Broken glass everywhere, people pissing on the stairs.
:(
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 13:57, 4 replies)

Dance of the flaming arseholes?
Part of an initiation ceremony,for those who don't know it goes like this;

1. Stand on table
2. Drop trousers
3. Stuff bog roll between your arse crack, leaving enough to reach the floor
4. On starters orders, attempt to down your pint before the bog roll, which has now been lit at the floor end, reaches your hairy arse
5. Fail
6. Every time

It does not help that the bog roll is invariably lit a few seconds before the 'go' command
(LetsGetDownToIt, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 13:55, 9 replies)

ropey roast of peas
Arrived as a friend of a friend at a 'house party'(in that it was a party at a house), there was a lovely spread of food including a full salmon, a pool I somehow avoided in the garden, lots of posh folk and me. I decided to drink lots to give me confidence, a classic choice. I mixed vodka and orange. Then the orange ran out, so I drank from the bottle, got through about half of one of those big pub style bottles of vodka and joined a game of 'drink while you think'. Someone then mentioned the roof, I think.

"I could jump off the roof" thinks I. So I found my way through the house to the window that lead to the roof. Climbed the very tricky and unstable office chair. Managed to get the 'crowd' slow clapping, then jumped, and landed on my arse. I was ok.

"I could do that again" thinks I. So I do. Similar outcome. Apart from something that at the time I remember 'stinging'.

Then when I tried a third time I remember being dragged back down the stairs, bonking my head on every step.

Then I remember waking up in a sleeping bag, surrounded by everyone else.
I went outside to get some fresh air and noticed a big arse shaped divot in the lawn. Then I remembered it all. I also remembered the pain in my mouth, the stinging.

I'd managed to bite part of the side of my tongue upon landing the second time. Not hard enough to peirce the skin and probably bleed a lot, but enough to have a huge white blister looking wound and enough to still have a teeth mark scar in the side of my tongue.

Good times.
( Ya What Skiddlyboop, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 13:07, Reply)

Somehow we'd ended up at a rave in some field.
I took a wander around; DJ in a barn filled with people, people milling about.

I'd been drinking snakebite & blacks for a few hours, and I'm pretty sure whiskey had been involved somewhere along the line. I had no idea where my compatriots were, where I was, or, really, what was going on, so all seemed in order.

I sat down and rolled myself a little spliff, but the hippies didn't like this and started kicking me.

WTF?! Jesus Christ it's not like I've done anything, fucking kicking me in guts fuck man what did I do to you?! They left me alone for a bit, but then someone else had a go, someone had a (pathetic) go at my head, and then some fucker - get this - drove over with his fucking 4x4, shining his headlights at me and honking his horn repeatedly at me, until some wanker grabbed my hands and hauled me over to his bloody car, and bundled me in.

Apparently I'd passed out right across the field gate, and, clothed entirely in black wasn't really so obvious to people, until my mates had found me and bundled me into their metro for delivery back to my friend's gaff, at which I proceeded to chunder all over his front garden.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 12:26, 3 replies)

Not a good place
I used to drink with a group which included one guy that lived out of town. He had a small motorcycle, and would regularly return to his village on it, in advanced states of inebriation.

Inevitably, this eventually caught up with him. But not in the usual wrapped-around-a-lamp-post style. Oh no, he had more class than that. He managed to fall asleep while riding, and naturally didn't take the next corner. It happened to be a bank next to a field, and he was launched high into the sky. The impact roused him, with the result that he woke up in mid-air, at the apex of a parabolic trajectory which ended in the field some seconds later.

Once the universe had stopped rotating and throwing geography at him, he found himself apparently uninjured, in the middle of a field. Deciding that discretion was the better part of rank fuckwittedness, he slept where he lay for the remainder of the night.

Legend.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 12:22, 1 reply)

Last one, I promise.
I recently went out for a Friday Night beers, after work, with Ado, a co-worker. Now, I hadn’t been out to a pub for a couple of years, so it was all a bit exciting.

I called my wife, “going out of a couple, be home after dinner”.

