The Storm

After around a month without a single drop of alcohol passing my lips the time had finally come to end the dry spell. It was my friends 21^st and I couldn’t wait to finally put on a pair of heels and drink the night away. Three of my friends were heading to mine first for girlie gossip and a few drinks to get the night started. After consuming said drinks and getting ourselves ready we ordered a cab and were on our way.

The route that must be taken in order to reach the club we were heading to leads one down what looks like a country lane. There are no road lamps to help guide the way and the road runs right alongside a river. All I can say is I’m glad I wasn’t the one driving.  

The plan was to get sufficiently drunk enough for me to dance without a care and have as many lols as possible throughout the night. Well of course this was the plan, who actively seeks a night spent slumped on the pavement being sick on oneself? I’ll admit that there once was a time when this outcome would not have fazed me in the slightest. However, things have changed and I’ve come to rather cherish what dignity I’ve managed to scavenge back after a brief period of recklessness; little did I know that this dignity was about to ripped from my clutches once again.

We entered the hall and were immediately greeted by friends. After the initial hellos were out the way we went straight to the bar. I looked over to my friend who had ordered herself a shot and for some unknown reason I decided I wanted to join her. Throughout my years of drinking I have learnt that Sambuca and my body are never going to have a good relationship; the impact of a single shot has a hideous effect on me. Alas I chose this form of alcohol anyway. This fact alone should give you a pretty accurate idea of where the night was headed.

It was brought to my attention by the individual whose birthday we were celebrating that she was unsatisfied by the selection of music being played. A friend and I therefore took it upon ourselves to request a song that would appeal to the majority. Of course this song was by Rihanna. After we’d approached the DJ and received an agitated response it seemed that the music in general seemed to improve slightly. I remember at least two different Rihanna songs being played and that in itself means the party was significantly better from that point onwards. 

The night was spent talking to old friends or simply those I hadn’t seen in a long time. Catching up with the people who dominated my adolescence definitely made me miss the simpler times of secondary school when alcohol had yet to corrupt my life.

How many drinks I had consumed at this point is beyond me. From what I can recall it wasn’t actually as many as one might guess if they had been observing my behaviour. The combination of having lowered my alcohol tolerance to practically zero, not having eating enough throughout the day and just general excitement to be spending my night socialising with real human beings meant that the rate in which I became inebriated sped up alarmingly. 

My memories from here fade in and out but are all equally mortifying. 

I stumbled into the toilet (stumbling being the general motions my body took for the majority of the hours that followed) to find a friend of mine in a cubicle in a state of distress. Situating myself on the floor next to the toilet on which she was perched I attempted to rectify her sadness. In the end, after calling her brother demanding to pick her up but being refused, I ordered her a cab. 

This is where my memory of this particular fiasco ends. I have been informed that during the time spent in the cubicle I was also sick and practically passed out. Luckily I managed to carry myself to the front of the establishment where I waited with my friend for her cab to arrive. I passed out again during this time. 

At some point I called my boyfriend. This is one event I have no recollection of whatsoever. He explained to me that I rang him and began crying hysterically, for what reason nor he or I know. The conversation was cut short when I dropped my phone and failed to retrieve it, possibly due to passing out again. 

By now my friend had gone home and I was left with the bouncers. Whether I told them or whether they simply figured it out from my call list, one of said bouncers rang my boyfriend to tell him of my current state. He asked for them to wait for my other friends to find me before calling a cab.

I was occasionally aware of what was going on around me as I drifted between consciousness and “sleep”; my name being said and failed attempts to wake me up. After my other two friends found me the mission to get me home began. A cab was called but I was now completely paralysed. Therefore it was the task of one of the bouncers to haul me over to the vehicle and throw me inside; this was probably the biggest mistake (other than the volume of alcohol I consumed in the first place) that was made that night. 

During the ride home I was sick on the floor of the car several times. I cannot say if the driver knew what was happening right behind the seat he was sat upon but he didn’t charge any extra for the damage to the carpet on the car floor. I cannot image the disgust of his following passengers when they boarded the vehicle and stepped in a puddle of vomit.

