b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Utterly Drunk » Page 5 | Search
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.

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

- Bashō, 1672
(, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 11:59, 9 replies)
I've been drunk a few times in my life
Mostly when I was at uni (back in the mid 90's....cripes I feel old!) which is where a lot of these things occur really. The most notable occasion that I can remember is getting wretchedly wasted in my halls of residence at the time. Everyone on the floor was bundled in one room getting completely shitfaced and having a laugh whilst I was retching out of the window (this was on the third floor).

After I had finished I decided that the air outside was much fresher, so I decided to turn around and declare to all and sundry that I was going to go outside. Through the window. I managed to get half of my body out before everyone else in the room rushed up and pulled me back in. All except one lad, whom I shall call Chester Cheeto (for LOLz). He decided not to help, as he stated, in all seriousness, "Oh don't worry about him, he'll just bounce". This was back when I was erring on the corpulent side.

Credit to everyone else though for pulling me in, I appreciate it wasn't easy!
(, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 10:37, 4 replies)
When I was 17 I had a houseparty
I'd procured a bottle of Stroh 80 from a school trip to Austria, which I poured out into shots. Everyone who had a shot vomited at some point, which was more than half the guests, though fortunately most of them were in the garden at the time.

I haven't drunk Stroh 80 since.
(, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 10:14, 2 replies)
I had some absinthe and totally tripped.
Incredible. It's the wormwood in it - its hallucinogenic.
(, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 9:35, 7 replies)
Projectile what??
Out with my young brother one Saturday night for a bite to eat, unfortunately we decided on the local China Buffet King. Lots of crap, pretentious, wannabe Chinese junk food was consumed, all for the kingly sum of £10.
Young brother duly went home on the next day, whereupon I went out with the lads for a good Sunday afternoon sesh, which led into a nighter, then early morning-er.
Woke up on the Monday morning about 0600hrs, not too good. First order of the day was to get a large glass of cool water to un-paste my tongue from the roof of my mouth. It was one of those heavy set, retro style glasses, with the 6 sharp corners (think Ikea). This is an important point, because as soon as I walked back into the living-room, I was down and out for the count. That was when my forehead made contact with one of those six sharp edges. Don't know how long I was out, but came to I was pumping quite a bit of claret onto the carpet. Then the overflow alarms started sounding at both mouth and arse. Stumbled to the bathroom where I then started ejecting all bodily fluids from all available sources. Holding a towel to my head to staunch the bleeding, while alternately sticking my head then my arse down the toilet. Passed out again, then woke to the constant ringing of the phone. Mum asking if I was okay..........!!!!!! Seemingly my young brother was in the same state, minus the loss of the precious red stuff. Turns out that if you eat the boiled rice they have at these buffet places, the rice that is kept at a regular luke-warm temperature, which is never replaced only topped up, then there is a 100% chance you will end up with a tiny house guest called Salmonella.
Was so ill (food poisoning & hangover do not make good bed buddies), could not make it to hospital for the next 2 days. By then the cut in my forehead, which was deep enough to require stitches, had started to heal. Now have a cool Harry Potteresque jagged scar to add to the others (4 in total on my fizzog, all quite noticeable, none of them chib marks!!).
Keep clear of those harbingers of buffet-style doom, this had nothing to do with the vast quantities of drink consumed - honest.
(, Wed 20 Feb 2013, 0:32, 3 replies)
Polish Rectified Spirits.
My good friend Little Geek had got hold of about half bottle of the above mentioned liquor from his older brother, Big Geek.
With a warning. "This shit will fuck you up. It dries out your mouth instantly, it will burn like meths if you put a match to it so don't smoke around it and I'd suggest you sip a full measure with a couple of beer chasers."

Which we duly ignored and immediately knocked back a couple of fingers. As we had just eaten we found that the magical instant drunk was not happening.
Quick! Time for another snort. Nah fuck measuring just swig it from the bottle this time. Measuring alcohol doses is for pusshhhhhhhiieezzzzzz.....

