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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 got so drunk one night I tried to fuck a postbox.
It backfired on me, as it resulted in me having to have a lung removed. Drink responsibly kids. :(
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 15:33, 12 replies)
Just pop these in here


Edit: interesting from any perspective
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 13:45, 1 reply)
Oh. My. GOD.
We were sooo drunk, it was hilarious!
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 11:52, 11 replies)
Poor taxi driver
seemed to have no idea where Lallashlallla Rallalagth was.

We eventually agreed to go to Alexandra Road South.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 11:37, Reply)
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.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 10:49, 6 replies)
So, I discovered jaegerbombs.

I discovered them eleven times, to be exact, and by the time I had finished them I was quite profusely drunk. An hour or two later, I spent the taxi ride home believing I was Sean Connery, and attempted to text 'the fire rises' to several people; the key word here being 'attempted': all but one or two were complete gibberish.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 9:20, 1 reply)
I remember when I awasfhtrlf
It was a verrryunnngbd lemon tree. As I sat there she lookrrrhdwefnb and I thought it was peculiar but notheleeessarrrthhh with a badger.

And I was very. Very drunk
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 8:54, 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.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 6:51, 7 replies)
I'm not sure my initial "cheers" post
is getting enough recognition here. I could work this up into some tedious Stewart Lee rant about me not being funny enough, but you cunts dribble into your own beards so it's not worth it, I wish you were dead, cheers.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 5:12, 9 replies)
I drank so much I got alcohol poisoning
Then I died. Beat that you lightweights!
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 1:50, Reply)
I went to the pub
Had a couple of pints (an okayish Strathaven Red Ale and a rather disappointing Orkney Dark Island), went to another pub, had a couple of pints of frankly rather average Belhaven Best (it's shite, why do they call it "Best" when Belhaven IP is far superior?) and listened to a good rock covers band, wandered home past the curry shop, ordered some curry and nipped into the adjoining pub for another not-quite-so-good Belhaven, then walked home and ate my curry with a pint of homebrew while trolling slashdot.

Night night, all.

Edit: dammit, A Vagabond posted the same damn thing hours ago.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 0:54, 1 reply)
I asked for a vodka martini in Mathers, at the top of Broughton Street in Edinburgh back in 1984. I actually said, in all seriousness, "shaken, not stirred." Twat. Sean Connery also used to deliver milk to our house. Fact.
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 0:51, 2 replies)
vomit con carne
I went for a works night out meal at a rather cramped Mexican restaurant, but the food was tasty and a good time was had. Ate far too much, and at the next oub we went to, I chugged down two pints quickly, I started getting to the old sweaty concentrate concentrate point, so bolted for the toilets. Unfortunately, it was really busy, and I despite my frantic clawing, I was still 2 people before the bogs when I started to boak. I'd been clamping my hand over my mouth for 30 seconds by this point, so when I finally heaved, it splattered and sprayed violently from between my fingers and the sides of my mouth. It looked exactly like chili too, but runnier. Best of all, I recall nothing of the rest of the night.
But if we're on stupid drunk stories, we'll be here all night....
(, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 0:47, Reply)

many years ago as a 6th former, ended up in the trendy dive pub frequented by students. Merrydown cider was the de rigeur drink to be seen with and I was seen with an heroic collection of empty bottles of said beverage on the table in front of me. I'm told by witnesses that I stood up and gallantly tried to get to the toilets whilst covering my mouth with my hand to prevent public unpleasantness occuring.

Unfortunately, I failed and the traitorous gastric convulsions managed to escape between my fingers which had the result of magnifying the jetting effect considerably, making me into a human puke based super soaker water pistol. Forcibly ejected from the premises and told never to come back ever again after managing to be sick all over the pubs wall mounted jukebox.
My Converse hi tops were casualties, nothing worse than cider puke for the lingering smell.
Happy days
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 23:54, Reply)
David Boon.
52 Not Out.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 23:34, 6 replies)
Imbibing? He could fucking do it!
My friend Rich. A fellow who enjoyed a beer or 15.
He could be most eloquent and graceful in both his consumption of alcohol and the often ensuing expulsion of it.
A few of his efforts as examples -

There was the time we were all sitting around a table at the Shents (The Shenton Park Hotel - a now long gone, great, original music venue & our then local) after work one balmy summer evening.
Rich decides it's his shout by deciding to consume the last of the dregs of the jug. From the jug. But now there was a small problem - since we had spent much of the arvo playing "coins" & ibble-dibble and many elbows had been "pointed" Rich's way, his body had reached the point where some volume of fluid would have to be expelled in order to make some room for more. Rich calmly pushes back his chair from the table, leans forward and sends a carrot encrusted yawn to the technicolour gods, between his workboots.
Amidst a mixture of applause and sounds of revulsion Rich smilingly gets up and heads to the bar to to procure some more libations for the group.

