Well, it seems my blogging partner has fled with all the weapons, leaving me dressed in a now-sequinless jumpsuit (I get nervous, I start picking at them) and hand-cuffed to a tree in the blogging wilderness, so it is up to me to serve drinks tomorrow night.
Britain is a binge-drinking-culture, my friends, and who am I to blow against the wind? I am going to get you all absolutely trashed tonight, folks, and I need the poison against which you have no defence. I want you to think back to the absolutely most blindingly, stonkeringly, dip-dep-dappingly, I-can’t-even-remember-my-name dipsomaniacal you’ve ever been. Now I want you to remember what you were drinking- that’s what I’m serving. Get ready for dancing on table-tops.
Now here’s a lame e-mail joke I was forwarded this morning, since we’re on the subject:
Things that are difficult to say when you’re drunk…
Things that are VERY difficult to say when you’re drunk…
b) British Constitution
c) Passive-aggressive disorder
Things that are DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE to say when you’re drunk…
a) Thanks, but I don’t want to sleep with you.
b) Nope, no more booze for me.
c) Sorry, but you’re not really my type.
d) No kebab for me, thank you.
e) Good evening officer, isn’t it lovely out tonight?
f) I’m not interested in fighting you.
g) Oh, I just couldn’t – no one wants to hear me sing.
h) Thank you, but I won’t make any attempt to dance, I have zero co-ordination.
i) Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to wee in the street.
j) I must be going home now as I have work in the morning.
k) Nudie run? Not for me thanks.
wow we’re starting cocktails on thursday? you really do intend to get us smashed don’t you?
the most drunk i’ve ever been was at my 21st. it was a surprise party, and the surprise was that my tom-cruise-wannabe housemate made up 21 shots of the worst combinations of every conceivable alcoholic ingredient and everyone insisted i do them. i begged for help but still ended up downing 15 shots.
i danced, i sang, i burnt two holes in my skirt with sparklers.
my liver wouldn’t talk to me for a month.
Let me get this straight – you expect me to remember what it was I was drinking when I got my most inebriated? And then order some more?
Fair enough. It started with beer, I can remember that. Then, I’m told, it progressed onto shots of neat Bacardi, then neat Sambuca, but it could’ve been the poorly prepared Absinth that did the real damage. Sugar doesn’t dissolve nicely into a flaming, alcoholic syrup if you forget to dip the spoonful of it into the Absinth before holding your lighter under it…
Ok it took a while but I finally managed to clear the cobwebs and discover the answer…. I started w/vodka and cranberry and ended w/Jim Beam and soda… I am told I was a barrel of laughs that evening!
To be honest, I couldn’t tell you when was the occasion of my most advanced drunkenness. There are so many. There are also many occasions on which I’ve felt the most sorry for myself the day after, but they were not necessarily one and the same. Drink works in funny ways like that. But for your entertainment I shall pick one from the many.
I was at party in Budapest in 1998, drinking vodka and tonic. I got into conversation with a bearded half-wit who was telling me about the time he’d spent in Russia. I told him that I’d learnt to drink vodka in Poland (a vomit inducing mistake I’d made before) and he snorted. “That’s not how you drink vodka!” he said, noticing that I had mixed it. “You drink vodka like this!” whereupon he took a slug from the bottle. Affronted I grabbed the bottle from his hand and finished it in one.
I immediately realised that this was extraordinarily stupid, but I also experienced an instant vodka induced rush of euphoria. Not only had I drunk half a pint of vodka in one go, I seemed to have got away with it. I felt great. I was on top of the world. I proceeded into the party and did the things one does at parties, secretly pleased with myself for having got one up on the other guy. Then, whilst talking to someone, I quite naturally turned to the girl sitting next to me and vomitted down her arm. It was a girl I didn’t particularly like, and I was drunk enough to think I’d pulled it off as nonchalantly as I’d downed the bottle of vodka.
At this point another girl who I’d been half-heartedly seeing decided it was time I left, and I broke a personal rule regarding going home with girls at parties. Once is just one of those things. Twice is a mistake. Three times is a relationship. Since this was also the last time, it counts as my shortest adult releationship. A lot of falling over was involved in the journey home and I woke up in her flat not exactly hungover, but with a desperate need to escape.
So, mine’s a large bottle of vodka downed in one, thanks.
I was in Spain on my first holiday abroad without my parents. My boyfriend and I went on the package tour’s Mock Bullfight. I can’t remember anything about the mock bullfight, because of the vast availability of sweet sparkling wine. I saved all the labels [because as previously discussed, however pissed I am, there’s still a central core of what can normally be called sense, although on this occasion that is somewhat contentious]. Between the two of us we consumed 14 bottles.
On our return to the hotel we had a dip in the pool. I’m not entirely confident that we had changed into our swimming costumes to do this. We then returned to our room, naughtily pressing all the buttons in the lift as we got out, and lay in bed vomiting and groaning for the next two days.
Please, for the love of Pockless, don’t make me drink any more of that stuff.
I shouldn’t really be proud of having so many occasions to choose from, should I?
I think it may have to be the time in Thailand in 1999. Some dodgy local brew. But I might blog about that elsewhere. So you’ll not get my most dipsomaniacal time but the time with the worst after effects which was at the 2001 Hong Kong 7’s tournament.
Two and a half days of solid, 10am to 3am, drinking with my wife (then fiancee) and two of her friends, the New Zealand super 12s team and a whole host of Welsh supporters. The atomosphere was fantastic, the beer was flowing and the French and anybody who used their mobile phone in the stand were all being generously abused.
Did I mention that the beer was flowing? By the jug? Along with the Pimms?
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I spent 2.5 days drinking and the best part of 10 days in bed with acute alcohol posioning. Then again, it could have been the dodgy meat pie I had.
So mines a jug or two of Heineken but hold the meat pie.