I say I was taken “home” when really I was taken to my boyfriends. Once he had carried me from the car to his door I decided to sleep in his hallway for a while. In total he said he took him multiple hours to get me into bed. He did well to get me out of my clothes and into a clean t-shirt, as well as to take my extensions out; however he failed to remove my makeup which had spread across my face whilst I had been crying. Upon awakening the next day and looking in the mirror, I saw an appalling but also highly amusing image reflected back at me which resembled an extremely sleepy panda.

All in all the night was quite a disaster. Despite wearing an amazing dress and being with awesome people I managed to ruin it for myself. There is one main thing I have learnt from this experience; do not go a prolonged amount of time without drinking alcohol. It totally fucks you up.

The Calm

So, it’s been a while. You may be wondering what on earth has happened to me, but fear not! I have not been in some fatal accident or suffered any tragedy, I’ve simply become somewhat of a hermit in the past few weeks. Admittedly it’s also down to a sheer bout of laziness and lack of motivation to write anything at all, which I am out rightly ashamed of. I could’ve written about the Halloween shenanigans or that one random night at Liquid; however at this point the drinks, the kebabs and the tears have all blurred into one and I doubt I’d be able to recount a specific night accurately at all.

The past few weekends have followed the same pattern. On Friday nights I stay at my boyfriends and have to get up at a time I didn’t realise existed on a Saturday BCB (Before Current Boyfriend) in order for him to get to work and for me not to have to awkwardly reside in his house without him. I go home and get back into my own bed before awakening for a driving lesson. Then my day passes by without me fully remembering what exactly I’ve done until I end up back at my his. The night will then be dedicated to Wii and/or a film which we undoubtedly fall asleep through. I know, we’re just completely off the rails aren’t we?

This pattern has been serving me well and all jokes aside, I genuinely adore quiet nights in with the man I love and being able to remember sex is just one of the many advantages of not get completely gazeboed on a Saturday night. Other such advantages include not having to deal with the sensation of an elephant sitting on my head and my tummy doing summersaults all throughout Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately, due to my boyfriends lack of interest, I still have to watch X Factor on catch up.

There is something slightly strange about sitting in my bedroom at 6:30 playing The Sims Social instead of rushing around trying to get ready for a night out. I will admit that not having to face my wardrobe on a weekly basis in order to attempt to find some combination of clothing that won’t make me feel like a potato next to my friends has definitely been beneficial. I’d like to say that my bank balance has subsequently suffered less in this alcohol-free period; however I still managed to bleed it dry.

So just as the painfully cold weather is setting in and I’ve purchased new gloves, a scarf and “the best hat I could have ever chosen”, according to my boyfriend, it’s time for alcohol rich nights to occur more frequently. That Christmassy feeling is creepy up and the time to feel merry and bright, in other words time to be able to get drunk a lot without being scrutinised too harshly, is finally here.

I’ll say with slight apprehension that I am yearning for the bitter taste of vodka. My body is beginning to feel the effects of such a long drought and I’m not sure how much longer it will cope with such unprecedented sobriety. Hopefully my thirst will be quenched this coming weekend and I’ll have stories enough to fill a book to impart to you and make your day that little bit more worth getting up for.

Ladies Night

During the week leading up to Saturday night I’d told myself, as I often do, that I would not be drinking a lot when I headed out to Watford for my friends 21st. Lately when I’ve made this claim I’ve actually managed to not disappoint myself; however “not drinking a lot” and “not getting too drunk” are completely different statements. This weekend I was aiming to stay true to both; I stayed true to neither.

As usual I greatly underestimated how long it would take me to get ready. Being the clever sort that I am, I decided to give myself the added task of dying my hair. When the time rolled around for me to be leaving my house, I was in fact still in my underwear. Luckily, when it comes to arranging times to meet within my group of friends it’s more often than not assumed that everyone is going to be late, so any feelings of guilt pretty much ceased to be felt at all.