You mouth actually does dry out as soon as the ethanol hits it. When you hit "drunk" it is pretty much instant. You have no gentle lead up like with a beer barometer or even having a buzz when you have nips of spirits. One minute your relatively sober, the next you are full-tilt, Oliver Reed roaring drunk.

I remember having a sword fight with Little Geek using swordfish jaws! There were a couple pinned to the wall in the games room. I still carry a scar on my hand from that. I remember Big Geek and Little Geek's dad forcibly ejecting us from the house to said games/rumpus room - where we did indeed "rumpus".
That night we discovered that something 190 proof liquid is indeed flammable and it really is not a good idea to soak your pot in it and try to roll a joint. We also discovered that alcohol is indeed a diuretic - effectively turning our teen-aged bladders into those of wizened old mens.
When they finally managed to wrestle the bottle off us we'd made a further 3rd of the entire bottle dent in it. Probably about 100ml each. A couple of doubles each. Think for a moment about how drunk you may have got on 2 doubles (even maybe on an empty stomache). Now try to cast your mind back to the most, obnoxious, ramblingly drunk you've ever been. Now combine the two.

tl;dr? - There's a very good reason they put that stuff in meths to try to make it so unpalatable.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 23:44, Reply)
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.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 22:10, 6 replies)
Blue Smiroff - vol 2
We got back on the ferry from a completely failed trip to France when I was 19. I had just under a tenner left, so me and my girlfriend bought a meal to share, and with the remaining fiver, I bought a ½ litre bottle of Blue Smirnoff to quell my volcanic frustration of the days events. We ate the food and we were supposed to share the vodka, too, but we had no mixers, so I ended up drinking most of it…

The last thing I remember is standing at the back of the ferry, watching thick purple fractals dance over the wake, and vanish skittering into the horizon . . .

. . . and the next thing I know I’m waking up - and everything is white.

I’m in white.

On a white bed.

The room is white.

. . . .

I gingerly get out of bed and open the white door of the white room - and note with rising alarm that the corridor outside is white - as is everyone walking down the corridor.

“Well, that’s it then”, I thought, “I’m in some weird afterlife”…

But unfortunately I had no time to reflect on this reverie, as just then one of the people in white walked into the room and said “Ah, Mr Beaver, you’re awake at last”. AWAKE!! So I’m NOT dead after all!

Turns out, instead, I was in hospital. Obviously.

After finishing my vodka, I went for a little nap at the top of the ferry - RIGHT at the top on the outside of the boat.

When everyone got off the ferry, I didn’t. It took them two hours - and four searches to find me - apparently I was a foot away from an almighty drop to the deck below, and had only managed to ward off serious hypothermia because I was wearing leather trousers and a jumper. The crew were going to give up on searching for me, fearing I had gone overboard, but my girlfriend’s dad insisted they kept on looking.

I’ve still got the ferry ticket and one of the sticky-chest-heart monitoring things.

But I DON’T still drink Blue Smirnoff.

Well apart from that time when I got into a scrap with someone down a club in Brighton...
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 17:53, 8 replies)
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.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 16:26, 13 replies)
I was 14, and my sister as barmaid got me a job as pot boy in our local, and very rural Somerset pub.
One evening a lad who knew my sister (settle down) appeared at the doorway on crutches. He'd joined the army, and been invalidid out for a few weeks after screwing up a parachute jump.

"Is that young master Vagabond I see there?" he asked, "You must be what? 14? 15 now? I think it's time you learned to drink, lad!" he said.

Thus as my shift was over, snakebites and black were ordered, and consumed. Very nice they were too.

Five pints later, my skinny frame floated out the door, and, finding the drain, spewed deeply and heavily into it; the relief of emptying my poor guts something of an almost biblical release, and my sister proceeded to guide my staggering young form back home, where I immediately passed out.

My shift the next day started at 8am, and oh dear gods up above and the fishes in the ocean - I was not on form.