Anyway, we had a good feed, had some more beer, got chatting to a rather chunky Indian girl who told us she’d just been out on a blind date earlier that night. We quickly found out that her blind date was another girl, but they didn’t really click, so she was having a quiet solo beer before heading home. Never met a chunky Indian lesbian before, a bit butch, but quite funny.

After a bit of talk, we are all getting on well, chunky Indian girl is buying jugs of beer, we are politely drinking as much of it as we can. Before long, the staff are ushering us out of the pub, it’s closing time.

Fuck, seems like we only just got here. Anyway, chunky Indian girl suggest we head up to another pub, so we stumble out into the night.
We stumble into the next pub, chunky Indian girl orders 3 beers – I take one sip, and an all too familiar sensation grips my throat; I’ve had way too much beer, way too fast, and I’m going to chunder within the next minute.

I stumble outside, and as I pass the greasy spoon all-night cafe, I lay an enormous wet beery chunder all over their front door mat. Nice. Classy.

Fuck, shamed by my own bogan actions, I keep stumbling and duck into a side alley, have another heave and sit down in the gutter. Then I lie down, just for a bit. Just got to get home, need a rest though.

Three hour later, the policeman’s torch is shining my eyes, and a rough boot wakes me up. I sit up, and politely apologise for being such a tragic wreck. They decide not to press charges as I’m obviously fucking hopeless, and give me a lift home in the back of the police van. No windows, hot, airless, it was all I could do to not chunder again.

My wife is more relieved than angry, she presumed I’d been knifed.

The policeman said I was lucky not to have received a good kicking while unconscious in the alley.

Monday morning I turn up at work . Ado says “what happened to you, where did you get to on Friday night?”

I tell him the full tragedy.

“Well mate, I’m glad you left when you did, gave me space to make my move. That chunky Indian chick aint no lesbian”.

Um yeah, thanks mate, you’re welcome...anytime.

I get the paddy wagon, you get the girl.



And, I’m seriously considering a life of sobriety (true). This shit has to stop.
( Ken Oath, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 11:58, 1 reply)

Witnessing Hurt.
And then, there was this one time...

I’d been at a cocktail party and had challenged Enormous Bruce to a simple sort of competition, first one to vomit wins. Wins what, I can’t remember, kudos and a stomach pumping session in A&E I guess.

Anyway, we duly got smashed on spirits, which is not my strength. The party fizzled out, Enormous Bruce was getting a bit “off tap”, I cut him loose when he started dancing of the roof of an expensive Mercedes, his large bulk was making quite an impression, and I hailed a cab home.

I was blind, reeked of grog, had a serious case of hiccups, and I reckon that taxi driver broke every speed limit getting me home.

Once home, I decided I was a bit peckish (seems to be a theme happening here), so I pounded the shit out of a frozen steak, passed it once or twice over a low flame, and consumed it with about 68 slices of brown bread. At the time, I shared the house with two girls, they thought there was a demented baboon loose in the kitchen at 3:00 am. They later told me they were both huddled in one of their bedrooms, listening to the carnage.

So, I stumble upstairs, and the inevitable is about to happen, so I lean out the window, and let loose with the really weird long thick column of something that resembles wholemeal pancake batter, one continuous stream from mouth to ground, all collected neatly in the large pot plant that sat by the front door.

As I’m leaning out the window, considering the wisdom of our vomit challenge, a group of young pissed blokes is stumbling up the street, loud, drunk, full of bravado.

Outside our house was a big gum tree, one bloke says “you know, if you run fast enough, and lean back at the right time, you can run up a tree”.

Lot of derisive comments from his mates. I’m sort of interested to see what happens next, as I lean out the window, drooling bile and salmonella out my mouth and nose.

Sure enough, he takes a good run up, staggers at a fair rate down the street, and whap! Runs right into the tree. It sounded exactly like someone had dropped a watermelon from a height of four stories onto concrete. A loud slappy wet “crack” noise.

There was a period of quiet, then the last noise I hear, as I pulled my head in to pass out on the bed was “fuck...I’m...really...hurt.”



Apparently an ambulance turned up, but I was a bit tired, and slept right through that bit.
( Ken Oath, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 11:23, 2 replies)

The most painful thing
I've ever done while drunk, is vomit the semi-digested remains of a pepperoni pizza out my nose.