After opting to pay the extra for a cab than wait fifteen minutes for a bus, the friend I was travelling with and I finally arrived in Watford and met the others in a Wetherspoons. The night ahead was going to be a complete girlie night and so a considerable amount of dancing was to be expected. I was pleased to find that my new shoes were comfy enough to allow this.

After I’d managed to quickly paint my nails in the pub we headed on over to one of my favourite locations: Vodka Revs.

The first time I was introduced to this establishment of wonder was a couple of years ago on a student night. The bar considerately caters for the financially unstable students by offering a 2 for 1 deal on all drinks. Great! There’s nothing that pleases me more than a reduced fee on the ride to intoxication. We gazed over the drinks menu and decided to test the shots. You can buy a stick of six shots in all different flavours. We ordered this along with our double vodka and diet cokes. For some reason it had not occurred to us that the shots were also buy one get one free. Sitting on the bar facing us were 12 shot glasses filled with an assortment of brightly coloured liquids. “What happened next?” I hear you ask. You’re guess is as good as mine.

Back to the night in question and I decided to steer clear of the shots. Attending such places on a Saturday night after experiencing the prices of a student night is a little disheartening, but when you’re in high spirits and already tipsy money begins to mean less and less. The mandatory bathroom pictures took place in this bar in front of the biggest and most strategically placed mirror in existence. The people who decorated that place knew who their target audience were.

The next bar we ventured into was one I had yet to visit. The barmen revealed the volume of their egos by performing the generic tricks whilst preparing cocktails. In my mind I secretly longed for them to screw up and make a fool of themselves; alas, I was not granted this unkind pleasure. After a quick drink here and a tearful goodbye to one of the girls who was blasphemously leaving early as she had work the next day, we moved on to the final club.

I think no matter how many times I go to this club I will never be capable of navigating my way around it. The combination of being considerably drunk and generally lacking any skills when it comes to direction means I find it completely disorientating. I spent most of the night following other people around to avoid becoming stranded.

As it was my friends 21st we decided that we would tell the DJ to wish her a happy birthday and to request a song for her. At the time we were in the cheese room so we picked Thriller. Upon reflection I’ve realised the majority of the night was spent in the cheese room. There’s something about pre-millennia music that lifts everyone’s spirits. As soon as the first line of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” comes on every girl in the vicinity grabs an imaginary hairbrush and flocks to the dance floor to do their best Whitney impression.

At one point during the night as I was travelling from one room to another, something caught my eye. What first drew my attention in this general direction was an amazing smell. Turning my head, what came into view was a hotdog stand. My eyes grew wider as the man behind the counter passed over the meaty treat into the hands of an intoxicated individual. Resisting this torturous temptation, my gaze moved on to where I saw a couple of my friends. Next to the hotdog stand were a few computers...oh dear. I walked towards them to see Facebook open on the screen in front of them. What has the world come to when people feel the need to check a social networking site when they are out socialising IRL?

Without having realised, I was about to cross the line into an unacceptable level of intoxication. The dreaded time had come for me to make that shameful request for water. The bar I stood at occupied only one other person. The barman had disappeared out of sight and my need for a cool glass of innocent fluid was becoming unbearable. My impatience forced me to attempt communicating with the gentleman to my right to ask him to order it for me. I must have been successful as I was soon walking away with a full glass in my hand.

Along with my diminishing sobriety went my funds. After my efforts to dilute the alcohol in my veins I deemed it safe to purchase another real drink. However as I opened my purse it would seem I had forgotten to keep a track of how much money I was spending. Therefore when I tipped the remaining pennies I had onto the bar it was far from the amount I needed. So of course, out came the debit card. Luckily the damage was minimal as this turned out to be my last drink.

The final task of the night was getting a cab. The plan was for four of us to share the cab back, but on our way out of the club, and a detour to the kebab shop, our group was split in two. I received a call from the others who informed me that they were in a queue for a cab. Off we trotted in what we thought was the right direction. About ten minutes we began to question ourselves and after another phone call we were enlightened to the fact we’d been walking in completely the wrong direction. On went the lids of our kebabs to avoid losing any of our precious grub and we sped along the high street back the way we had come. Eventually we were reunited with the rest of our party and boarded the vehicle which would take us safely to our beds.

