to produce tears.

I finally managed to pass out again at 5pm. My girlfriend showed up ten minutes later and accused me of having an easy day. I'd have locked her out on the balcony if I had been able to move.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 1:51, 1 reply)
Sad Ken's Lonely Beer
Oh, woe. Oh, corner of pub.
Ken with his lonely beer,
Sad, forlorn. Whose round
Is it next? There’s the rub.

Where can he go but here,
In search of cheer and cheap beer?
But no friendly human smiles
Greet him after lonely miles.

No money, hope, or happy tune,
Just the jukebox blare
And thinning hair
And the cold face of the moon.

Glass, empty. Deep, heaving sigh.
A tear rolls down from his eye.
No more beer, it’s raining outside -
There’s only one choice: suicide.

[Copyright Doktor Skagra]
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 21:03, 3 replies)
Busted Liver Blues
Ah got ma leg chawed off by a grizzly
Ah got ma arm gang’ed up on a rusty nail
Ah got ma dick rottin' away, and soon will come the day
When ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Pass me a drink, I dun wanna even think
Of when ma liver's gonna fail (darn soon)

Ah got no money an’ no prospects
No roof no bed no pail (to piss in)
Ah got the bailiffs after me, but before they get to me
Ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Oh ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Pass me a drink, I dun wanna even think
Of when ma liver's gonna fail (darn soon)

Ah been drunk for thirty years now
I was sober once - in jail
I would rather drink than eat, got purple swollen feet
Cos ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Oh ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Ma liver's gonna fail (gonna fail)
Pass me a drink, I dun wanna even think
Of when ma liver's gonna fail (right NOW)

[Copyright Beyonce Knowles]
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:57, 2 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!
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:53, 2 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]
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:49, 2 replies)
Had a nice day out in Manchester with my friend Robert.
We had a look around the cathedral area, me wanting to find an entrance to the legendary underground world beneath.
We then went to Starbucks for a sandwich and a coffee. After that we decided we'd have a couple of beers so went to the off licence before finding a nice sofa on a street corner to catch up and watch the world go by. We had a few drinks after that in the pub and a few laughs and jokes.
If you're still reading the reason this fits is that I live two hours from Manchester by train, must have been awake for 24 hours by that time, have no recollection of the journey there, I'd never met Rob before (he was homeless and I thought he needed cheering up) and I have no idea what happened afterwards other than being on a train to Coventry, being in Coventry station and coming out of a dream standing on a train back up North to Manchester. After which I found my way home using my already purchased (though I have no recollection) return ticket.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:24, 4 replies)
BASTARDS. Besht freinsh.lkxola,cls;slk ruuurrrrrrrr

(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:20, 3 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
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 20:13, 3 replies)
You've not had a heavy session until
You wake up in your student room with your head and torso in bed, but you're kneeling on the floor. The lino floor is awash with some kind of liquid (OMG, please let it not be urine) and broken glass. There is sick spatter around the basin.

And the cleaner is coming to empty your bin in 5 minutes.

But you are, surprisingly, alive.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 19:55, 6 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.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 19:40, 4 replies)
My best mates 18th
Well basically me and another friend (being 17 at the time) decided it would be an absolutely spectacular idea to drink as much of the in house drink as we could, evidently we had something to prove, who knows. Cut to 6 hours later and the party is ending, we then have our second fantastic ploy, which was to steal a half litre bottle of Jack Daniels and drink it behind the local community centre, being completely gherkined by now we then think that it would be brilliant if we tanned a gram and a half of miscellaneous legal highs. After our pseudo-Ibizan binge we have had more than our fair share of shenanigans and decide, or rather involuntarily conclude that it was time for bed and wound up sleeping in the same bed for warmth, honestly.

Cut to the next morning, I blearily come to and through a bleary haze I bear witness to my pal tentatively explaining that he 'had an accident' to my dad, as alternating waves of horror and nausea wave over me I roll over, and suddenly feel the horrid dampness of what can only be an entire night on the slosh's worth of pish soaking through my mattress, rising up due to a combination of revulsion and a burning desire to relentlessly ridicule my friend to the point of suicide I catch a fleeting glimpse of him sprinting past my Dad and down the hall, then presumably out the back door. It is at this point that I glance to the side and view part two of the spectacle, a big solid shite, smiling up at me from the carpeted floor, with a bizarre stench emanating from it that I can only describe as 'rotten flesh mixed with tree bark'.

I immediately facebooked it.

Then told everyone I could, any way that I could.

The best part was that my dad cleaned it up while I had another sleep on the sitting room couch.

The moral being, never serve free drink at a party, it only brings woe to those closest to you.

TLDR; Drink was drunk, shit was shat, hilarity ensued.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 18:19, 6 replies)

(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 18:13, Reply)
Last night I was totally legless...
...so much so that I accidentally shot my girlfriend.

Oscar Pistorius.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 17:51, 10 replies)
Went out with some friends last night
I knew it was likely to end badly when Karen turned up. Lovely girl until she has a drink, and I do mean ONE drink. She could probably fill half of this QOTW with stories, if she could remember them. It'd be like a drunk (and much, much funnier) version of Vagabond's dog.

Anyway, the bars were fine, plenty of raucous laughter and lewd innuendo, as you'd expect. I was planning to knock it on the head at this point and get home early enough to be able to make a go of Valentine's the next morning. Karen put an end to that. Lots of jokes about being under the thumb + courage in the face of one-upmanship drinking games = idiotic, bullheaded bravado and a determination to shake my, ahem, funky thang on the dancefloor.

You don't need to know what happened in the club. Anyway, I don't remember. When I got home though, that's another matter. I figured - idiotically - that I'd get the romance going early, as soon as I staggered through the front door, in fact.

It didn't go well.

Cunt shot me four times and I died.

(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 17:19, 3 replies)

After making a random stranger drive me 10 miles I got out of his car and did a massive beer shit into some workman's trench in the city centre then wandered around for an hour before sobering up enough to actually articulate where I lived to a real taxi driver. Not sure who I feel sorry for the most, the driver of the car I hurled myself into or the workman finding a big brown violation in his dugout. Memorable night :-/
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 17:16, 2 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.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 16:20, 4 replies)
Failed to follow the correct procedure.
A few years back, when I was at college, we marked the passing of another Friday by all going to the pub and getting drunk. At one point in the evening a foul odour seemed to envelope the group.

'Fucking hell, what's that smell?'
'Have you trod in dogshit?'
'Some dirty cunt has shit themselves.'

It was towards the end of the night and we all went our separate ways. The following Monday the topic eventually raised its head and we discovered that one of our number had popped for a shit, but was so pissed that they completely forgot to drop their trousers and pants before sitting down.

He told us that he was standing there with us thinking 'Yeah, what is that smell?' before it dawned on him that he was standing there with a dinner egg sitting snug in his undercrackers. He had snuck out the side door into the carpark and went home along the towpath because the experience had sobered him up enough to know that no Taxi driver would go anywhere near him.

He carefully removed the offending articles on the way home, under cover of darkness, and hung them on the branch of a tree- In much the same way that a horrible cunt would.
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 15:58, 3 replies)

(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 15:42, 8 replies)
I ended
up on stage shirtless at my then-gf's prom night belting out ACDC and Free but in a Deathgrunt stylee with the band and then got drinks bought for me all night! No puke was involved!
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 15:30, 3 replies)
Excessive use of alcohol may result in you passing out into a hospital urinal whilst waiting for a head-scan after you collapse face-first into a door frame and cause your face to swell like a Merrick.

You might laugh about it later though
(, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 14:58, Reply)

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