Fucking burned like hell.
( Ken Oath, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 10:49, 3 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)

I met a girl who was really, really drunk on Sunday night
inevitably, she stole my lighter :(
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 10:18, 6 replies)

Pavement
In the early stages of my courting of Lady Scaramanga, we had an evening out with her cousin and her husband.
As they had three kids they didn't get out very often, so they were very much up for a full session.
We arrived at there's mid-afternoon, for a chinese and a few stiffeners, and walking up he path I heard a yell...

"Get off the path! That's cements not dry yet!"

Cousin's husband had been laying new slabs all morning and, rightly, didn't want me to wreck all his hard work.

On to booze. We drank merrily and heartily all afternoon, then off to the pub for more, returning very very worse for wears after a lock in at their local.

Approaching the house, I kept repeating to myself "Don't walk on the path... Don't walk on the path... Don't walk on the path... Don't walk on the path..."

I must have broken something in my brain because as we got to the path, I stopped, thought about a new plan of action... and proceeded to vomit all over it instead.
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 10:09, Reply)

The sound of crashing into middle age with a wimper
I was in a rock band for a while, and got about with similar and like-minded folks. During this time, Mrs Vagabond and I decided to buy a flat.

One band we used to regularly play with suggested that this Christmas we do the Circle Line Drinking Game. Since it's 44 stations, a half at each station still involves drinking 22 pints.

We started at 1100hrs, as someone had actually done some maths, and worked out we had something like 20 minutes per stop.

Whatever.

My tale is this: at about 1430, resplendent in my knackered leather jacket and general rock paraphernalia, while drinking with these equally cool types in some crappy bar, my mobile 'phone rang and I had to say to them "Sorry lads, I've just got to step outside, my mortgage adviser is on the 'phone."
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 9:55, Reply)

do not mix your poisons....
So went round a mates place to play cards, ended up sharing a bottle of thai whisky with them and then proceed to the pub. All is going well until a friend rocks up and we smoke a joint in his car. Golden rule, drink when you are stoned but not the other way round. 15 mins later I'm stood outside the pub trying to get a cab to the nearest tube, I sit outside the tube on a wall with my head in my hands for an indeterminate period of time, need to drop the kids off so decide that the best place to do that is between 2 cars (sorry to the person (and dog) who trod in it and probably thought it was a dog). Finally pluck up the courage to go into Kensal rise tube and sit on the platform and "tag" the platform with the contents of my stomach. I let a few trains pass and then get on the tube to richmond, feeling slightly better but think i should get off at gunnersbury to get some air, as I step off the train and start walking down the platform (at 45 degrees) I look at the the train that is pulling away and see my wife and one of her friends with 0 shaped mouths watching me stagger down the platform. Fortunately my good wife got off at the next stop and then came back and escorted me home... She's ace
(CrispyD72, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 9:27, Reply)

The roast is strong with this pea.
Drunk Kids.

As a child in Africa, I remember that we had to boil all our drinking water, this was to protect against water-borne parasites. Often the water was stored in used spirits bottles. This was I suppose because the spirits would have guaranteed a sterile bottle in the first place. With 20-20 hindsight and as a parent now I can only hope this practice has ended – read on MacDuff.
My mother and I were visiting some friends of hers, I forget the names but lets call them the Junipers. There was Mr & Mrs Juniper and their 2 sons Potato and Rye-Mash. The boys were about 4 and 6 while I was the eldest child at 7. After our arrival we ran around, teased each other and all the other things 3 young boys do as a gaggle.
The day wore on and while the adults were talking we asked if we could get a drink. No parent felt so inclined to get up so we were sent inside to refresh ourselves. We decided on orange juice (back then many things were not always available so you got what you could when you could). We poured oj’s with what we thought was 2 thirds water to orange, out of a cold Absolut bottle. Yeah shure it tasted funny, but... Half an hour later and a couple of very stiff screwdrivers each we staggered out the kitchen door to the accompaniment of wails and gnashing of teeth. Those poor Junipers – vodka let alone Absolut must have been hard to come by, we had to queue to get coke and we had polished the entire bottle in one short sitting and falling over! I don’t know if any blame was apportioned but I never saw Hops and Sour-Mash (or whatever) again.
I can remember the drive home – the first time I felt sick after getting shitfaced, though not the last by a long shot! So that was in a defining moment, when I began my correspondence with liquor. I think the moral of the story is – don’t store anything other than alcohol in alcohol bottles, oh and store your vodka in the freezer.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Mon 18 Feb 2013, 4:42, 1 reply)

Thirtieth Birthday
Some relatives, loads of friends and after relatives left can't remember fuck all.