A hangover, I was soon to learn, is no excuse for not going to work, and so it was that I found myself standing outside on a bitterly cold morning, alternately shivering and sweating, washing an enormous pile of frozen purple puke off the white wall of the pub, about three meters away from the drain, using boiling water to melt it and an old rag to wipe.

Mmm ... smells like rotten apples ...

tl;dr as a teenager I got pissed and threw up.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 11:40, 4 replies)
In the first year of starting a new job.
A group of my male colleagues all went out on the piss. I had it a little larger than I could handle and moments of note are:

1. Calling the nice girl who'd ordered us a taxi from the kebab shop she was working at a lying bitch for saying she'd ordered the taxi when she clearly hadn't. The taxi arrived about a minute later.

2. Trying to convince some bloke in the same kebab shop that I was his father and if he didn't show more respect I'd clip him round the ear. Despite him clearly being older than me.

3. Waking up naked with my cock in my hand pissing on a work colleagues legs. The room he was in was where the toilet is in my house.

4. Dashing around the house looking for the fucking toilet stark bollock naked. Who has the bathroom in a 3 bedroom detatched house downstairs for fucks sake?

Dreading returning to work after the weekend I was greeted by the expected jeers and piss-taking and when I opened by drawer there was a nappy in it.

The bloke I'd pissed on then went on at great length to describe to everyone how he'd been rudely awoken to a golden shower.

"Yea, but what you didn't tell them was you let me carry on and started wanking."
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 11:34, 1 reply)
The day I drank too much absinthe.
I had the weirdest drunken experience of my life (so far) one sunny saturday when I was 18.
I used to work in a bar, and me and my friends met up there one evening at about 5pm for some pre-house-party drinks.
Seeing as I worked there I was almost immediately asked what the cheapest/strongest drinks were, and, like a fool, I recommended absinthe.
I'd tried it a couple of times before, and it seemed to accelerate me to a slightly higher drunken plateau, like 3 pints of drunken tomfoolery condensed into a shot, so I didn't need much egging on before I agreed to have one.
My less-experienced (possibly only 17 year old) friends stood wide-eyed as my colleague went through the ritual - sugar lump on spoon, dipped in absinthe, set alight, allowed to caramelise, stirred in, doused with soda - and I confidently knocked it back. It tastes like a health food shop smells, for anyone who hasn't tried it.
10 or 15 minutes pass, and more of my friends turn up - we're ready to leave. Before that, however, the others start to boast about me.
"You should've seen Paolo, he's been drinking absinthe!"
"Bollocks, he's a lightweight. He'd be on the floor"
It was decided that the only way to prove I had drunk one was to drink another.
So I did.
I learned later that both the first and second barmen decided to slip more than a shot in - I probably had closer to 4 shots in about 30 minutes. Not recommended.
I remember piling into a car (one of us had just finished work so was sober), driving for about 20 minutes, getting to the house, opening the door-

-and finding myself in a taxi. No blank bits in my mind, no fuzzy edges, no passing out; I opened the front door and was sat in the back seat of a cab, going to pick up munchies from Tesco.
I still remember looking around in confusion. It's how I imagine people feel after being hypnotised. I remember nothing - we had apparently watched an episode of the Simpsons, but that half an hour or so had been seamlessly removed, the edges of my consciousness stitched together so perfectly that I had no sleepy moments, no gradual fading out, just 100% out of it, 100% back. My friends said I behaved normally too.
I was genuinely worried it might have been the first showing of epilepsy or something, but this hasn't happened before or since (as far as I'm aware at least)

Don't fuck around with absinthe.

TL;DR? I Drank absinthe and it surgically removed 30 minutes, then stitched the edges back together.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 10:44, 25 replies)
It's almost as if people LIKE kicking me.
It was Pilton Pop Festival, or, for the scum who only like it because it's fashionable, Glastonbury Music Festival. I think it was 1994, though I could well be wrong.