Blessing Birmingham

The weeks leading up to the departure of one of my best friends seemed to flash past. One minute I had the whole summer ahead of me to say goodbye and the next thing I knew I was out for her leaving drinks. The farewells were drunken but heartfelt I’m sure. Then she was gone. However she wouldn’t be rid of me for long. Two friends and I made the trip from London to Birmingham just a week after she had left because seven days without her was already too much to handle.

I dragged myself out of bed at a ridiculous hour for a Saturday in order to get into central London to board our train at 11:30am. The London underground was being as unreliable as ever so the trip took far longer than it should have. We struggled along with our bags looking like three students on a gap year and jumped on the train to Birmingham in the nick of time.

I think my expectations may have been slightly overzealous. I wanted to be greeted with thick accents, odd shaped buildings and strange foods only found in the mysterious land of Birmingham. It’s easily assumed my exploration of the UK has been limited. What I was really faced with was London but with bigger roads. The employees of Starbucks were still all Swedish and the Boots self-checkout machine was still a patronising bitch. Despite my disappointment that Birmingham was just another city and not the doorway to Narnia, I was still excited for the weekend ahead.

We were greeted by the lady responsible for our trip in the early afternoon and made our way back to her halls. For the short time we were there we mimicked the role of the student well; we sat around drinking tea and ate pizza. Our trip to and from Dominos was made that much more stressful by the futile use of the sat nav provided by a phone. The roads in Birmingham are extensively confusing, especially to someone who doesn’t drive. After getting lost multiple times and much bewilderment we eventually made it back and devoured ourselves on doughy delights.

Once we’d accomplished that mission we had another facing us: four girls getting ready in one small room and one bathroom, with two mirrors and two sockets. A significant amount of skill is required in order to navigate around three other girls whose only priority is to get that eyeliner flick just right. In hindsight I was actually quite glad to have the company; it’s nice to have someone to tell you if your make up looks right and to hold your hair extensions whilst you blow dry them.

After the chaos of ordering cabs, burnt faces and lost hair extensions was over we eventually boarded our ride to Birmingham University where the bar crawl of all the Rock and Alternative venues the city has to offer would commence. We had no expectations of the night ahead being in a place alien to us all, but I can safely say I was not expecting the copious amount of walking. The gratitude I felt for my decision to wear the comfiest heels I own was everlasting. My companions on the other hand had not made a similar choice and therefore the journey from bar to bar was torturous. In the end they removed their heels and braved the pavement bare foot.

The first establishment we went to was a small pub. It was easy to tell that the majority of people there were within the group organised by the uni, with the odd group of old men here and there. We didn’t stay there for very long, only having time for one drink. We moved onto the second bar and from the moment we walked in we could tell it had more character than the first; located outside the girls toilet was a pool table with an enlarged Jack Daniels label printed onto it; we aptly took photographs of us lounging across it before we allowed the gentleman waiting to begin their game. There was also a rather aesthetically pleasing bar man who we all lusted over, particularly his unnaturally shiny hair.

As we moved from place to place a trend seemed to be setting it. Each bar we visited was better than the last, but the walk in between was significantly longer; however the latter aspect may have been an illusion due to the growing pain in our feet.

When we entered the third bar we immediately made our way down the stairs as what lurked beneath appeared intriguing. As we descended the stairs what came into view was a massive cloud of mist. We broke through the fog and into a room that was basically empty, minus the group that had just entered and had gone straight for the bar. The use of the fog was clearly an attempt to mask the fact that no one wanted to venture down to this hole and we soon followed the crowd and went upstairs where our night really kicked off.

After sitting for a while watching two fat men stand on the dance floor we decided it was about time to get our grove on. What ensued was a multitude of pictures of us dancing. I managed to capture some interesting action shots of one particular friend as she fulfilled her desire to dance like no one was watching; unfortunately for her, they were. The next day as we paged through the evidence of the night on my camera, I had to mentally take note of all the pictures I was not allowed to upload to Facebook.