Next morning severe headache and right buttock rather bruised and painful. I wondered what the time was and looked at my watch to find it with a cracked glass and loose hands jangling around.

I enquired of the time from my then wife and got a terse answer.

I got up to limp to the toilet (bruised buttock impeding movement) and then went to the kitchen where my younger brother greeted me with a welcoming cup of tea and a ciggie. A quick slurp of tea and a drag on the fag and KABOOM the fag exploded! Yep little bruv had doctored my cigarette with a little exploding insert! Anyway the exploding ciggie made me sick!

After retiring back to the bathroom I emerged having purged myself at both ends and having sworn a pledge to the Almighty (who I didn't really believe in) to refrain from alcohol for ever. from this point forth

A little while later bacon butties were distributed and I felt a bit better. It emerged in conversation that the previous night I had dashed to bathroom to be sick, tripped on the bath mat and fallen headlong into the bath bruising buttock, breaking watch and (allegedly) puking all over the bathroom and myself (did I not mention I was naked when I awoke?)

Well, I did feel a bit better after the bacon buttie and so when the cry "Let's get down to the local for a pint or two and a Sunday lunch" I was up for it!!
( Vambo, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 23:24, 2 replies)

The one time I had to be carried home, with a moral at the end.
At a friend's party. GameCube is on, folk making talk noises, alcohol invades gullets; a fine night all round.

Before long, my own choice of beverage was turning on me. I decided to briefly retire to the bathroom. About an hour later, I was found with my face all up in the bath, under the logic that I didn't want to stop someone using the toilet with my incessant puking.

After a friend of mine rinsed my stomach spawn out of the bath (for which I am eternally grateful) I was carried home by two of my friends. One of which had just vaporised my vomitus. Did I mention I'm eternally grateful?

Three interesting things about that journey home:
1) The should have taken 10 minutes. It took 30.
2) I had to have my trousers pulled up several times. Made a mental note to buy a belt.
3) The one time I had to stop and spew some more, a police car goes by. Decides not to bother with us, thankfully.

No horrible end to this one - I got put in bed, was fine the next day and haven't heard the end of the incident 8 years on.

And what did I learn from this? If you're going to drink vodka and diluting juice, you need to add water too.
( Iki I think my camel is dead., Sun 17 Feb 2013, 22:18, Reply)

pissport
As a young, single lad of working age, still living at home, my dad had little better to fritter his money away on than beers and holidays. Looking back at the photos, he could have started with a better haircut, shave and glasses, but this WAS the 70s.
One evening, he'd sunk the usual 10-or-so pints at the pub at the bottom of his street, before stumbling home and collapsing into bed. The beer took its usual effect and in the middle of the night he got up to go to the toilet.
Or so he thought.
What he in fact unloaded the 10 pints into was, in fact, the open top drawer of his bedside table, containing the passport and tickets he needed to go on holiday the next morning.

Cut to the next morning, he awoke late, and in his panic delved into the drawer to get his travel documents, the last thing he needed to pack. He wasn't expecting a puddle...
The drying-out process meant he missed the trains that his friends were on, and the subsequent ferry to France. Undeterred, he got on the next ones, only to find himself in France having missed his connecting train there too, and without the handy pass that had got him across England, or enough money for a new ticket for the next train, but probably with the disdain of border control after being handed a still damp and smelly passport. (These details may be wrong; I wasn't there, seeing as I wasn't going to be born for another 10+ years.)
After all of that, he bought a packet of cigarettes and went back home.

