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.
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