The night progressed and although at the time I felt as if I was sober, I was largely mistaken. When we reached the final bar, which was in fact a three story club, I was unknowingly about to purchase the drink that would tip me over the edge. Understandably my memory from this point onwards is as foggy as the previous bars basement. The layout is a maze in my mind and in my drunken state there was no way it would have been safe for me to wander about on my own. The most distinct memory I have is of laying in the girls toilets. I was waiting for my friend to return with the door keys we needed in order to begin our journey back to the sofas which we would be sleeping upon that night. Eventually she returned with the knowledge that her lengthy search had been a complete waste of time as I had taken the key earlier in the evening just in case this exact situation arose.

My recollection of the journey home and the drunken phone call to my boyfriend has been removed. Regrettably the scene involving me situated on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet desperately wanting to be sick is still with me. Despite this not being the conclusion to the night I wished for, the evening as a whole was one to remember. We spent the next day lying around in our pyjamas discussing the happenings of the night before until we had to depart.

On our way to the station we risked missing our train in order to purchase a Burger King and it was totally worth it. The ride home was exceptionally quieter than the one there. After we’d scoffed down our burgers our hangovers permitted us to sleep for the entirety of the journey despite the uncomfortable furniture.

The weekend had been a success. It had been my first visit to a friend at university and I daren’t say it’ll be the last.

A is for Alcohol

Let’s be honest, if you’re an avid reader of my blog you know what to expect. The post will begin with a brief summary of What, Why, Where and How. Occasionally there’ll be an element of foreshadowing and a philosophical question. I’ll guide you through the evening, inserting between the various fixed happenings the unique incidents that occurred; funny, traumatic and embarrassing. The end will bring a general summary of the entire evening with a conclusion of how successful it had been.

So far this structure has served me well. However this week I’m taking a different approach. Instead of rambling on about the fun filled events of an amazing night out, I’m going to take a look at the reasons why we choose to drink. What urges us to carry on drinking after horrific nights full of tears and vomit? When it comes to consuming alcohol the phrase “Once bitten twice shy” seems to be completely void. In today’s society the more outrageous a night becomes and the more alcohol you can guzzle down the better.

I asked a group of people a range of questions to fathom the motive behind the want, and possible need, to drink ourselves into oblivion.

My first query was how alcohol makes one feel and there was a range of answers; some were easy to guess but others were more interesting. On a whole it seemed that confidence was a winner. One person said “I definitely feel more confident and get my swagga on a little bit more” which explains it all really. When the first drink or two starts to work its magic it’s as if we’ve all spent a week with Gok Wan telling us we’re gorgeous and the next thing you know we’re all posing for naked photo shoots.

With a loss of inhibition the result is a completely carefree attitude. A general review of the answers would suggest that this is another attribute alcohol has which lure’s people into drowning themselves in it. We can dance like no one’s watching when everyone clearly is; we can speak to that boy/girl we like even though they’ve been giving one word answers for the past 45 minutes; we can walk in 6 inch heels because who’s going to feel the pain when you tumble down the steps? Alcohol provides us with a feeling of freedom that you simply cannot get when sober as a certain standard of behaviour is expected.

However these enhanced feelings that at first fill one with elation can soon turn ugly. In one individuals response they explained that in the tipsy stage they are happily carefree but when they move past this into the drunk or paralytic stage things take a turn for the worse and they cannot stop crying. This is reiterated amongst many others I questioned. “I think when I'm tipsy I'm ok but by the end of the night, if it goes bad, I get pretty sad”. The struggle for most appears to be control. When a night commences it’s all guns blazing and spirits are high. The happy potion can soon turn sour though and we’re faced with uncontrollable urges of aggression or sadness. What was at first a release becomes a catalyst to things we may be bottling up or hiding from others.

