I Did WHAT Last Night?!

It's now Monday morning. I'm tired, aching and have a dull pain in my stomach, and I'm positive that these are lasting effects from Friday night. In all honesty, I'm not surprised. My hangover lasted all day on Saturday and when I awoke Sunday afternoon, I still didn't feel 100%. This, combined with my almost complete lack of memory from the night in question, gives an adequate explanation to why I'm feeling out of sorts.

Due to my deficient memory and subsequent illness from this Friday night binge, I thought I'd educate myself with the finer details of the effect that alcohol has on our bodies. Was I shocked? Did finding out about the consequences of excessive alcohol consumption horrify me to vow to never let another drop of such poison touch my lips again? No. It made me think, "lawl, I'm gon' die" and excited me to begin my next blog. So, prepare your minds, as we examine the true workings of the most commonly used drug of our generation.

"From the first sip, alcohol is absorbed into the bloodstream and reaches the brain. Although you won't be aware of it, there is an impairment of brain function, which deteriorates further the more you drink. Cognitive abilities that are acquired later in life, such as conduct and behaviour, are the first to go. Early on you will experience mild euphoria and loss of inhibition, as alcohol impairs regions of the brain controlling behaviour and emotion. Most vulnerable are the brain cells associated with memory, attention, sleep and coordination. Sheer lack of mass means that people who weigh less become intoxication more quickly, and women will feel the effects faster than men. This is also because their bodies have lower levels of water." 

Basically, we revert back to a child like state. Our concern for others feelings is thrown out the window and we can no longer control the need to bite our lips and act with composure. However, we still have the knowledge and wisdom of the world, gained throughout our lives, which can only be grounds for disaster. And surely enough, this runs in conjunction with the beginning events, that my memory still possess', from Friday night.

On entering the pub with my trusted accomplice, we had comfort in knowing that our friends were already there and had an area in which we could gather. Many of the people already settled in said area, we were unfamiliar with, so we kept ourselves to ourselves and didn't make a fuss about having to stand. We'd had a couple of drinks and being the lightweights that we are, or due to our "sheer lack of mass", we were beginning to feel the effects. Therefore, when some uncouth individuals found it necessary to take up a generous amount of space that we could quite easily have sat in, out of plain spite, we felt no quarrels in expressing how boorish their actions were. With our "loss of inhibitions" and "impairment of brain function" or more so, judgement, we also proclaimed that they were clearly doing it because they were fat and ugly and quite frankly jealous of us. It's shamefully textbook. 

"The Government advises men to drink no more than three to four units a day and women no more than two to three. The alcohol is absorbed through the stomach and small intestine and if you are not used to it, even small amounts of alcohol can irritate the stomach lining. This volume of alcohol also begins to block absorption of essential vitamins and minerals."

One shot of vodka is equivalent to one unit. By this point, I had had three doubles, equalling six units and I can safely say that the others of the group had also exceeded the advised alcohol limit. In other words, we were all more than sufficiently inebriated and it was time to leave for the yet-to-be-explored Venue Bar.

"When alcohol has been carried to all parts of the body, including the brain, it dissolves into the water inside cells. The effect of alcohol no the body is similar to that of an anaesthetic - by this stage, inhibitions are lost and feelings of aggression will surge."

I must again, reluctantly admit, that our actions follow this description without falter. Staggering along, we made our way down the high street to our destination. My memory of this journey is faint, but I do recollect our arrival, or rather, our attempted arrival.

As I had previously visited the bars website, which informed me that it was £3 entry, to be told that we had to pay £5 was simply unacceptable. During my sobriety I am not an outwardly violent person, and even with the help of alcohol, I don't think it had yet reached a stage of fuelling my "feelings of aggression". Therefore, it was up to someone else to argue with the bouncers and it was my usual partner in crime who arose to the challenge. But her attempts were in vain and we ended up declaring, rather abrasively, "Fine! We'll go Treaty instead! Nur nur nur!" So we did a 180, walked up the road, and paid £5 to get in somewhere else.

