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.
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