Another time Rich & I were staggering home from a similar evening when he felt the pressing need to empty his bladder. Not one who wishes to be inconvenienced by the need to stop moving whilst urinating and despite my protestations Rich unzips himself, flops his dick out and while continuing to walk bow-leggedly, proceeds to piss. All over himself & his shoes. On the footpath. Aside a busy 4 lane highway. In a shopping district. On "late-night" shopping night.

If he was still around I think I'd probably break my hiatus from the demon drink and crack a bottle or 3 with him this arvo. For old times sake.

Please understand gentle reader that these events and many others happened in our late teens and early 20's when a young man's attention to bodily functions and social responsibility are not necessarily honed to the fine point that they hopefully become later on in life.

EDIT: tl;dr? - my friend spewed and pissed on himself whilst drunk in public (amongst other things).
Length? A middy is 285 mL.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 23:23, Reply)
If someone vomits cider and blackcurrant
from the rear window of a friend's moving white vehicle, be sure to sluice it off with haste. A permanent pale purple puke stain on the rear wing will be a happy reminder of your evening if this precaution is neglected.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 22:33, Reply)
R.I.P. Carrot
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 22:20, Reply)
You've not truly puked until you've puked your own shit.

(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 22:02, 8 replies)
Whenever I'm viewing a potential new flat,
I rule out the ones where the bathroom layout doesn't allow me to vomit into the sink while sitting on the loo.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 21:18, 8 replies)
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.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 18:35, 2 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.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 17:35, 6 replies)
The thing about drinking...
Is that everything is shit when you stop drinking. Food doesn't taste as nice as it used to, your perception of time gets completely fucked and your mind won't switch off and let you sleep until you're physically drained. You can't even watch telly because everyone, in every TV show ever made is drinking, drunk or hungover. Dicks.

They should teach this in schools, instead of saying "Drinking too much is bad" they should say "Drinking too much is fun for a little while then when you stop, everything gets shit and your whole body will ache for days."
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 15:56, 14 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.


I really can't be arsed to write any more, soz.
tl:dr Alan is an alkie with no dignity LOL
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 15:27, 9 replies)
oh, you animals!
as a teetotaller who has never done anything wrong in her life, you all disgust me!
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 14:11, 12 replies)
If anyone is near catatonic due to drink
May I suggest that you don't try and spoon feed them raw nescafe? They will vomit something with the appearance of tar all over the fucking place after two thirds of the Jar. It's also worth noting that this substance is impossible to wash out of carpets and will stain wood a rather pleasant dark oak colour.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 13:55, 2 replies)
A few years ago
I was at a wedding reception. Never one to take it easy, I used to always get rapidly shitfaced, but on this particular occasion, I guess I realised that maybe I'd had one too many, so stepped outside to take a breather, and sat down on a wall.

All of a sudden, I found myself crumpled up in an upside-down heap on a grass verge against a wooden fence, without the faintest clue of how I'd got there. Enraged, I scrambled back up the verge, and went back into the venue, proclaiming that I'd been mugged.

Once somebody pointed out that I still had my wallet etc, it dawned on me that I'd simply up-ended backwards over the wall, and roly-poly'd down into the fence like the sozzled twat that I was.

Calmed down a bit on the drinking after that.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 13:49, Reply)
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.’


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.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 13:33, 53 replies)
I had arranged to spend the evening with four attractive young ladies
I picked them up in my stylish yet affordable Japanese 4-door, and went to the Spar to get sixteen cans of Special Brew.

In the park, a few hours later I decided I should give them a right old shagging in a bush, but sadly my generative member was refusing to cooperate due to all the trampfuel.

After I (successfully) fought a bin and shouted at some pigeons, the lovely ladies decided they would like to go home.

As I was driving them back there was some sort of distortion in the spacetime continuum and as it subsided I realised it had thrown my Accord into a tree, and there were various arms, legs and other body parts scattered about.

I cannot recommend this course of actions, and I for one will be sticking to injecting crack into my eyeballs in the future.
(, Fri 15 Feb 2013, 13:01, Reply)

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