We were a team of 12, we'd spent the evening getting in on two tickets that we'd shared the cost of, and it seemed that Mike and I both had the team gear (or MASSIVE DRUGS, or "cannabis").

Much later that evening, then, we were wandering along, enjoying the sights and sounds (and smells), and decided a beer was in order, or, specifically, a tin of still-warm cider from our collection in our backpack.

Several ciders later, and we decided to have a bit of a sit-down. It was now quite late, and since the bright lights of the beer tents were doing our heads in, we decided to find a bit more room, and sat down to enjoy some spliff.

I remember Mike waking me "Vagabond! Vagabond!" he said, proffering a spliff, "Breakfast!".

It was still pitch black, but I dutifully sat up and partook. As I finished a couple of puffs, I noticed Mike had passed out. "Mikey! Mikey!" I said, tapping him, "Breakfast!"

He sat up, took the joint, and this situation seemed to go on for a couple more rounds.

And it was then that the kicking started. It would appear that this time, we'd managed to pass out in front of the Pyramid stage, and in the brightness of the afternoon sun, we realised we were right at the front with a increasingly-packed crowd forming around us in preparation for the first band of the day, and with little room more for manoeuvre, they had taken to trying to either kick us out of the way or stand on us.

I've bought better hangovers.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 9:16, 10 replies)
Making a great first impression
After a reasonable amount of time in a LDR, it was high time to remove the LD part so I moved towns and moved in. Quite agreeable, yet as to be expected, there's a certain amount of time it takes to get used to someone else being around. As luck would have it, a mate of mine had also moved towns and was having a house-warming party that next weekend. Ideal time to take a breather...

Show up at 3pm in the afternoon, take it easy, just a couple of beers, then move on to the wine. Tipsy-ish around 6pm but still fine. Someone starts passing around a bottle of scotch but it's declined. We break out of there at 8pm, stop off at the local restaurant for a final pint for the road. It occurs to me that I'm bouncing off the walls when I pay a visit to the leakeria, but I'm still able to speak so it's not all over just yet. Nevertheless, the well-tuned* beer barometer still says it's about time to get my sorry ass home while I still can.

I set off with my trusty bike, downhill towards home... it's still daylight... only then it isn't. I come to and the sky is pitch black. There are blue lights flashing around and I have no clue what the fuck just happened. Struggle to get upright, and can't - I'm bound to a fucking stretcher. My weary brain gives up - get loaded into the back of the van, fade out... next thing I know I'm in a giant metal tube that's making weird noises... fade out again... someone takes my hand and starts asking me if I'm ok... guess who, it's the new woman. Oh bugger - how the fuck'd she get here?! And they won't let me go home (doubtful if I could walk anyway). Fade to black...

The next morning I wake up to find the stuff I'm not wearing any longer tucked neatly in a plastic bag. Plus a business card from the Plod. At least nothing was nicked, nor did I manage to crush my phone or smash my watch. Small mercies.

Turns out that despite walking the bike home, I'd just blacked out after just a couple of streets. Fortunately not wandering into the path of any moving vehicles, nor causing any damage to anything, parked vehicles or otherwise. They'd hauled me off into hospital, breath-tested me (210mg/100ml - good score!), gave me a CT scan and a bunch of xrays, meanwhile worked out who I was and despatched the Plod to where I lived. The new lady, who was probably already wondering where the fuck I was, was treated to a visit at 10pm by a couple of coppers who didn't really have the full story, only that I was down the ER with head injuries. Which to be fair could have been a lot more serious than it actually was.

Picked up the (undamaged) bike from the plod later on; gave a statement on which the answer to most of the questions was "I haven't got a fucking clue". Banned from cycling for three months... plus a fine - so much for making a good impression. I know already that this will be talked about for years to come...

* it must have lost its calibration - fucking thing was useless that day!
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 8:13, Reply)
One night in a pub
an older man, obviously pissed, walked up to a much younger man who was standing at the bar with his mates and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. "I've had yer mum!" he roared.

