Genesis

I believe the moment is upon us. After seven insightful blogs with detailed accounts of my drunken antics of the present, I will now enlighten you to when my innocence was stripped away and I had my first experience with the fateful drug that now governs the main part of my social life; the first night I ever got drunk.

Ironically, this inevitable act occurred on my sisters 18th birthday, which she was able to remain sober for, for the entire night. If only I had been so lucky. She had decided to celebrate by having a party at our home, inviting friends and family. At the time, I had just turned 15 and so my knowledge of alcohol was widening and the beginnings of peer pressure surrounded me. Pairing this with a free range of alcohol available, without a watchful eye, what was to happen that night could have been easily predicted.

Whilst getting ready, I had no initial ideas of how the night would proceed. There could have been speculations in my mind that I would be able to access a fair amount of alcohol, being a teenager my curiosities were most likely at their highest at this point, so I don’t doubt that my agenda was along these lines. After having dressed myself in my carefully selected outfit, straightened my hair and applied my makeup, there was nothing left to do but to wait for the guests to arrive.

At the time, my sisters’ favourite beverage was Archers and so I too formed a liking for it. Therefore, the multiple bottles that had been purchased were at my peril. At first, I was simply indulging on said alcopop and I was able to hold myself with composure for the earlier hours of the evening. However, as the night progressed, along with pouring my own drinks, I approached my father on several occasions requesting a shandy, to which he, more often than not, obliged. It is no surprise that after a short time the effects of my cunning behaviour began to take its toll on my young body.

At one point I decided to take a break from driving my way through the guests, making drunken conversation, and attempted to go to the toilet. At first I was successful, but once I’d finished I decided to sit on the side of bath, at which point I descended backwards into the tub and found it impossible to escape.  As my boyfriend at the time tried to retrieve my incapacitated body from where I lay, my inebriation became blatantly apparent. He of course found it hilarious, but I was slightly perplexed about the feelings I was experiencing at the time. On the one hand, I was revelling in my act of rebellion, whilst also being confused by the unfamiliar sensations of being incapable of focusing, walking with stability or coherently stringing a sentence together.

I may be over exaggerating slightly; the level of my intoxication is definitely minor to the churlish states I have exhibited in the years since, but as this was the first time I’d divulged myself into the world of more mature pastimes, everything felt ten times more intense than it was.

As the alcohol continued to dilute my system, I soon became overwhelmed by the situation I had gotten myself into and so the tears began to fall. Completely unaware to the state of affairs that were taking place, my mother began to panic as to why I was so upset. At first I believe she blamed my boyfriend, who was just as baffled by my dramatics as she was, despite his knowledge of my intoxication. Luckily everyone came to terms with my current state and so the struggles to sober me up began. After water and toast had been spilled and flung across the floor, my kindred helpers decided their efforts were in vain, and instead, chose to simply witness the drunken existence of a fifteen year old girl. I was switching from hysterically crying, to hysterically laughing, with no explanations issued by me for my erratic performance.  As I’ve been told, every time one of my Uncles joined the madness, my tears would immediately cease, I would point in his direction and slur, “He looks like a monkey!” followed by fits of giggles. I cannot fathom why I found this so amusing, but I’m sure everyone was relieved for the few minutes’ peace before I began to bawl again.

During the time I was headlining my own one woman show, the party had begun to come to an end. Soon I found myself in a near empty room, as my audience had gradually filtered out the door. My senses were gradually returning to me and it was decided that the night was over and we should all commit to our beds, where I most likely fell asleep without difficulty.

The next morning you might assume that after my first drunken exploit, I would subsequently have to endure my first hangover. Astonishingly, you would be wrong; I didn’t have one. Incredibly, the first time I delved into the world of drinking, I suffered no consequences. Unfortunately for me, that would be the last time it would happened. I must have been blessed with beginners luck. However, that night is one that I have been constantly reminded of ever since. When attending family gatherings I often find myself the victim of sly comments in regards to my embarrassing introduction to alcohol. Despite my shame, I’m glad this was the way it happened. I was in a safe environment, with family and friends to pick up the pieces of my juvenile escapade, to which I am forever grateful.

And there we have it. My embarrassing, amusing and memorable instigation to a long and continuous tale of an alcohol infused life.

No Pain, No Gain

The day had finally come. My stunning, sparkly stilettos, with a five and a half inch silver heel were about to embark on their debut appearance. Although I was extremely excited about the grand unveiling of my new love, I was becoming increasingly anxious as the time drew closer for me to don these heavenly shoes. Not due to their lethal height, but because I feared I would return at the end of the night and they would be ruined. Despite these apprehensions, I willingly slid them on and departed.

