It's an Alcoholics World

All over Facebook there are groups on the subject of being drunk. “The awkward moment when vodka robs your dignity”, “Waking up in the morning hungover and hoping you still have friends” and “It wasn't my fault, the vodka made me do it” are just a few of the thousands of groups dedicated in the most common pastime for adolescents and young adults.

Lists and quizzes detailing and revealing what kind of drunk you are circulate the internet. The “Crying Drunk”, the “Horny Drunk”, the “I Love Everyone Drunk”. Throughout my years of drinking, the recurring tendencies I exhibit have become apparent and I’ve decided that I have an element of all of them, and I’m pretty sure a combination of a crying and horny drunk is only a formula for disaster.

So below, are the five traits I frequently demonstrate when under the influence of alcohol.

I am rich

At the beginning of the night I always decide on the amount of money I want to spend. That is how much money I retrieve from the cash machine before I embark on a voyage of ultimate inebriation. I tell myself continuously that I mustn’t spend anymore than that; that £30 is more than enough to get me drunk. My purse will gradually become lighter and lighter and I seem to become unaware that spending money equates to running out of money at some point during the night. Therefore, logically, I reach a point in the night, when my funds have been used and despite the fact I am barely holding myself up as I stand at the bar, I need another drink. At this point, one of two things occurs. 1. I frantically look for a friend who will accompany me to a cash point. 2. If I have been so foolish to bring it with me, the damage is inflicted upon my debit card. The latter being the more devastating, as my recklessness will only be discovered upon checking my bank balance the next day.

Honesty is the best policy

We all have secrets. We all have something that we swear we will never tell a living soul, whether it is out of embarrassment or because the information is not ours to tell. Some people are good at keeping secrets. The people who aren’t good at keeping secrets? Drunk people. And who just happens to be the drunk person in question? Why, that would be me. Now I’m not a complete bitch and spread around the things that I have sworn not to reveal, but “You know that first night we had sex? I thought that was a one night stand” is clearly an appropriate thing to say to said male, when he’s now been your boyfriend for 10 months. During the process of getting ready for a night out, I’ll sit in the bath and list the things I shouldn’t let escape my mouth; the next day I cross off the ones that did and pray that next time, the list does not decrease any further. Alcohol should have come with the warning: “May induce side effects also common when using truth serum.”

Crying in public is ok

One of the stereotypes in the world of drunks is the formally mentioned “Crying Drunk”, more commonly found in girls. Unfortunately, this is another heading that I fall under. A night can be amazing. Friends, laughter, dancing, the whole shebang! Then the ultimate sin is committed and, yet again, too much alcohol is consumed. All dignity and pride is diluted by destructive poison and any insecurity, jealously or anger felt in the past month comes flooding out in a sea of tears and indecipherable ramblings. You could be fortunate. You could be so drunk that every word that finds its way past your lips makes so little sense that what you’re trying to say cannot be understood by anyone. Or you could be faced with a lot of questions upon awakening the next day.

Everyone is my friend

One of the most common attributes a drunk holds is the illusion that everyone finds them as interesting as they find themselves. However, this is, unfortunately, very far from the truth. I often find myself cringing at the memory of talking aimlessly at someone I vaguely know, who I managed to ambush with my slurred conversation.

Luckily, there are three kinds of people you meet when you’re out, those who are less intoxicated than you, those who are equally intoxicated as you and those who are (somehow) more intoxicated than you. The former being the most excruciating encounters you’ll ever experience. Whilst in the heat of inebriation, that person is interested and listening to what you have to say. In reality, they are politely nodding along, barely responding, whilst in their minds conjuring up any excuse for them to escape the grasps of your vivacious word vomit.

On the other hand, we have the latter categories. Now, these are the people you want to converse with! They’re excited, attentive, reactive and generally way more fun to converse with. Whether it’s that bloke at the bar, who actually turned out not to be a complete creep, or the girls in the toilet who are trying to reapply their makeup without getting eyeliner on their foreheads, the chance of you gaining another Facebook friend is inevitable.

Everywhere is a comfortable place to sleep

When the night is drawing to an end, everyone’s funds are running low and you’ve settled in a comfortable area, tiredness takes hold and the urge to sleep is irresistible. That chair looks really comfortable to lie on; that bench looks really comfortable to rest my head on; that person looks really comfortable to lean on. This is, without a doubt, what I have become known for. No matter where, when, or how inappropriate it may be, there comes a point in the night where everyone sighs as I plonk my head down on the nearest surface to catch a few z’s. It’s all well and good until the time comes that everyone wants to leave or the establishment is closing. Then the struggle to awaken the beast ensues. Once this is achieved, I’ll then fall asleep during the journey home, whether it’s on a bus, train or in a cab. My philosophy when drunk seems to be along the lines of “When it comes to sleep, the world is my mattress”. I’d certainly make an excellent tramp.

