January 2013
So it started at around 9pm. I was already pretty well off my face having got through about six cans of stellar. I heard a commotion in the dining room and walked in to investigate. Sat in the centre of a crowd of people who were already starting to look a bit blurry was my friend who was just necking his eighth shot of Tequila. Now, being a competitive person is bad enough but being a competitive person who has just had half a dozen cans of stellar is even worse. I sat down at the table and confidently ordered one of the blurry faced people to line up nine Tequila shots in front of me. I necked them all with ease, much to the delight of the crowd, who were by now both blurry and all appeared to be standing next to their identical twin. I remember a set of blurry twins saying there was just enough Tequila for one more shot and I proceeded to down my tenth shot before getting up, opening another can of stellar and gratefully accepting the applause of my adoring crowd. I vividly remember walking into the living room and hearing somebody telling me I’d be unconscious within half an hour.
I may or may not have had more to drink after that. To be honest, the details are a little hazy. I just vividly remember about half an hour later standing in the hallway talking to someone whose face was, by now, unrecognisable and announcing I was about to pass out. I then fell flat on my face. I have a vague recollection of being carried upstairs by one of my mates, being hurled onto a mattress on the floor and falling into a drunken coma. I also remember waking up shortly afterwards realising I was about to be violently sick. I somehow managed to navigate my way, blind, across the landing and into the toilet. I managed to get my head right down the bowl and empty the gallons of alcohol I’d consumed into the toilet without getting spatters all over the floor. I had enough wherewithal to realise I was unlikely to be so lucky in finding the toilet vacant again given the number of people at the party and walked myself downstairs, out of the front door and across the street. I got to my front door, managed to find my keys, opened the door without any problems, walked up the stairs, undressed myself and went to sleep.
Naturally I woke up in the morning with a head like a traction engine and a severe case of badger’s arse but I remember being absolutely amazed at how I managed to get myself home when I was obviously so drunk. I then decided to get dressed, go back across the road and help my mate tidy his house. I searched for about an hour to find my shoes before giving up and walking across the road barefoot. Only when I got there did I discover that, although I’d been compos mentis enough to avoid decorating my friend’s bathroom floor with my stomach and not fall over and crack my skull open attempting to cross the road, I had done so in bare feet. Not only that, I had gone to great effort to neatly fold my socks inside my shoes before apparently attempting to crawl inside them. According to onlookers, after an hour of trying to climb inside my own shoes, I gave up and used them as a pillow. That, I was told, explained the huge red mark running down my cheek.
That was about 13 years ago. I’ve done a lot of other silly and pointless things when drunk over the years. I’ve done all the clichéd things like wake up in bed with traffic cones and other unpleasant objects of varying weight and ugliness. I’ve also woken up in casualty. I’ve done some other bizarre things like surf down a main road on a double bed and assist in the removal and replacement of a patio door from its hinges. I’ve been helped up the stairs by my pet dog and spent half an hour trying to get through a door that was being blocked by an ugly, lanky bloke before realising it was a mirror. I also once witnessed my brother unsuccessfully attempt to eat a pint glass.
Of course I grew out of that kind of behaviour long ago. It was about the time I reached my early twenties, got a mortgage, got a steady job and started down the dark path towards adulthood which culminated in me achieving the rank of the UK’s youngest grumpy old man. I still get drunk occasionally but I am now sensible enough to know when I’ve had enough to drink and will regret it in the morning, so I stop.
So now when I see young teenagers acting like morons, I have mixed feelings. As well as wishing they would shut the hell up or get hit by a bus, I feel a certain sense of nostalgia because I remember those good old days when I was carefree and didn’t give a toss about anything. I also feel a huge amount of embarrassment because I know now that I must have looked like a right tit.
I have now reached an even greater level of boring. Not only am I married, all my friends are married and most now have babies. I very rarely go out any more and I’ve started drinking red wine. I find any excuse to get out of going to celebratory events because people generally annoy me and I find celebrating things like New Year about as pointless as the X Factor. I refuse to pay money to enter pubs that are crap at the best of times and I refuse to pay jacked-up prices for the watered-down drinks they serve – not that you can get to the bar anyway because all venues are rammed full of morons treading on everyone else’s feet. That is why this year I stayed in on New Year’s Eve and had a quiet night with the love of my life and her family. I didn’t wake up with a hangover or any serious injuries and I feel better for it. So Happy New Year to you all.