It is from this point onwards that my memories are few and far between. Amongst glimpses of faces from the past, a regrettably consumed Sambuca shot, and requesting "Give it to me Baby" by The Offspring, there's not many other moments I recall.

"There are different levels of memory loss related to alcohol abuse. The first is fragmentary memory loss. This occurs when a person drinks excessively and does not remember the events of that time period until someone else provides clues or prompts: "Do you remember what you did last night?" Blackouts are the next level of memory loss. The person will not be able to recall any of the events, even if prompted with cues. This is because the brain was not able to complete the process for making a memory. The person loses a gap of time and will not get it back."

I would describe my level of memory loss as "fragmentary". Although I haven't had many informative conversations of what occurred from here on in, my phone helped me out with one instance.

It is a ritual for most to check ones phone the next morning to see if any messages were sent the previous night and I am not one to deviate from the norm. To my relief, I had not sent any texts of concern. The only person I tend to text is my boyfriend, and as I was with him, there was no need. However, I noticed that I had a saved message, which read "Right boob cab". After reading this, it triggered a specific memory.

I was engaged in conversation with my friend on the subject of saving money for a cab home. Astonishingly, after consuming a copious amount of alcohol, we came up with an ingenious idea. We decided to put X amount of money in our bras and, to ensure we did not forget, to save the location of said money in our phones. Considering our level of intoxication, I think that that was quite impressive. Although, at this present moment, I still have no recollection of how much money it was or whether I in fact used it. If I didn't, its whereabouts will stay forever unknown.

Despite this, we did get a cab home and I ended up staying at the boyfs. Again, my memories are cloudy and I'm going to assume that we fell asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

"Alcohol dehydrates virtually every part of the body, and is also a neurotoxin that causes brain cells to become damaged and swell. This causes the hangover and, combined with low blood-sugar levels, can leave you feeling awful. Cognitive abilities such as concentration, coordination and memory may be affected for several days. Generally, it takes as many hours as the number of drinks you have consumed to burn up all the alcohol. Feelings of nausea result from dehydration, which also causes your thumping headache."

Upon awakening the next morning, I didn't initially feel too bad. The main reason for this is most likely because I was still drunk, and had not reached the phase detailed above. Having been stirred by my boyfriends' mother telling us that it was gone seven o clock,  and he had to go to work, we had to condense our morning cuddles and tea, not to mention actually getting ready, into less than half an hour. As we had overslept, we were graciously offered a lift. I'm extremely thankful for this, as it was pissing it down with rain; I'm pretty sure at this point I owe his mum a lot of petrol money.

Once home, I went back to sleep until half past twelve. What followed was the dreaded hangover, which had now decided it was the perfect time to strike. Unlike all the the other stages of alcohol consumption, I must now disagree with the following statement:

"Generally, it takes as many hours as the number of drinks you have consumed to burn up all the alcohol."

Unless I consumed over twenty four units, this is remarkably incorrect. If I had knocked back that many, even after three days, I think I'd still be in a damned pitiful state. Don't get me wrong, how I wish it was true. My life would be so much more pleasant if my hangovers only lasted a few hours instead of the more frequent entire day. But alas, I must continue to dream.

And there we have it. The ins and outs of the affects alcohol has on our vulnerable bodies. It raises questions about what kind of reality we live in. I'm not going to act like I've just enlightened you of the terrifying facts that were, until now, unbeknown to you. Everyone knows that damage is caused when we drink excessively, even if it's not the specifics. Yet we continue to contaminate our brains with this toxic drug with little remorse. We dismiss the knowledge that we're harming our bodies and replace is with fears of embarrassment and judgement from others...

But fuck it, who's up for another round?!

