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  1.  (9983.21)
    @Orpheus Oh man, Leeds!

    The night before Thought Bubble 2010 I was out with one of my friends from Manchester, went back to my hotel room (Hotel A) after buying, according to my gmail chat logs, 8 POUNDS OF ALCOPOP, SWEETIES AND ALCOPOP, then decide, I've got a map and time to kill, I don't know anyone here, I'll go look for the next hotel (Hotel B) at 10:30 pm. I'm three quarters of a bottle into the alcopop when I leave, figuring the Thought Bubble map will get me to the hotel and back.

    SURPRISE SURPISE: I get lost in the industrial part of Leeds, crying at an interstate turnoff because not only have I not found my next hotel, I've forgotten my way back to the hotel I'm actually staying at that night. At this point, I am terrified that members of the Leeds Tracksuit Knife Muggers (local 305) will introduce themselves to me and give up walking on sidewalks, deciding to reorient myself by the city lights. I will find my way back to a main road, by going directly towards the city lights, no matter what is in front of me.

    I end up in an Audi dealership, initially overjoyed because it jogs my memory about getting back to the hotel, then absolutely flabbergasted, because I've been listening to a song for eight fucking years about confused and lost in an Audi dealership. I make it back to waterfront on which Hotel A sits with a smile on my face, giddy, feeling like I've just passed behind the panels of a Phonogram b-side.

    The next night, well, that's another story...

    ADDITIONAL EDIT: Congratulations on getting married, Spurioso!
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeJun 30th 2011
     (9983.22)
    @Vertigo Jones

    Coward. 8p

    A few years back my friend Rick invited my girlfriend-now-wife and I over to his house to take part in his father's birthday. Rick is Hispanic and, as a Hispanic with a large amount of family in the local area, doesn't do small parties. Prep for the party apparently began the night before with his father and two uncles beginning the cooking while the cousins went out and got the beer. Vast, vast quantities of beer, along with everything they would be barbecuing the next day including a flock of chickens, enough pork to feed a Samoan village, and some hot dogs for the kids.

    We got there around eleven and the party was in full swing; they even had a four-piece mariachi band. It was the third party I've been to over at his place so I know his dad, brother, and a few of the cousins and some of our mutual friends were also in attendance. Rick and his wife lived at his father's house in Tracy which, if you've ever been to California, is in the Central Valley which is very close to Satan's asshole; it's hot, unpleasant, and smells faintly in that way you just don't comment on. We spent the day getting shitty, mostly on beer but there was some scotch thrown in there too for some reason, sitting in the sun, listening to music, and playing cards and dominoes. By the end of the night I've had enough beer that I'm floating on it, along with several tall shots of scotch, and I've been playing dominoes with Rick, his father, and his uncle for the last hour when my girlfriend said it was late and we should probably get going (thankfully, she was driving). So, I stood up to go and, because we were by the door, I said goodnight and thanks to Rick, his uncle, and his father last because the table we'd been playing at was by the door.

    It was then, at that point, that Rick's father's hand tightened on mine and he got a very, very serious look on his face.

    "You're going to leave...my house...without doing a shot with me?" he asked. He looked at his brother and then back at me and said, "You're going to come to my house, eat my food, and leave and not do a shot with me?"

    His uncle started to shake his head mournfully. It should be said that at a different party, that I unfortunately wasn't at, his uncle, apparently, spontaneously produced a pry-bar ala Highlander when a guest of a guest threatened to beat up Rick's thirteen year-old nephew. Said guest was taken outside and spent several hours sitting in his car out of fear of his life until his girlfriend was ready to leave because the uncle, as was told to me by Rick, "had already been in jail and didn't care if he went back after beating that white kid unconscious". These details went through my head as I drunkenly looked him over to see where he might be hiding said pry-bar. I looked at Rick and Rick started mouthing, "Take the shot."

    So I said that I wouldn't dream of leaving without taking a shot with his father.