That evening I would not be among the company of my accustomed horde of friends. Instead, I would be thrusting my presence upon some of the few individuals I’ve kept in contact with from my schooldays. I must divulge that, previously, I have become exceptionally intoxicated on outings with said group, which, I undoubtedly do not need to reveal, ended horrifically. So tonight, like every other night, I vowed to stay respectably tipsy and to not humiliate myself once more.

To begin the night, I joined my boyfriend for a drink. As I consumed my double vodka and diet coke, I became worryingly tipsy, giggling to myself for a reason unknown to me, let alone anyone else. Was this the start of another catastrophic night to come? Luckily, this fleeting moment of uncertainty passed and I was able to walk to my next setting with as much ease as is possible when adorning the footwear I was. It was at this point that I received the first comment in regards to my remarkable shoes. Contradictory to what may be expected; this compliment came from a man and was along the lines of “Those are some awesome shoes.” I knowingly smiled and continued on my way.

On arrival, I was immediately made aware of the multitude of people in the pub. As I made my way through the crowd, momentarily distracted by an old bloke, graciously enquiring, “Oh ‘ello, what’s your name then?” I was exceedingly pleased to spot my friend as she came to my rescue.

We struggled our way to the bar, where we, unsurprisingly, had to wait an exasperatingly long time to be served. Once we had eventually been attended to by the dishevelled barman, we made our way further into the pub to our seats. However, here lies yet another bout of alcohol induced amnesia on my behalf. The initial hours of my night seem to have unwittingly vanished from my memory, quite unconventionally, as I tend to remember the earlier events of a night out quite accurately. Nevertheless, there is a moment that has preserved itself within my memory. We were taking a small number of pictures where we sat and amidst trying to sustain enough composure to not laugh the second before the flash went and outbursts of “Delete it!” I remember requesting that one of the pictures my friend took to be cropped so I didn’t look like a “hunchback”. The vanity I emit astounds even me sometimes.

After we had finished our drinks, we left and began our journey to Liquid, situated, agonisingly, at the complete opposite end of the high street. Crossing the road, I found myself engaged into conversation with a woman who was admiring my footwear. I had to break it to her that, although my shoes are obviously divine, they were causing me quite a lot of discomfort, to the point of blood being shed. I had attempted to thwart their plans to butcher my feet by applying plasters, but these efforts weren’t entirely successful. However, being of the creed that if something looks good, it is worth the anguish, I soldiered on. Admittedly, the alcohol was beginning to thrive in my body and this surely helped numb my pain.

Following our trek down the road, ID’s being checked, bags being searched, paying and receiving our chic, bright yellow, VIP wrist bands, we eventually found ourselves in the toilet, where we reapplied our makeup and added to our collection of photographs. Feelings of sobriety began to creep back to me and so it was time to purchase another drink. Luckily for us, we were in the VIP section and therefore we were served in an adequate amount of time. Here, we sat, drank, talked and sang, until the effects of the alcohol sunk deeper into our systems, and the urge to approach the dance floor pursued.

It had been a long time since I’d graced Liquid with my presence and so I found a lot of the music being played I was unfamiliar with. Therefore, when Rihanna started to play I became overly excited and was grateful that we were already dancing. When I say I was not familiar with the music, I am elaborating slightly. I recall repeatedly saying “I don’t know this song”, with my friends’ response always being “You will in a minute!” and of course she was right. Being a club for mostly mainstream music, it is hard to not recognise snippets of most of the songs that are played.

And I believe it is here that we spent most of the remainder of the night, adding more pictures to the collection, taking the piss out of peoples dancing and having throat debilitating conversations, as we shouted to understand each other.

Throughout the night I had been in contact with my boyfriend, texting him, with conversations of how I missed him and things to that effect. So it is no surprise that he ended up meeting me when I left.

As I waited for him to make his way to me, I found myself in the kebab shop next door ordering my food. To my dismay I did not have enough money, but they had already prepared my post-binge meal. Frantically, I picked up my phone and rang my boyfriend, to determine whether he was equipped with the £1.50 I needed in order to satisfy my drunken food cravings. My savour! I knew there was a reason I was with him. The kind gentleman who served me let me begin to devour my food whilst we waited. I lingered in the doorway, barefoot, looking out for my boyfriend to make an appearance. As I slovenly munched on my chicken and chips, covering my newly bought dress in mayonnaise, I was undoubtedly the epitome of the average drunk girl.

Once my boyfriend had provided me with the money to release me from the hands of the kebab shop, our next task was to order a cab. As we strolled down the high street, me barefoot, inhaling my food, him, carrying my deceitful heels, we must have been quite a sight. This was confirmed as my boyfriend told me a girl had made a snide remark, which I had been totally unaware of, about my lack of footwear. But, having not been disheartened, I managed to secure us a way of getting home and as we had earlier decided, the 24 hour HSBC branch became our shelter from the cold whilst we waited for our cab to arrive.