References:

http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/what-alcohol-really-does-to-your-body-516050.html

http://ezinearticles.com/?Alcohol-and-Memroy-Loss&id=1711939

Sex, Drugs and Frozen Chips

For my third instalment I thought I’d delve into my past and reflect on one of my earlier drunken episodes. As this weekend was a bit of a quiet one, consisting of tea, telly and snuggles in bed with the boyfriend, although being greatly enjoyable for us, I’m pretty sure an account of an embarrassing, alcohol infused night, would make for more interesting reading.

But which night to choose? I have a wealth of memories to exploit and the key is probably to pick one I can remember the best. Or, should I say, that was talked about most in the weeks afterwards, helping me to reconstruct, as best I could, the particular night in question.

The night I have chosen is from nearly over a year ago now. Considering the length of time and the level of intoxication, I think my recollection is to quite a good standard. Although, with most of these tale’s I tell, I think it’d be foolish to receive all details with complete conviction.

It was one of our renowned Tuesday night, Junction and Trinity escapades. If my memory serves me correctly, the night was of the usual standard to begin with. We polluted our veins with alcohol in Junction and then stumbled across the road to shake what our mama’s gave us in Trinity. And as the evening continued, I believe that nothing out of the ordinary happened; meeting random people; taking photographs; the usual call of duty.

At one point during the night, I will begrudgingly admit that we had our first encounter with the male toilets. Now, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. We are intelligent, gracious, young ladies, that in any other state of mind or circumstance, would not lower themselves to such a standard...but we were battered and we needed a piss.

The queue for the female toilets was, as usual, painfully long. We stood there for a few minutes watching men go in and out of the door next to ours, without fuss. We were both thinking the same thing and without a second thought we entered. It was definitely not pleasing for the nostrils. Hurrying along, we made our way into the only cubical. No way was my arse touching that seat. So, reluctantly, I hovered above the herpes-ridden seat, and did the deed.  Then it was my friends go and being the true friend that I am, I felt it necessary to document this moment in photographic form. It’s a bit unclear within my mind, but I believe there was some dilemma of washing our hands, but I’m not too sure I want to remember. After snapping a picture of a disgruntled man whilst he had a slash, we left. The nightmare was over.

It is my guess that we left when the establishment closed. Standing outside, we were surrounded by a crowd of people and all ended up conversing with a different group to one another. It is my understanding that this is how we ended up with a group of six other people (men, should I say) and on our way back to my friends house.

In retrospect, we couldn’t have been any more foolish. We were outnumbered three to six; anything could have happened. But then again, maybe that kind of thinking is a bit cynical considering nothing untoward occurred, to an extent.

The next image that leaps into my mind is of sitting on my friends’ kitchen floor. We’d taken it upon ourselves to begin a game of “I’ve Never”. A year later we still partake in this somewhat juvenile drinking game; I think everyone knows where the topic will end up and most participants seem to revel in the subject of sex whilst intoxicated. This is when I realised that three of the gentleman whose company we had chosen to keep, were French, and had no clue what “I’ve Never” was. Once everyone was up to speed with the rules, I’m sure what followed was an enthralling account of our sexual pasts.

As the night progressed, everyone ended up spread about the house, involving themselves with different members of our oddly formed social group for that evening. It is at this point that I found myself alone with the gentleman I had previously taken it upon myself to shout “you’re really hott!” at, whilst on the dance floor and then being pulled away by my completely oblivious companion.

I am fully aware that, for a girl of almost twenty years old, I have the physical appearance of someone a lot younger. But if I meet someone in a bar, I would presume it obvious that I am above the age of eighteen, despite my adolescent exterior. However, this young chap decided it necessary to ask me, incessantly, amidst gropes, “You’re definitely sixteen, yeah?” I do wonder why I didn’t put an end to the intentions of this fool at that moment. I think I found it amusing that this guy was clearly a huge paedophile and that continuing would be far more interesting.

“Get these French people out of my house!” Is what my friend yelled as she burst into the room, only to be confronted with the bare arse of a complete stranger. After a moment of awkward silence, she exited. I was grateful for the interruption in all honesty. I think that that certain experience would be better described as a drunken fumble than anything else.