The younger man brushed off the older man and returned to his conversation, and the older man wandered off muttering.

Before long the older guy was back. "Not only did I have 'er, but she loved it!"

The younger man gave him a look of disgust and turned away.

'And ya know what? I think I'm goin' back and fuck her again tonight!"

Without turning the younger guy said "Dad go home. You're drunk."

badum tish.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 3:32, 3 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.
(, Tue 19 Feb 2013, 3:01, 14 replies)
What a coincidence...
Last saturday I saw PAIN play in Derby...sort of. I'd seen them support Nightwish last november, and saw that they were playing at the Hairy dog. Tonight was finally the night!
I'm not much of a drinker, but I've been able to handle it for the past 5 years. So I thought a pint of Old rosie would be OK, then another, then a third...
So that's how I missed PAIN. Hurling up in the bog and trying not to fall off the floor. What a colossal twat I am.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 23:07, 3 replies)
Breakfast at the pub? Good idea!
After a reasonable night out in the capitol a friend and I thought that the finest way to cap it all off the following morning was by going out for a good old full english. The pub we chose was managed by a friend of ours so at just after midday (obviously a late start) we sit down at the bar and order breakfast. Then my eye is caught by a sign.

"Our lovely bloody mary's will make everything better or your money back*

*Dirty, filthy lie, still pretty ace though!"

I liked this sign, and I felt a little worse for ware after the previous night, a bloody mary sounded like just the ticket even if reimbursement wasn't ever going to be an option so we ordered doubles and began.

One bloody mary became two, then three and eventually five. By this point we were getting drunk again and even though it was only about three, shots seemed like a great idea. Shots followed by cider, then beer.

Eventually it was five, and ever increasing phone calls were indicating that I had to be elsewhere, so I asked if I could settle the afternoon's tab.

'That'll be £126....' She taps a couple of buttons... 'Actually, that'll be £80 please.'

Much appreciation, statements of intention of repeating the occasion and thanks ensued.

Then all I had to do was stagger my why back through London, home. Where my girlfriend had been sat outside my front door. For an hour and a half, because we were supposed to be getting on a train to go and see my parents and the rest of my family.

She was probably angry, buggered if I can remember though.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 20:00, 6 replies)

(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 19:17, 3 replies)
Drunk, I say!
My Ex Sister in Law worked in the City, earning megabucks like they used to in the 80's and 90's, and would oft go on a spree when their boat came in. This she would do on a regular basis, but my brother and I had to work particularly late this evening and decided we would meet her at Kings Cross. She turned up looking like a £5 hooker with a £1000 accent, and whatever passed for Jimmy Choo shoes and a Lagerfield dress.
Calling her over to the platform, she shouted back "I''l be there in a second, I'm gonna be ill" She staggered over to the nearest waste bin, the sort jubilee clipped to posts, and threw up an evenings worth of Bollinger, Lobster and whatever else she had swallowed. Only for us to watch it come clean out the bottom of a cylindrical bin, with no liner!
Shoes were thrown away there and then, the dress was disposed of when we got home
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 18:51, 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.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 18:38, 6 replies)
Something something local pub
Something something picked on my mate's son so I cut off his arm.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 18:36, Reply)
Local Legend
Hoary oldsters tell the tale of a lad who decided, in his advanced state of beer consumption, that the beach would be a spiffing place to spend the night. A deep untroubled sleep took him away, disturbed by nothing and no-one.

Eventually, the morning sunshine burning his eyes, the imminent rupturing of his bladder and the fact that his tongue seemed to have been bonded to the roof of his mouth by a combination of rough cement and the dribblings from an open sore on a monkey's arse dragged him, unwillingly, into consciousness.

He manfully hazarded an open eye, and attempted to focus. There seemed to be shapes around him. Strange, dark shapes; some of them seemed to be poking him, and loud, angry voices were in evidence.