Rainy Rock Night

I discovered something incredible yesterday. The day after the night before always entails a few hours of Facebook, in which I trawl through my news feed looking for the statuses and comments of those who created the formula to the previous evening of fun. It was during this process that one of my friends commented on my wall telling me I’d slapped him. My shock was not due to my physical act of aggression, for slapping is a known pastime of mine, but because my list of forgotten moments just grew even longer. I replied telling him I had no recollection of said event occurring, and this is when he revealed to me a truly enlightening fact. Alcohol gets you drunk.

This is my confession; the tale I am about to tell is a collection of memories that do not belong to me. They are an accumulation of the stories told to me by others and by the timeline of photographs I viewed on Facebook.

Challenge accepted.

The night commenced with a drink at mine with my best friend, while we chatted away about boys and bitches. We finished getting ready and made our way into town.

May Rock Night was going to be an interesting one. Mere weeks before the event, there had been a wide spread scandal about the pub at which the event is held. After an unprovoked fight broke out, the alleged victims created a Facebook group publicising the intricate details of the affair, which I’m sure was a completely unbiased version of what happened. These individuals proposed that people boycott the pub. A lot of controversy arose as, despite the questionable reputation of this establishment, they have a lot of loyal customers and within the area they are based they are one of kind. I do not condone violence, but as I have never had any untoward experiences with any of the staff or bouncers before, and in fact have been treated quite courteously when in the heat of my drunken escapades, this wasn’t going to deter me from attending. I think I, and anyone else who visited the pub that night, can safely say that they failed in their “boycott”.

We met our friends in what I would describe as an old man pub, one that I rarely go to. For the moment, the weather was treating us kindly and it had yet to rain, so we sat outside and enjoyed the warmth of the evening, chatting away whilst we were all coherent enough to divulge in interesting conversation.

At the appropriate time we began our journey up the high street. For once, I was wearing exceptionally comfortable shoes. They had arrived only that morning, a beautiful pair of black, suede, wedges, my first pair of this kind of shoe. I have deemed them the easiest heels I’ve ever walked in. No doubt I still stumbled a few times in them, more likely due to my intoxication than being 5 inches unnaturally taller than I should be.

What better time than then for it to start raining. Luckily for me, I have a caring boyfriend, who let me borrow his hoody in order to protect my hair against the vicious drops of pollution falling from the sky. I’m sure I looked positively dashing in the long grey material that hid my shorts entirely from view.

After finally arriving and running to the toilet, I joined the others at the bar and got my drink. We then made our way outside and set up camp by the snooker table, where we spent the first half of our night. This is when the camera was brought out and the flashes began. At this point, I was already feeling the effects of the pitiful amount of alcohol I had consumed. Every picture I attempted to take was a complete failure. Although angered by forgetting to bring my own camera, it was probably for the best. The pictures taken throughout the night, despite capturing how retarded we all are, were hilarious and far more successful than the possible images I would have produced in being the designated photographer.

My first bout of drunken paralysis took place very early on. We’d bumped into familiar faces and my boyfriend and I had spent a considerable amount of time locking lips, when I suddenly came over extremely tired. Instead of the intelligent option of sitting down, I decided that the best place for me to nap would be leaning against my boyfriend. Who can blame me, when he’s so exquisitely comfortable?

Hours after arriving we decided to take our inebriated selves inside. My short snooze had worked in my favour and I was now a lot livelier. We sat ourselves down behind the DJ and this is where we stayed for the remainder of the night. However, after a while I noticed that one of my friends wasn’t with us. As I’ve made clear by now, my blood to alcohol ratio was tipping dangerously in favour of the latter. Therefore, upon discovering the absence of my friend, I overreacted. When under the influence of alcohol I take my unwarranted duty as protector very seriously. The next day I found a text in my sent items that read “Where the fuck are you?” the recipient being the missing individual at hand. I tried my best to convey my concern by adding the usual “xoxo” at the end. Later, she sauntered in from outside without a care in the world. Crisis aborted.