Left alone, I took on the identity of a devious little criminal. I think my initial intention was to learn the name of the individual who had just abandoned me, post-coitus, to help free the household of its unwanted guests. But, with wallet in hand, my objective turned elsewhere. After the less than satisfactory performance I had just endured, I think a little compensation was well deserved. With no more than a glance over my shoulder, I whipped out a tenna, shoved it in my bra, returned the wallet to where it previously sat and made my way downstairs, feeling like the Goddess of Deceit.

Once all of our visitors had left, one of my capable friends decided to cook pizza and chips. However, after starting her midnight feast, she then decided to go home, leaving the remaining two of us to try and complete our meal. The pizza turned out exceptionally well considering our current state and we began to tuck in. The chips, on the other hand, were far from done. I realised this and stuck to gorging myself on the more edible of our two dishes, but the diner next to me was still quite inebriated and continued eating them, utterly unaware.

And then to bed.

I can safely say that when I’d left that evening I could not have imagined the endeavours that would occur. In some ways I miss those times. Having practically no morals and a will for reckless adventure, makes for countless possibilities to where a night can take you. I know that such behaviour cannot carry on though and I’m glad that such events are now mere memories, for me to so audaciously share.

Leapord Print Rock Night

After my first week of work at a new job I was looking forward to a fun weekend. And what perfect timing, as it just happened to be the first Saturday of the month, which means only one thing: Rock Night! At the infamous Crown and Treaty.

During the day I’d been shopping with my sister and Mum and bought an awesome new pair of boots that I was planning to wear that evening. Yes, I’d been at work one week and I was already spending money I didn’t have yet, but I thought I deserved a treat after my hard work. Although I was slightly tired, I was very much looking forward to the night ahead. A friend who I hadn’t seen since Christmas time was coming out and I’d missed her loads.

I was extremely pleased that my father had agreed to give me a lift into town that evening. I definitely would not have enjoyed the experience of waiting around for a bus whilst the wind continuously raped my hair, which, by the way, looked rather amazing that night, as I’d just dyed it and also had my fringe cut the day before.

Once I’d met one of my friends, we made our way to the first pub of the night. It was then that she reminded me of what had occurred exactly one year ago. A lot of shit went down that night. Cheating, drugs, fights, lost bags and a lot of tears. I’m sure you can gather that it didn’t end well at all. It made me think about how much I’ve changed over the past year. Back then I was a complete mess and the simplest way to describe my actions is as reckless and I was pretty much a complete twat. And now? Well, I may get a little too drunk every now and then, but I’ve definitely grown up and I couldn’t be happier. I was certain that nothing of that sort would happen this time around.

Whenever we go to Rock Night we always go somewhere else first as the drinks are ridiculously overpriced, considering it’s not exactly an upmarket place. What better place to go than a Wetherspoons. So we got the first few drinks in; double Vodka and DIET coke. If it’s not diet, I ain’t drinking it.

An hour and a half and 3 drinks later we were ready to leave. After bumping into a few old school friends and taking the only sober pictures of the night, we had to make a move. This left us 10 minutes to get to the pub before we had to pay. The amount of times we’ve left late and had to literally run down the road, you’d think we’d learn and apparently this night we did!

Straight to bar and then straight outside to find our friends.

As usual I headed to my boyfriend first. Then there was the few minutes of nomming each other until I realised we weren’t alone and I should probably go and say hello to some other people. I had plenty more time in the night for public displays of affection with my other half, so I tore myself away and made the rounds.

It’s at this point where things become a bit hazy. I know certain things that happened, but in what order and involving who is slightly harder to recall. I usually find that it’s the completely irrelevant and obscure details of a night out that I remember, but I’ll try my best to piece everything together into something readable.