It must have been quite a way to wake up: completely surrounded by heavily armed police, all pointing guns at you. As you may remember, in 1984 the IRA had a fair stab at assassinating Margaret Thatcher, by blowing up the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and it was directly in front of that hotel, on the night in question, that our hero had chosen to pass out.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 17:14, Reply)
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...
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 16:17, Reply)
The houseparty was on the third floor of a house in Camden
The hostess's boyfriend had, about six months previously, tried to climb the outside of this building at 3am while utterly wankered, fallen off and impaled himself on an iron fence below. It nearly killed him - if not for a passer-by who had called 999 because they thought he'd been shot he would probably have bled out in the street. This was the first time he'd been back out in public since then, having spent the intervening time bedridden and counting his lucky stars that the railing hadn't punctured anything vital. So to celebrate his not-deadness he'd invited a bunch of people over, including myself and our mutual friend little Don.

Anyway, we were a little bit late and quite pissed when we got there...to be greeted with everyone leaving the party ashen-faced and making their way elsewhere as soon as humanly possible. "What's going on?" I asked a friend of a friend as they scurried by. "Little Don's fallen out of the window," they replied. Fuck.

Fortunately one of my companions that evening was a paramedic, and although he'd left his ambulance at the station we convinced the hostess that he'd be the best person to have a look in the circumstances. She led him through to the back garden where little Don was lying.

As it turned out, little Don was fine. He'd avoided the metal fence and indeed anything else that could have caused him any injury and thanks to the very relaxed state in which he'd fallen out of the window in the first place had fallen three stories with only minor bruises. Taking him back upstairs, we got the party started again and carried on almost as if nothing had happened.

I say almost, at one point little Don turned to me and pointed to the window. "Go on," he said. "Jump out. I did it and I'm all right."

Peer pressure is a frightening thing.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 16:14, 6 replies)
Hmm. The pissed moped one earlier reminds me of . . .
driving a moped, pissed.

When I was 16, the choice was either A Yamaha FS-1E (a fizzie, to the congiscenti), or a Suzuki AP50.

Being heterosexual, I got the fizzie. So did 3 of my friends. A couple of them got AP50s, and one stupid bastard got a Garelli bimatic. This was a bicycle with an engine, and considerably slower than the others.

To ensure we didn't lose him on our weekend jaunts to country pubs, we used to make him go in front, and would harass him by bumping into the back of him, etc. Unfortunately along with it's dire performance, the Garelli also had dire lights.

Cut to one fine evening, around midnight, six screaming mopeds traveling along windy country lanes in rural Gloucestershire, riders in various states of inebriation. Garelli boy manages to miss a bend in the road, and shoots off into a bush. 3 fizzies and 2 AP50s are following him, right? So, all 6 of us end up in a hedge in a mass of spinning wheels and hot exhaust pipes.

If we had been sober, it wouldn't have seemed funny at all.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 15:43, 9 replies)

(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 15:19, 6 replies)
Bitten by a snake.
In 1987 I had managed to progress in 3 years from being a homeless person to a semi-respectable member of the farming community.
I had the good fortune to have set myself up as a tenant farmer in a nice place and was making good money. The long term plan was to purchase the farm itself.

In the shorter term, the plan was usually to get wasted once a week when I had arranged the following day off.
A night out usually involved a meal and as much liquid as could be consumed before last orders.
On the fateful night which changed my life, I was visited by a group of friends and we decided to start the session on snakebite.

I don't recall if we remembered to eat anything but I do recall how I found myself "resting" on the concrete patio at home having fallen off some steps in a drunken stumble.

They say if you are alcoholically relaxed that you don't hurt yourself as much as a sober person might, they aren't always right.
Enquiries as to my condition were rebuffed with a cheery "I'm fine, just twisted my ankle, I'll be back in a minute"

I never did make it back indoors, instead I was transported to the hospital in Norwich where it was discovered that I'd broken my ankle in 12 lovely fractures.