After more drinks, more photos, attempted dancing and acts of violence against my friends, I’d hit my limit. This last memory is one that entirely belongs to me. With my hands clasped around a glass of ice cold water, I watched the reflections of light dance off the glass as I sat glued to my seat by drunken paralysis, while my boyfriend watched over me. The only thought that ran through my head was, “If I move my head, I’m going to be sick.” Luckily, I managed to consume enough water to eliminate the chances of this happening. I needn’t bother saying that the night was over.

We’d been sitting inside for hours; therefore it is understandable that I was completely naive to the torrential rain flooding the streets outside. As I took my first few steps into the night air, I was suddenly being drenched. I was completely surprised and froze to the spot. I threw my hands over my head to try and cover my hair and screamed at my boyfriend “Why aren’t you doing anything?!” My outburst forced him, yet again, to shed himself of his hoody and wrap it around me. We continued round the corner where our cab was waiting to take us home.

I know I had a good night; everyone I’ve spoken to has confirmed this. It’s just a shame I can’t remember any of it. Somehow, I still only managed to spend £25. It’s a small price to pay for the amusing stories and photographic evidence that we now all have the honour of cherishing.

The Royal Weekend - Part Two: Flip Cup

After devouring a massive Sunday roast with my family, I spent the following hours resting my swollen stomach until I had to drag my sorry self from my bed and start getting ready for another night of low-cost drinking at my friends’ house. Unlike Friday, I had a further journey to make. My boyfriend, two friends and I all gathered at my house and then began our journey.

One of the reasons summer makes for a much happier Stephanie, is that waiting for public transport becomes so much more tolerable, and considering the amount of time I spend on public transport, it makes my life in general, a lot better. When it’s -1000 degrees outside and you’re waiting for a bus, two minutes feels likes twenty. The cold increases your impatience and even the most relaxed, laid back person becomes grumpy, annoyed and rude. As soon as you see that glimpse of red turning the corner, you try your best to push your way to the front of the line; past the old lady who’s practically frozen to the pavement; past the woman with three kids and a buggy with twelve bags hanging off of it; just so you can start defrosting your toes those few seconds earlier.

In the summer, we find ourselves on the other side of the spectrum. That bus can take it’s time! Even in the evening the heat of the day continues into the night and sooths you. Who cares if you have to wait two minutes or twenty? The warmth relaxes you, and the cool breeze carries all your impatience away with it. I wish it could be summer all the time.

The alcohol was unleashed as soon as we arrived. We rid ourselves of our jackets, filled our glasses and cracked open our cans. We relaxed for a while and let the toxins flood our veins. Like on Friday, the timeline of events is probably inaccurate in my mind, but I have a lot more clarity of certain things than the disastrous drinking session that occurred earlier that weekend. I definitely prefer this situation to the night I thought I had had being almost entirely different to what had happened in reality.

Some of you may remember “The Height Wall” that I mentioned in a previous blog depicting a night spent at the same residence. For those of you who may not, I’m sure you can guess what it entails. It’s where the guests of said house are measured. At present, I’m the reigning champion for being the shortest; I’m waiting for the day someone steals that title from me. Alas, my insignificant stature was further enhanced when another name was added to the higher section of the wall, yet still not the tallest. I do not hesitate in saying that the day someone triumphs over that top name, I will be significantly intimidated and possibly slightly terrified.

Let the drinking games begin!

From the moment we’d arrived the words “Flip Cup” had been repeated several times, and it took that many times for me to understand the rules of the game, despite its’ simplicity. I’ll break it down for you.

Step One: Split into two teams.

Step Two: Stand in a line.

Step Three: The first person in the line must down their drink, place their cup on the edge of the table and flip it until it lands standing on its head or bottom.

Step Four: Continue along the line until someone wins.

Simples.

We all gathered in the kitchen and armed ourselves with a drink, with a few of us trying to get in a sneaky practice session before the game began. The intensity of merely attempting to flip a plastic cup is outstanding. The room erupted into noise as we cheered each other on. It’s a surprisingly tricky task, especially when you’ve drunk enough that getting the cup to balance on the edge of the table is a trial in itself. Before we’d partaken in this activity, I’d been ready for bed, but now the adrenaline was pumping through my alcohol ridden veins, pushing it aside and taking command, forcing me to become increasingly excited. My enthusiasm aided my personal success, and combined with the pure skill of my teammates, we won the first two rounds. However, the groups were then changed and the stereotypical “boys vs. girls” combination was imposed and unfortunately, by a very close call, the boys were victorious.

After a further few drinking games tiredness began to engulf me. At first my chosen bed was the kitchen table, but after realising this was highly uncomfortable I carried myself to a comfy armchair. What exactly happened after I settled there, I’m not entirely sure. I remember not wanting my boyfriend to be more than an inch away from me, a cab being called and being told Nathan from Misfits isn’t going to be in the next series.