At some point during the night there was a big commotion involving my best friend and her boyfriend. I’m not entirely sure how the whole matter arose but it ended up with concerned discussions with multiple people and them both leaving. I wish I could remember more of this incident, as I get the feeling it lasted for a very long period of time and was quite a serious issue, but for some reason my alcohol infused mind decided not to store it somewhere safe within my head. However, it did choose to keep the image of my boyfriend grabbing my boob and then myself grabbing his balls in response locked away in there. Why wouldn’t I want to remember such a thing.

Amongst laying on pool tables, putting make up on my male friends and attempting to dance to music I’ve never heard before, we took many useless pictures. My boyfriend described them as “messy”. I must say I think my photography skills are usually satisfactory. I do tend to fob off my camera on someone else when I get bored though. This, I’ve learnt, is probably not the best idea.

I was inside when I realised I hadn’t seen my camera floating about in a while. So I asked the last person I believed to have it, where it was. They didn’t know; shit. So off I went to seek it out. I should probably mention now that I have lost my camera in the past. Therefore, I think it’s pretty understandable that the prospect of not knowing the whereabouts of my most valued possession gets me quite worried. I ran over to where I had previously been sitting and announced to its occupants that I couldn’t find my camera. I’m pleased to say that everyone began to look, me most frantic of all. It was nowhere to be seen. It was at this point that I realised I hadn’t actually looked in my bag. Oh. Hesitantly, I revealed the location of my camera and told everyone it was ok, I’d had it all along.

It was only towards the end of the night that my boyfriends’ drunken state was brought to my attention. I took the liberty of deciding we needed to leave. I think I was secretly enjoying the fact that for once he was more drunk than I was and probably went a bit overboard in wanting to look after him. I have to hand it to him though, he is probably the easiest drunk person I’ve dealt with, I wish the same could be said about me.

To the kebab shop! Chicken and chips, smothered in mayonnaise, a deterrent of sorts, to make sure no one tries to eat any as it looks rather off-putting.

Off we went in our cab, with a quick stop to get fags which resulted in a cuddly teddy bear being purchased. I can’t remember if we gave him a name or not. I’ll have to source this information and let you know next time.

As soon as we got in we went straight to bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember being kneed in the bum numerous times and almost pushed out of my single bed by the boyf, having to cling onto the side to avoid falling into the pit of my room. There’s definitely a reason behind it being named “single”. It doesn’t help that he’s over 6ft and can’t actually lay completely flat in it. At least he didn’t elbow me in the head this time though, the more commonly used form of abuse.

All in all I had a good night. However, my friend who had to leave early and I have both decided that February Rock Night isn’t the most successful. Last years ended in devastation for me and this years didn’t exactly bring an enjoyable time for her. I think it’s safe to say we’ll give next February a miss. But bring on next month!

Hair of the Goat

I’m going to start off by just explaining the miss-quote in the title. I know that, traditionally, the phrase is “hair of the dog” but for a long time I would always accidently say “hair of the goat” and it’s just stuck now and has become a running joke within my family.

Now, when I initially started writing, it was about one drunken night. Unfortunately though, it occurred to me that I couldn’t recall the events of that night very well and therefore I changed my angle. As a result my opening blog, although somewhat includes aspects of said night, is more of a way to get to know me. Just a small glimpse into my social life. The first of, hopefully, many.

So, I woke up Saturday morning and immediately knew that I probably made a fool of myself the night before. My head was hurting and my stomach was far from happy, as I attempted to turn over in bed without wanting to die. Now facing my room, I saw the mess created on my arrival home the previous night. Bag, coat and shoes spread across the insignificant floor space I have. I had been too lazy/drunk to get changed out of my clothes though.

Then flashes from the night before began. Drinking games. The conga. Me exclaiming “I’m not getting drunk tonight!” Straight vodka. Photos. Piano. Smashed bottles. Lying in my hallway when I got home. And finally, crying because I couldn’t find my phone charger and gratefully being saved by my sister.