It has occurred to me now that my boyfriend was quite the fool to let me get into his bed after I had been traipsing around outside with no shoes on. But the drunken mind is not one to think logically or practically, so this crossed neither of our minds at the time.

Lights out.

This night was by far the best I have had with the attending company. With no animosities flying around, no police rides home, no tears and no sickness, it was a winning night. To add to my joy, I didn’t spend a fortune and I have plenty of photographic memories to remind me of our successful night.

Red Stiletto Rock Night

Saturday the 5^th of March. The first Saturday of the month and time for the notorious event that is Rock Night.

After leaving her house, returning, missing a bus, leaving again, getting rained on and being glared at by an elderly couple at the bus stop, Stephanie was finally on her way into town. A bit of Jessie J on her journey to put her in a good mood and she was ready to get her drink on. Despite the lack of people attending that night, she was determined to enjoy herself.

Adorning a pair of red, five inch heels, she carefully tottered down the road to meet her better half, who was waiting patiently for her. She caught sight of him sitting outside Pizza Hut, as she crossed the road, trying to maintain her balance as she went. After they’d greeted each other, they made their way to the first pub of the night. On their way they met the other individual who would be accompanying them for the evening.

The bar was packed and they only had time for one and a half drinks, neither of which the young lady paid for. Much to her despair, she did not have time to go to the bathroom before they left and so had to attempt to keep up with her long legged companions, burdened with a full bladder, as they sped down the high street, in order to reach their destination before payment was expected. Throughout the duration of their journey she complained about the pain her heels were causing her, with absolutely no sympathy given. This has to be one of the downfalls of going out with two men, she thought. If she’d been with another girl, they would have been able to stagger along together, at a pace considerate of their aching feet. Alas, she did not have this choice.

Once she’d rushed to the toilet on their arrival, she was then able to head to the bar, fully relieved, in order to obtain her next drink. To her delight, a drink had already been purchased on her behalf and so she was still in possession of all the money she had brought with her.

They made their way outside, where she was finally able to rest her melancholy feet, and sat down. Between conversations of trips to be taken and comparing heel heights, she continued to indulge herself and was soon becoming highly inebriated. At a certain point the alcohol seemed to hit her and the full effects were felt; her face began to feel flushed, she started to slur through her sentences and became unable to control the urge to smother her boyfriend with affection.

As the night progressed, she decided to migrate inside. Whether it was simply because she was cold or because she could no longer be bothered to make small talk with people she only briefly knew or just generally didn’t like, this is where she ended up.

While standing at the bar, her boyfriend became engaged in conversation with someone who was unknown to her. This gentleman then offered to buy both of them a drink, to which neither were hesitant in accepting. She deeply appreciative that this stranger remembered to order DIET coke, if somewhat surprised. As it turned out, this gentleman was one of her boyfriends’ customers. “I love this guy!” He repeatedly yelled. It would appear that there are more perks to being an Assistant Managers girlfriend that she had originally thought. Then again, this charitable act was undoubtedly down to his acute intoxication. Yet again, she found herself in full ownership of all her money.

Later on, however, she began to feel guilty that she had not yet spent a penny, so she announced that she was going to buy everyone a drink. “Everyone” consisting of three other people and her, so it wasn’t a particularly generous offer. As she had a fair amount of alcohol running through her veins, trying to remember these mere four drinks proved to be quite a difficult task. Luckily, she had her able boyfriend by her side to provide assistance. After purchasing these drinks what followed was talking, dancing and making out with her boyfriend. Details of which I’m sure need remain unsaid (especially as one of the only people reading this is probably said boyfriend).

As they made their way down the high street on the beginning of their voyage home, she managed to convince her boyfriend to give her a piggy back. In an equally intoxicated state, it became apparent that this was not an easy task. After a considerably short period of time, she decided it to be a better idea to simply remove her heels and use her own legs, in order to avoid causing a catastrophe. Grateful as she was to her willing partner, clinging onto an individual’s back is not particularly comfortable at the best of times.

In spite of the fact her body suffered intensely throughout the day on Sunday, she believes the night was undeniably an excellent way to end a brilliant week. Although she had spent a significant amount of time sleeping during it, she managed to spend the hours that she was conscious and not at work with her gorgeous boyfriend and she’s glad the weekend was no different.

Bon Voyage

Whilst I was getting ready for the night ahead, I have to admit, I was knackered and not in the greatest mood. I don’t think the 40 minute intense workout was the best activity to have partaken in a couple of hours beforehand, as my body was now completely drained and aching. My 45 minute nap had been unsuccessful and eating dinner seemed to tire me out even more, rather than provide me with any energy. But I needed to strive on and get myself into gear.