The final moment of hilarity occurred upon our departure. We were called and our cab driver told us he was outside, so we all began to gather our belongings. I was standing by the front door when my friend revealed that he couldn’t find his shoes. I watched with slight irritation at the time, but now with a smile on my face at the memory. The melancholy expression he wore on his face as his worried eyes darted around, whilst making his way from room to room, was a sight I’m glad I had the opportunity to witness. It had to be him. He’s a legend when it comes to drunken tales. I will never, for as long as I live, forget him telling me, “I was so drunk once, that I thought it’d be a good idea to pick up puddles and put them in my pocket.”

After he eventually found them, we got into our cab and were taken home. My boyfriend served me well when we got home; letting me sprawl over him in the cab whilst I moaned about feeling sick and making me toast whilst I curled up in his bed. I’m so very grateful for this, as my hangover ceased to exist the next day.

Overall it was indeed a Royal Weekend. I had an amazing couple of nights with my friends and my boyfriend. If only the Prince could get married every weekend.

The Royal Weekend - Part One: Everyone's Had A Vodka Night

I doubt that the British public have ever been so excited about a wedding. Not anyone’s sons or daughters, or possibly even the day they themselves tied the knot with their better half. And let’s not be foolish in thinking that anyone actually cares that we now know who our future Queen is to be. No, our excitement stemmed from the prospect of an extra two days off work, when we’d already had a long weekend the week before. We were blessed with a few more hours in bed and the choice of lounging around in the sun instead of the recurrent torture of watching it shine down upon the streets outside of our office buildings.

I, like most, was extremely excited about this, except for the fact they kinda screwed us over by having the wedding at 11:00am; there went my extra long lazy lay in. Nonetheless, I got up to watch the historic moment unfold. Other than this, I didn’t have many other plans for the weekend. My wish, in all honesty, was to spend copious amounts of time with my boyfriend. As it turned out, I was granted this. The weekend ahead of me was like a blast from the past, from my early teenage years to be precise, friends’ houses, far too much cheap vodka and drinking games galore.

Friday night got the ball rolling. After watching William struggling to get the ring on Kate’s finger, followed by much praying and horse poop, I decided to go about my day, eating crumpets and sitting on my laptop, when my friend text me telling me he had a free house. I have to admit he did rather well at gathering the amount of people he did at such short notice. I, of course, never turn down an opportunity to get drunk in a nice warm house for less than a tenna.

The whole night is a complete jumbled up blur. I’m certain the things I remember are all in the wrong order and possibly a few of my memories didn’t happen at all or are complete misinterpretations of what truly happened. From sitting in the bathroom with my friend for unprecedented periods of time, our conversation flowing endlessly until someone interrupted us with their full bladder, to having discussions about sex and contraception with a girl I barely know. My musings were confirmed when I later conversed with others, who revealed that everyone had left in a different order to what I had thought and that me and my boyfriend were the last to leave.

A true Vodka Night. I gradually got more and more drunk, as one does when consuming vast amounts of alcohol. But vodka is a cruel form of alcohol. It’s deceiving. It makes you think you’re safe. It wipes your memory of all previous experiences, providing you with a false sense of security. It’s misleading you. It’s like the boy you can’t give up; he’ll convince you that the last crime he committed against your heart was the last and that he won’t hurt you this time. But this is one love interest that will never change his ways. I am the fool who is enticed back into his manipulative grasp every time.

After hours of talking and laughter, the crowd that had gathered began to disperse. It was at this point that the vodka had it's way with me yet again. One swift slap around the head and it knocked all sense and composure out of me. I started to argue with my boyfriend about the simple fact of getting a cab home to prevent me from being raped, murdered, or most likely, falling over, smacking my head on the curb, and laying unconscious in the gutter all night, on the usual five minute walk home. Eventually, after a lot of strife, I agreed to take the easier journey. I cannot fathom what made me think I was capable of surviving the walk home by myself. When you're drunk, whilst your mind and body are juxtaposed, they are no longer symbiotic; your mind tells you you have the ability of achieving a lot more than your body is realistically able. Fortunately, I was saved from myself and returned home in one piece.

This was yet another one of those nights that makes me wonder how I’ve managed to keep my boyfriend for so long. However, I put the night behind me and was lucky enough to spend a lovely evening with him on Saturday night, pertinently, watching The Hangover and peacefully falling asleep in his arms.