After the joy and the tears and the rage comes the morning after. We’ve been sound asleep, oblivious to the chemical reactions occurring in our bodies. Upon awakening we must face the dreaded hangover and the day ahead is a mountain which must be climbed. One participant stated that the next day she feels “like there is a huge elephant on my head!” Physical side effects are often the first aspect of our hangover to grab our attention, from throbbing headaches to the need to hurtle oneself into the bathroom to vomit. Granted, bodily aches and groans are not the most pleasant but they’re not the only side effect of a night out on the lash.

One particular statement stood out to me. “Often I wake with a sense of impending doom.” The morning headache comes hand in hand with a sense of unease. Despite what anyone may say there is always something that one will not remember. Even if we can recall a substantial amount from the previous night there is a vast uncertainty that can only be soothed after talking to other attendees. When the creases in our memories have been flattened out the feelings of embarrassment and regret are brought to the surface. The confidence and carefree attitude that formerly seemed heaven sent are revealed to have been hugely deceptive. 

Moreover, ones mood is largely affected too. “I feel considerably unhappy the first day or so after” one individual explained. After all, alcohol is a drug and the following day brings the “come down”. Repeated explanations from others suggest that being more emotional than usual is common when hungover. I can vouch for this also and I personally feel overtly needy; I have an exasperating need to be with my boyfriend and hug my mum at any opportunity.

In spite of everything I have just written, when asked if anyone would ever stop drinking as a result of a bad night out the choir sang a resounding no. The risks of a night turning bad due to excessive drinking are always present, yet most don’t let this thwart their positivity. “I generally manage to overlook them (bad nights) in favour of the good ones.” Although there is evidence to show alcohol can produce nights we’d rather forget, there is also evidence proving its consumption can result in nights which will go down in history, which is too hard to resist.

Having said this, a few admitted that on occasion they have chosen not to drink. The reason for this decision varying from having work the next day to wanting to look after others. Although these are of course valid reasons, the notion of going out without drinking seems one that most would prefer not to face. Others who said they had chosen not to drink admitted to eventually giving in and defying their previous decision. It can all be summed up with one individuals answer: “It’s depressing when you’re the only sober one on a night out.”

Let me paint a picture for you. You’re with a group of your friends sitting at a sticky table in your local pub. Each other member of the group is armed with their preferred drink: Vodka and Diet Coke, Pear Cider, JD and Coke, Budweiser, Fosters, Malibu and Lemonade, White Wine, Red Wine, Rosé Wine. What delicious potion have you decided upon? Orange juice. As the night continues the alcohol injects the spirit of those around you; laughter erupts in your ears following a joke that wasn’t funny and there’s a glass is getting way too close to the edge of the table for your liking. As your friends float up into intoxication you seem to be diving deeper into sobriety.

If that doesn’t sound depressing, I don’t know what does. I imagine the feelings one experiences as a third wheel would be very similar. The cliché of “feeling alone in a crowded room” springs to mind. Because when it boils down to it, we don’t want to be the odd one out.

I have concluded that the reason we continue to intoxicate our bodies is that we crave freedom. Every day we are faced with commitments and rules; we have to be reliable and act in a certain way at work or school and in front of our family. When the weekend roles around we are given the chance to let loose; if you’re going to do something you may as well do it to the extreme and alcohol is the key.

The limits to what we can do when we’re drunk seem endless. We feel as if we have power and no one can tell us what to do. We’re unstoppable. Bad nights may put us off briefly but the craving for this particular class of freedom will always return. That’s why we can never kiss our drinking habits goodbye. That’s why we deal with the embarrassment and the headaches and the sick and the regrets. All we want is a few hours to say what we want, dance how we want, have sex with who we want and say a massive “Fuck You” to anyone who tries to get in our way.

Introducing Sunday to Alcohol

The night that I am on the verge of recalling was a rather traumatic one and possibly even more traumatic for me to have to recount. As I begin typing there is one ultimate question on my mind: does alcohol magnify ones personality? For example, on a day to day basis little things irritate you; you’ve even snapped a pencil in frustration once or twice. Subsequently when you’ve consumed alcohol you turn into a raging beast and wake up the next day with bruised knuckles from all the faces you’ve been obliterating in the heat of your wrath. I myself do not fall under this category, but if this statement rings true, I may as well lock myself in my room as soon as possible and throw away the key.