Remember kids, make sure it's a toilet.
(and now for someone completely different, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 21:54, 1 reply)

Look out! here comes the ciderman ( a repost)
Popped out for a few jars and a friendly chat with girl I fancied. Nothing serious mind, but testing the water and finding out how she felt about me. She suggests cider, I agree - although I seem to have some kind of genetic problem with cider (my dad is the same) in that it makes my legs wobbly even when I feel fine. Not wanting to make a poor impression on the "1st date" I get stuck into the draught cider, matching her pint for pint. She's a tall girl who can handle her drink and I feel good to be with her and after more than a few pints am feeling warm and happy. At this point I pop off the barstool for a p-break and manage to get my foot caught in the bottom bar, falling gracefully over. She laughs. I laugh too. I return feeling much better and resolve to go steady on the booze. Too late, I've already had enough for serious damage to occur. Realising I'm now in a bit of a pickle I suggest we leave and I walk her home. No more than 3 steps outside the pub I fall over, ON MY FACE. She helps me up, we try again. I fall over on my face on the kerb. My sister arrives, laughs and calls a cab seeing that I won't get anywhere using my legs. I stand and fall over backwards into the gutter where the rain runs down my collar. I give up trying to stand and await my fate. I have been given a bag of frozen peas for my swelling face.

Time passes. I awake in my bed and feel a bit rough. Standing slowly I walk towards the bathroom. The duvet follows me. It is attached firmly to my elbow by a large crusty clot of blood. I soak my elbow in the sink to remove the duvet. A glance in the mirror reveals a face not dissimilar to the bit in Terminator where his face has been blown off with a shotgun. I call work and tell them I'm sick. I retire to bed a broken individual with a hole in my elbow like a cat's arse covered in ketchup. One eyelid has split at the corner like an overripe fruit.

I no longer drink cider
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 14:47, 5 replies)

Cheers.

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 12:24, 27 replies)

( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 9:43, 4 replies)

My head hurts

( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 6:57, 5 replies)

Australian Teenagers Drunk and Disorderly in Japan!
Is what the headline might have read.

When I was 15 I went on a school trip to Japan. I'd been learning Japanese for 3 years and this trip was comprised of about 3 classes from the Yr. 10, 11 and 12s. Some of my other adventures from that trip can be found here.

We had a month of homestay with our "brother school" near Osaka and then about 3 weeks where the teachers had to go to a conference in Tokyo - woo-hoo, unchaperoned!

Of course I fell in with the bad crowd straight away (maybe they fell in with me..) - as we were exiting Narita Airport we discovered everything could be bought at a vending machine. Everything.
Thus began our nightly routine of buying a bottle of cheap, shitty sake and a 5L keg of Asahi between the 3 of us.

We ended up in Hiroshima for a couple of nights. We spent the day at the Peace Museum. Want a quick way to turn a gaggle of noisy schoolboys into a group of quiet, sombre young men? I'd start there. The thing that stuck with me was the granite stoop where someone had fallen as the flash had happened. Their silhouette is raised nearly an inch above the rest of the steps' rock that was burnt away.

Cheap gyudon dinners and then down to drinking and becoming obnoxious Aussie teenagers. At about 0300 we were staggering back to our ryokan thru the Peace Park when we came across a young couple canoodling - hence our need to repeatedly ask them "Omeko suki deska?" which literally translates as "Like fucking?".
Then we find the saxophonist. This guy is standing on the edge of the park practising his cyclic breathing by blowing the same notes for minutes at a time. At first we're asking him "Okama?" or "Faggot?". Then we stop to listen.

Long, careful notes played over 5 to 10 min at a time. The only sound apart from the sax is him breathing gently thru his nose. Over the next few hours it's just us, quietly passing a bottle and cigarettes around with him. Occasionally he gave us little ditties, sometimes he blasted through long rambling Coltrane pieces.
As the sun came up and the city began to wake up he launched into a haunting solo which had us mesmerized. Until we realised that it was "Wind beneath My Wings". Then we stumbled home.
tl;dr? - Even if Bill Clinton plays 1, saxamaphones are the shizzle, yo.
Length? - A 3 tatami room is exactly that. 3 teenage males cannot comfortably fit into a 3 tatami room.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sun 17 Feb 2013, 6:57, 1 reply)