The night was to entail drinking and general good times at my friends’ house in Harrow. I made my way there with one of my oldest comrades and, as usual, for the duration of our journey we were acting like complete idiots. This is a general occurrence. We can go months without seeing each other and then as soon as we’re in each others presence, our mental age drops by several years. The main act of foolery that sticks out is doing the soldier boy dance at the bus stop for the entertainment of passing vehicles.

It was bloody freezing. Whenever I travel to Harrow it always seems much colder there than when I leave my house. So, for the twenty minutes we were waiting for our second bus, we complained. A lot. I feel sorry for the other people at the bus stop. Of course our complaining was interjected by insightful conversations, such as the kebab shop across the road being the most suspicious kebab shop in existence, due to it being called “Kebabish” and then realising we were perhaps just being culturally ignorant, setting us into a fit of high pitched, girly giggles, which I’m sure the surrounding company greatly appreciated.

After our bus finally arrived, being shouted at by the driver for talking to him, purchasing our drinks (Vodka and the last bottle of Pepsi Max, as they were, so audaciously, out of Diet Coke), and more walking in the cold, we finally arrived at my friends house for “pre-drinks” and then we would make our way to our final destination.  

The only other night spent at this house and with these people, didn’t end too well. I drank too much and ended up acting aggressively towards other attendees, who had accidently dropped my bottle of vodka and smashed it. This was most likely a good thing, as I had reached my limit, stumbled past and waved it goodbye, slurring abusively as I went. I didn’t give it too much thought though. Everyone makes a fool out of themselves every now and then and the people who matter wouldn’t, and didn’t, hold it against me. I did, however, vow to not get that out of control this time around.

Before we had arrived, I was under the impression that this was just another gathering at someone’s house. I was wrong. It was in fact a surprise leaving party for someone who was unknown to me. However, after meeting said being, I realised I had actually met him before; he had attended the previous soiree, but luckily there seemed to be no begrudging feelings.

With a bottle of vodka at the ready, the night commenced.

What became a recurring event throughout the night was to measure all those in attendance as they arrived and mark each height on a wall. This was, aptly named, The Height Wall. Tallest of all was the host’s boyfriend, with a height of 6 foot 4 inches, or something ludicrous like that. Guess who was smallest? Yes, it was I, over a foot smaller. It was also discovered that myself and my boyfriend had the leading height difference amongst the other couple’s there. Of course I had always been fully aware that there is a significant void between us, but this helped it sink it. I certainly won’t be ditching my heels anytime soon.

It got to a point where I wanted to take charge of the music. It’s not that what was being played was not enjoyable, but I was drunk and my friend and I wanted to dance. I attempted to alter the music to something more to our liking. I found the iPod, I browsed, but my choices were limited and I have to say, I failed. I had brief success in selecting “Fix Up Look Sharp” by Dizzee Rascal but someone soon changed the track; I don’t even remember dancing to it.

Then there was the crowd surfing. In all honesty, it was never going to work particularly well, but I think our efforts were commendable.

So I was just chilling in the kitchen with my boyfriend, when in walks the main man of the night, announcing we all must make our way into the living room because he wants to crowd surf. Um, what? I was slightly bemused and hesitantly joined the small crowd congregated in said area. I have no doubt in saying that my being there was wasted. As we’ve already established, I’m extremely short and so my efforts didn’t make much of an impact. He did, however, spend a credible amount of time balanced on the willing hands of his friends, in an odd bid of farewell, before everyone collapsed into a mass pile.

After the alcohol had run out and we were beginning to feel tired, we decided to make a move.

At this point it was way past the hour of the last train and after being abandoned by a cab that decided to bugger off after two minutes, due to sheer lack of impatience, we were finally on our way home. I always forget how long the journey takes, so it’s not surprising that my boyfriend had a little nap on the way and by the time we had finally reached our road, I was ready for bed.

Don’t hold me to this, but I may have found my hangover cure: toast.

When we got home, I had the usual drunk munchies and decided that toast was the best option. I seem to have an obsession with toast at the moment, so this wasn’t surprising, and was probably the only thing I was actually capable of preparing. After I devoured my two slices and gulped down a reasonable amount of water, I was hopeful that my efforts would help me avoid the usual sensation of wanting to die the next morning. As to whether it was actually these actions that aided my recovery, I cannot be sure, but toast will definitely be on the agenda next time I arrive home from a night out.

It was a nice, relaxed, evening, miles better than the last time. When you surround yourself with first-class company, the night always has great potential. I think I’ve finally been enlightened to the fact that drinking sensibly isn’t boring. And that toast holds the key to a brighter future.