Initially the night was labelled “a few drinks and last bus home” but when is a few drinks just a few drinks? My situation wasn’t helped by the chosen establishment. I’ve always hated entering said pub without the haze of intoxication to protect my senses from the grime and general dirty nature of the place. To add to this, the gentleman who had invited me along had been drinking for hours before hand and his behaviour was reflecting it. These combined aspects put me under pressure and so I began to drink with an agenda to get as drunk as quickly as I could.

The reason we were there was because there were bands playing and my friend knew one of these bands. They were to take to the stage further on in the night and therefore when the time came I was suitably drunk to bop along and cheer whenever a song finished. During the time spent inside watching the bands perform a certain female was attracting rather a lot of attention. I’d seen her previously that night attempting to grind against a bearded gentleman who effectively ended up on the other side of the room. At this point she was at the front of the crowd accompanied by a few other ladies, clearly intoxicated and having the time of their lives, at the same time obstructing any view my 5ft frame was capable of having.

After the scheduled entertainment had come to an end, we were left to our own devices; this device namely being alcohol. Unfortunately for me alcohol seems to being having a certain undesired effect on me lately. A certain effect that makes me boorish and judgemental topped off by being ungraciously honest, drowning myself in words that should remain unsaid. The reality of how harsh they are doesn’t seem to register. The connection between my brain and any feeling of sympathy tends to flood with alcohol and ceases to function; even the reactions and expressions of others fails to unite the severed link. It can now be understood why my preliminary question is cause for concern. It also raises the more daunting question of whether or not it is the level of alcohol I consume that is the issue, or whether a whole revamp of my personality is in order.

Fortunately most of my memories are so diluted that they can barely be recalled at all. Either that or the events that occurred that night are so distressing that I have repressed them. Whatever the case may be, I’m glad; simply having my antics described by a second party is enough to make me want to stick a knife in my face.

After the momentum of the mayhem began trundling downhill, my memory seems to kick in again and we were now on our way to the cab office. We herded along the high street, making a quick stop to get money as we headed towards the kebab shop. For the first time since my kebab obsession began I actually sat inside to consume my food. Being stationary whilst eating made the likelihood of covering my clothes with food that much less inevitable. We all managed to leave in one piece and continued on our way. Regrettably there was one thing we all managed to neglect: cabs cost money. Even during our stop at the cash point our minds were so focused on the meaty goodness we were about to purchase that no one thought about the journey home we were yet to take. Therefore we spent a considerable amount of time counting out our change. At first we were doing well; the majority of the coins we’d gathered were 1 and 2 pound coins. But then we were moving on to 50ps and 20ps until we eventually had enough. It was essential at this point to make sure that none of the money was dropped as we were fucked if we would have to count it all again. I’m thankful that I got out of the cab before the fare was given.

We took refuge in the 24 hour HSBC, where we discovered a homeless. I was later informed that he was entertaining himself with some light reading. His selection was a bit odd; he’d chosen to read the TV guide. He greeted us all politely as we entered, keeping himself to himself as we all gathered in his temporary bedroom. I would have expected some kind of attempted conversation but he didn’t pester us in the slightest. He bid us goodnight as we left though and got back to discovering what programmes he’d be missing out on this week.

I wish I had an answer for the proposed question I started with, but I do not. There is no enlightening conclusion that will inspire you to make a profound change in your opinion on alcohol or life and for this I apologise. And as my 21st blog ends, can I say I have matured and become more responsible throughout the time I have been writing? No, no I cannot. In fact I believe I’ve become more reckless. I can only hope that my recklessness becomes more constructive in the coming weeks in order to aid me in producing far more interesting posts.

Blame it on the Sambuca

In all honesty I was knackered before the night even started. For some reason the past couple of nights had consisted of long, complicated and vivid dreams which resulted in awakening every morning feeling like I had only had an hour of sleep. Nonetheless, I wasn’t going to let this stop me from getting my drink on. The night may not bring the same ludicrous and odd events my mind had created in my sleep that week, but my friend had finally got a Friday off work and we were adamant to make the most of it. We were undoubtedly going to have a good night.