Oh God! Why do I always embarrass myself?! I thought. As I cringed at these awful recollections, I got up to get a glass of water, that was gone within seconds. Then I remembered I had to go out that night as well. So throughout the day I tried my best to get rid of my hangover. I napped for a few hours, I took nurofen and ate and ate and ate. By the time half 7 came around and I was about to leave my house I wasn’t feeling too bad. I was determined to have a good night with my close friends and boyfriend. Alcohol was, of course, still on the cards.

I don’t mind busy pubs. It’s much better than an empty one anyway. But when you’re in a place with no remaining seats and everywhere you can possibly stand is already being occupied by people with their eyes peeled for the second an arse leaves a chair, it’s pretty frustrating.

As more people arrived and our group grew, we found a spot where two girls were sitting, one with an empty glass and one almost finished. We stood guard ready to pounce once they had abandoned their chairs. And FINALLY, we got to sit down, after an hour of waiting and only another half an hour before we had to leave to get to the next pub.

The problem with winter is that going to a pub with mainly outside seating means that you freeze your fucking butt off. My feet have suffered the ice cold temperatures many times due to the fact I insist on wearing heels. Being only 5ft and also having a best friend who wouldn’t be seen dead on a night out without her 5 inchers, makes heels mandatory. Luckily, at the beginning of the new year I purchased a beautiful pair of grey, laced boots that keep my toes quite toasty in comparison to the footwear I’ve previously chosen to wear.

So when we arrived we headed straight to the bar to fuel our alcohol blankets and to hopefully ensure we didn’t all leave with frostbite at the end of the night. Then we made our way outside and settled at a lovely, grimey bench that is still stained pink from a night many months before in the summer, where we had fun with some pink tissue paper.

As usual, we talked, laughed, took the piss out of each other, etc, until I found myself in a conversation with my boyfriend, his best friend and his girlfriend about a sex position that, from my understanding, can only result in a broken penis. Something along the lines of the girl on her back, contorted with her legs flung up so her fanny is facing upward and the guy squatting above her and bending his dick down to enter. Because all a girl wants in a sexual experience is a face full of bumhole. The only person who should be intimate with such an area is the individual themselves, and possibly a doctor. For some reason my mind has decided that that story deserves a place in my head, where it can’t be forgotten.

This is a typical topic of conversation for my group of friends. Sex and poo probably being top of the list in terms of what is frequently talked about, so I guess that story was quite a good example. We slag each other off and embarrass each other in the most loving ways and I don’t think I’d want it to be any different.

As the night progressed my friend and I decided it was way too cold and we needed to go inside. This was definitely the best decision we made. Everyone else eventually followed suit and we discovered they were playing all 90’s rock and we began requesting.

We danced in the only way we know how. A mixture of taking the piss out of the way typical “white gals” dance (nothing like ourselves of course, we’re classy white girls), whipping our hair back and forth (which could also be described as light head banging) and when a particularly amazing song comes on we actually dance like normal people. We must’ve burnt a lot of calories that night. From the pictures we all look pretty hot, in both senses of the word. My favourite picture from that night, however, consists of my boyfriend practically molesting me on the dance floor and I look more than happy about it.

People began trailing off and left was one friend, my boyfriend and myself. We decided to leave shortly after everyone else and on the way to the cab office I insisted on stopping to get the obligatory chicken kebab and chips. Omnomnom! Tastes like heaven, looks like shit; it’s a good job they’re only eaten when drunk.

And that was my night. Well not entirely, but I won’t go into detail about what happened when I went back to my boyfriends and what not. I don’t think that’d be a particularly appropriate topic of conversation and I doubt he’d be greatly overjoyed about me revealing our sex life on the internet (unlike my best friend and her boyfriend who openly write a sex blog together), but then again, he might not give a shit.

In one weekend I experienced the two ends of the spectrum. Friday night: completely battered and a total embarrassment. Saturday night: drunk, happy and good memories with my friends. Although the better night out cost me 40 quid and the shit night cost me about 5, it was definitely worth it.