I lived in Norfolk for a few years in me yoof
and being far from fiends and family I often found myself to be somewhat tired and emotional when visited by them.
One Friday night we set off to the local for a few beers, which resolved into a lock-in, and things gradually moved from blurry to blackout.
I do sort of remember going home in the beer Tardis, a walk of around 5 minutes in sober circumstances could become an epic, dizzying roller-coaster ride through the edges of the observable universe on the return leg.
At last home was found and after fiddling with the key for several minutes we fell into the hallway.
I declared myself quite refreshed enough and decided to retire to bed.
A short while later as the house fell into a quiet slumber my poor sister was awoken by an almighty crash from upstairs and fearing the worst rushed up to see what had befallen me.
I had apparently not quite made it to bed. Only feet from my comfy mattress and duvet I had tried to curl up under the bedroom rug and finding it little comfort had pulled it over me forcefully enough to tip an antique mirror fronted Edwardian wardrobe down on top of myself.

This, one would assume, should have woken me but it was not the case.

It seems that all I could do was berate my unfortunate sister for waking me up as she tried to get the furniture off me, so grateful was I to be rescued.

The wardrobe survived unscathed.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 2:45, 1 reply)

Fuck this shit, I'm off to the juicer

(woocfot friends with Sacha Distel, Sun 17 Feb 2013, 1:32, 1 reply)

The Vomit Bin
I used to drink cider. I used to throw up quite a lot at the end of the evening .
It took me a while to realise these two things were connected but once I did, I switched over to lager and I've (mostly) been boke-free ever since.
Anyway, while I was still happily poisoning myself with Dry Blackthorn, I had a particularly liquid evening. The sort of evening where it took me twice as long to get home as normal because hedges kept trying to eat me and I was pausing regularly to regale the sleeping masses with a chorus or two of that old folk standard
"Whhheeeyy--eeeaiihhaya-uh huh uh uh ya fucking bastards!"
Then I got home and vomit happened.
Lots and lots of bright orange vomit, all over the carpet.
"Oh." I thought "Best clean that up"
Most people would reach for a damp dishcloth but I do things differently.
Which is why, when my upstairs neighbour came downstairs to see who was making such an ungodly racket at 2am, he found a very drunk Big D clutching a spade and attempting to drag a wheelie bin in through the back door.
He stared at me, aghast.
I grinned at him amiably and gave him a little wave.
He muttered "Fuck this" and stomped back to his flat - which I thought a bit rude.
Having shovelled up as much vomit as I could, in between bouncing off the furniture, I dragged the bin back outside again, threw the spade into the shed and went to bed.
The next morning I woke to a bedsit that stank of second-hand Dry Blackthorn and with my neighbours a wee bit put out with me.
And when the bin-men came to collect the bin at the end of the week they weren't too happy either...
(Big D, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 21:02, Reply)

"Quick Ginger, we haven't a moment to lose!"

(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 16 Feb 2013, 20:12, 3 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)

This one goes out to janet aylia
My Mate Mike

I like a drink I like to think
I drink because I like to drink
I think a drink is what I like
I like to drink with my mate Mike

Mike likes a drink does my mate Mike
He also likes his motorbike
And his lady - little minx!
But he can't ride either when he drinks

We like to get up to high jinks
Like imitating Jar-Jar Binks
Or Father Jack or Private Pike
Oh, my word! What are we like?

We are so very much alike
Me and my old mucker Mike
But only when, I sometimes think
Both of us are worse for drink

[Copyright Murray Lachlan Young]
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sat 16 Feb 2013, 17:51, Reply)

London early 90's
Went on a pub crawl, wound up in some club with black walls, read: too pissed / stoned to center, 4 hrs later just drinking wound up trying to have a kip on New Oxford Street in December. What I didn't know was the black paint on the walls transferred.... So I came out looking like a 50% chap of colour.

Ended up crashing in Waterloo station all night... nasty business. I have to thank my then good mate for saving me from bum rape from passing peoples.
(Master_Slob UK minister for cultural appropriation., Sat 16 Feb 2013, 17:38, Reply)

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)