Going back to this particular pub on a Friday night was going to be a trip down memory lane. In the past few months we’ve only experienced said establishment on a Saturday night, which brings a whole different kind of atmosphere; this night would be a bit of a treat. When this pubs existence came to our attention early last year, we fell unrequitedly in love. Every Friday we’d set out with an agenda to get as drunk as our bodies could possibly handle. We would also try our very hardest not to live up to our growing reputation, which we often failed at doing. For as much as we loved that place, we were not tolerated and shown that same affection. In the end we retired ourselves from the weekly embarrassment and took our company elsewhere. However, we’d like to think that we’ve matured in the last few months and no longer let past events rule our social lives; this night would determine whether this statement is true.

After preliminary drinking at a cheaper place, we eventually made our way down the high street to our destination. Once we’d ordered our drinks we sat at a bench outside. After a time we were joined by our friend, red hair ablaze, attracting the looks of many as we greeted her. She instantly dragged me inside to purchase another drink. Already quite intoxicated, she offered to pay for my refreshment, a much appreciated oddity. Throughout our friendship I have been the only one with an income, but recently she has been working and so the roles were reversed this night and I found myself being spoilt.

Unfortunately this particular form of generosity would soon become less pleasurable. Once more, I found myself at the bar and was simply waiting for my friend to finish ordering her drink before I got mine. I was talking to *insert individuals name who I cannot recall* when I heard my name being called and turned round to see a shot of sambuca was being held out before me. I looked at my friend in terror. Sambuca is one form of alcohol I have successfully been avoiding for quite some time now. The reason being that when this dubious liquid works its way through my body I find myself displaying a combination of symptoms. Firstly we have Hysteria. When Hysteria kicks in, everyone knows that the high spirits of the night are about to fall rapidly downhill. It can come in a mixture of forms; the scale would begin with extreme rudeness and acute sarcasm, ending with screaming and/or manic floods of tears, neither having a cure. Following Hysteria, often coming hand in hand, are Paralysis and Vomit. Possibly the worst two symptoms one can experience simultaneously. Whilst one can know Vomit will be imminently making an appearance, the presence of Paralysis means that one is incapable of alerting ones carers and so the post-projectile incident provides a scene of ruined clothes/shoes and an innate need to shower.

However, I found myself in a predicament; I could either offend my friend who never usually has the funds to splurge on me in this manner, or I can risk all of the above. Naturally, I chose the latter.

The night progressed, as any should, with dancing. The level of our inebriation can usually be judged around how and when we dance. Judging from: 1) the lack of other people dancing, 2) the complete disregard for the few people who were, and 3) continuing to hold and spill drinks as we danced, we can conclude that we were very, very drunk. From this point onwards my combined memories include dancing, buying drinks, requesting songs, dancing, buying more drinks and even more dancing. Unfortunately this period of events built up and resulted in us leaving relatively early.

My memory of our exit is lost amidst a sea of vodka, diet coke and sambuca. I don’t know if the sickening feelings I had began before we left or whether they appeared during the cab journey home. Fleeting visions of peoples’ laps flash in my mind as I slumped around in my seat trying to contain the growing urge to expel my insides over the vehicle. Luckily this event did not occur, otherwise the cab fare would have been far more expensive (not that I paid for it; the inability to move prevented me from searching for any spare change I may have had). Instead, I considerately waited until I had been placed onto the pavement to carry out the most unladylike act in existence. The only words I remember uttering from that point onwards, repeatedly, are “I’ve been sick on my own face.”

My friend got me to my front door and somehow managed to perform the intricate and challenging task of opening the front door. After surpassing that obstacle and with the assistant of my sister, I was taken up to my bed where I fell asleep instantly.

It could’ve been worse; I’m thankful that I was only sick that one time. However, I now have yet another experience to put me off drinking Sambuca ever again. Although the chances of that happening are very, very slim.