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.

Aching for a Taste of Rock

The long awaited return of Rock Night is finally here! Its arrival came earlier than expected after plans to go to Wales for a friend’s birthday fell through. The few of us who could not go decided that instead of drying our tears, we’d dilute them with alcohol and ventured to the Crown & Treaty in order to do this. After months of not attending this notorious event, I was comforted to discover that nothing had changed. The bouncers were the same; the extortionately priced drinks were the same; the music, the people and the smell were all identical to how I remember.  But I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s start at the beginning shall we?

Recently I have transformed into one of those girls who finds it completely normal to wear hair that is not her own. So along with piling on and perfecting a face full of makeup, I now have the added task of attaching extensions onto my own hair and attempting to make it look as natural as possible. It is safe to say that this lengthens the time it takes me to get ready by a significant amount. No pain, no gain as the cliché goes. And the few extra inches my hair gains is definitely worth it. Feeling fabulous with my luscious locks in place, I slipped my feet into my most comfortable (and yet to be featured on my blog) black suede wedges and trotted out the door. It only came to my attention as I was walking along, adjusting my skirt with every few steps as it rode up, that the top I had tucked into it was actually longer than the skirt itself. If you’re an active reader of my blog you’ll surely know that dignity is something alcohol forced me to abandon a long time ago. 

Preliminary drinking was partaken at the cheapest pub in town and here gathered a number of different people that I knew; darting from one table to another, with hello hugs and laughter slotted in between. It was unfortunate that everyone was not heading in the same direction; however it is always a treat to encounter the faces of people I’ve gone weeks without seeing.

Once adequately intoxicated we shuffled on down the high street. The pub was sufficiently packed and after purchasing our drinks we had to squash ourselves onto a bench. It’s always favourable for there to be hoards of people compared to emptiness, with the awkward quite only being broken by ones own voice and the odd tumbleweed floating by. So despite having to perch on the edge of a bench with one butt cheek hanging uncomfortably off the edge, I was not fussed. 

For quite some time now there has been a pool table taking up a considerable amount of space in the beer garden, however I’ve yet to see it be treated as anything other than a place to perch ones bottom or to place ones drink. Tonight this piece of equipment would finally be put to good use as my boyfriend and friend went head to head in a drunken game of pool. I had complete faith in my boyfriend and other friends bet against each other as to who would win. We were all highly enthusiastic, but after a couple of minutes realised that the game was going to be a lot less interesting for us as it was going to be for those participating. To put it bluntly, we couldn’t be bothered to watch and ended up taking ourselves away from the monotonous activities. I would later find out that my boyfriend was not as successful as I had believed he would be, but I don’t care. He may have lost a game of pool but his masculinity will always be reimbursed by his ability to win me cuddly toys.

Predictably my lack of clothing meant that I soon became far too cold to stay outside and the group migrated to the warmth indoors and the heat that the body of head bangers produced. We settled ourselves behind the DJ booth. It was here that the camera was brought out. 

Despite its recent downhill struggle, Myspace was previously one of the most widespread networking sites available; I admit I was an avid user all throughout my teenage years. There were constantly new trends circulating the Myspace community with only those in this population understanding the terms “pc4pc” or “w4w”. Undoubtedly the most notorious of all was the high angled default picture.  Said angle is capable of obscuring the true appearance of the individual in the shot, distorting ones proportions, transforming the normal human body into a creature with an inflated head and minuscule body; often adopted by those of a larger nature and who have been blessed with an unfortunate face. My friend and I, in our drunken condition, decided that this would be the perfect time to try and replicate the Myspace picture. We tried our best and whether we were successful is debatable. Ultimately I believe it established our undeniably high level on the Hierarchy of Cool. 

This, however, would be followed by playing Patty Cake, which may have been somewhat counterproductive after our previous efforts to look awesome; it did provide minutes of pure enjoyment though. After we’d exhausted ourselves with playground games we realised it was Kebab o clock and so left the vicinity to fulfil our cravings. 

As I wandered out of the Kebab shop victoriously, the container of chicken, chips, salad, but mostly mayonnaise, weighing heavily in my palm, I stumbled across one of my sister’s closest friends. Any encounter with this young lady is one of joy, even more so when she is intoxicated. From what I can remember (and could decipher from her drunken slurs at the time) she’d been kicked out of some-club-or-other and was now sitting elegantly outside a Subway. It brings me comfort to know that in three years time I won’t have abandoned my reckless ways and will be exactly like her.

We finally made it to the cab office and were taken home and our first summer Rock Night was complete.