The worst was yet to come as it was then decided that due to my intense intoxication, I was to wait 24 hours until I could go into surgery to screw the sorry mess back together.

The nurses came and breathalysed me periodically, shook their heads and said " not yet, still wayyy over" into my sad dehydrated face, again and again.
Eventually I awoke to a surgical team washing up the power tools and was told that I was fixed.

Thanks to the amazing job that the surgeon did I still have no pain or discomfort today more than 25 years on.
I know I cost the health service a lot of money, but I paid for my stupidity in many ways.
I lost my business because I couldn't function in a cast and I didn't walk properly for more than 6 months.

Remember kids, booze can fuck up your life in more ways than one.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 15:13, 3 replies)
Best forgotten
I have no idea what happened that night. An unfortunate mix of vodka, pills, acid, and beta-blockers worked their diabolical magic and I ended up being ejected from the party at 6 AM. I lost about 20 friends for behaviour that was described as "appalling", and who refused to speak to me ever again. So between my amnesia and their silence I still have no idea what I did. I just hope it was worth it.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 14:11, 2 replies)
Reposting this:
I was trying to get to do sex to a girl. She was quite the prick-tease, I found out later, but for the time being, we were just getting drunk together.

"We should go back to mine" she said, raising my trousers, "but first let's have a drink in the The Fox".

As we walked there, both a few drinks under, she took out some prescription pills and took one - "They're for my epilepsy" she explained, "Would you like one?"

"You're alright" I said, remembering a previous experience of pharmaceuticals and alcohol with horrid accuracy.

"Oh go on!" she giggled, "All my friends do - they just calm my epilepsy, but my friends say they make you really nice and mellow ... very ... sensual ... " she said. I would like to point out that in previous discussion she'd hinted that not only was she not averse to, but quite keen on a little back door action.

"I dunno ... " I said, playing the part of idiot, easily-led and unquestioning sex-starved student to a tee.

"They're really good" she said, popping one into my mouth slowly, letting her fingers trail my lips.


I remember being kicked in the stomach - sort of gently, but repeatedly.

"Oi!" said God, "OI!"

Something sounded like a radio crackling.

"Fuck it" said God, "Let's just get the fucker out and get fucking closed."

I was flying. Beautiful, cold air on my skin. My arms hurt, but I was fine, flying through the cold night, refreshed - lovely.

Then my face hit the floor with a crack. Oh well.

God came back, this time with a kinder, softer tone, "You alright, mate? You from the college? I think he's from the college"

"I am indeed from the college" I instructed them, "I wonder if I could trouble you for the loan of twenty pounds with which to hire a public carriage, that I might hoof off? I hope that my mate Dan's awake, and that I might spend the night on his floor, as I know his liberal attitude to accommodation will be prevalent, and he lives not far from here. Would you mind? I would be most obliged."

"I dunno" said God, "Isn't he a mate of Dan's?"

"I AM a mate of Dan's!" I said, "As I instructed you! Now, twenty pounds, if you please!"

The summer passed, and soon the cool of autumn was making me shiver.

"Dan, mate? Yeah. You got a mate with a red mohican? Yeah. Yeah. Well he's outside The Fox and he's ... yeah. No. He's proper fucked. Yeah. Yeah OK - you what? Oh mate - yeah sure - yeah OK mate. Yeah that's cool."

I remember noting that Dan had grown a beard, and looked handsome with it. A small chap but deceptively strong, he swore at me profusely for some reason, and there was something to do with a blanket.

The morning arrived, and with it breakfast of tea and a sausage sandwich. A trip to the park to enjoy the mid-summer sun was arranged, and throughout it I alternately shivered and sweated, and occassionally pulled myself to the bushes to dry heave. In the afternoon I managed to get back to mine, where I spent two days in bed flitting from consciousness to sleep, with no real distinction between them. I could not focus for a week on whether or not I existed beyond mild physical discomfort.

I never did get to have sex with the girl.
(, Mon 18 Feb 2013, 14:09, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1