    He sent one of his grandkids into the house to get the bottle of tequila. Now, Rick's dad makes frequent trips down to Mexico and brings back tequila you can't buy in the States, probably because having it would constitute a felony in some fashion on account of how much it would fuck you up. He poured four tall shots, one for himself, his uncle, Rick, and myself and, after wishing him a happy birthday, we downed them. Tequila and I have never been friends and, after spending all day under the hot Tracy sun, drinking at least double-digits worth of beers, and several shots of scotch, the tequila hit me like I was a long-lost enemy. Thankfully, I kept it down. I thought I was ok until Rick's dad turned to my girlfriend and said, "What about you?"

    With a very shitty gleam in her eye (I still haven't forgiven her), my girlfriend says, "Oh, I'm driving; he'll have it for me."

    And so I did another shot.

    There were two stops on the way back to San Jose and I woke up in the morning feeling like the mariachi band had used my head alternatively as a punching bag and a chamber pot. I haven't touched tequila since.
  2.  (9983.23)
    I took a bottle of Ouzo to a college party with me once. Me, my girlfriend at the time and her best friend kept pouring double measures into our drinks and needless to say we got hammered very quickly. Later on in the afternoon me and my girlfriend were in a room together getting frisky and the best friend enters by accident. Instead of telling her to get out, my girlfriend told her to come in and close the door. I won't go into detail because I'm sure you'd rather not read it, but I basically felt like the most awesome spawny bastard in the universe for a good long time afterwards.

    All of this while the friend's boyfriend was downstairs. I didn't feel at all bad for him because he was a complete bell end.

    Instead of ruining whatever relationship we had with each other we became even closer and were basically inseparable up until the very end of college when we all had to part ways, and last year me and the friend attended my ex-girlfriend's wedding. That was... weird.

    I'd tell you about the time I drank a bottle of Absinthe to myself, but I don't remember a fucking thing about that night. Apparently I got in a fight with a fence and lost.
  3.  (9983.24)
    My friends, these are magnificent. I demand that you keep them coming.

    (One thing, and I absolutely don't want to sound like a cockweasel - because this sort of boozy brilliance shouldn't suffer to be constrained - but let's at least *try* to keep them around the 300 word limit, aye?)
  4.  (9983.25)
    I'll start with my first real epically drunkeness, maybe later I'll return with some of more comedy moments.

    So, it's while I'm still at school, someone's 16th birthday party. I have discovered cider, like any good English schoolboy, and have decided it will be my drink of choice. I rock up with 2 ten packs of Strongbow stubbies, planning to be generous with my bounty. The party is being held in a hall and all booze goes into the kitchen. When I put my appley-evilness down, I spy some 2 litre bottles of it that someone else has brought. I head off into the dancing clutching my first bottle.
    Time goes by, all the stubbies are drunk, by me and others. So I move on to the big bottles, not wanting to miss out I fill a plastic cup, down it, then fill it again to sip while I walk round. Repeat several times.
    Next thing I know I'm lying on the floor of the hall, surrounded by big beats and screams looking at this ocean of sick flowing away from me. Someone pulls me up and drags me outside while I mumble incoherent apologies.
    I am left on a chair in misery while my Dad is called. Meanwhile some of my "friends" are using me for target practice with their fag butts (this I only found out later.)
    The birthday girl's parents prop me on the windowsill outside the hall to wait for my Dad. He arrives, looking very unamused.
    "Get in the car."
    "Love to. Only, my legs don't work."
    So I'm dragged into the car, still very green around the gills.
    I’m told to wind the window down in case I feel like being sick, so that I won’t throw up inside the car. Being out of it, I feel having the window down only an inch or two will be fine.
    Then the vomit rises, I try to stick my head out of the window only to bounce my noggin off the glass and fill the footwell with sick.
    More unimpressed looks from my paternal parent.

    That’s the last I actually remember, but I then apparently locked myself in the bathroom and went to sleep, forcing my Dad to unscrew the lock from the outside.
    My brother says I kept repeating “I’m sorry” for a straight hour on my arrival home.
  5.  (9983.26)
    I am, alas, a horrible sensible drinker. I alternate with water and everything. I also rarely have enough money to get completely hammered. I do have an unfortunate tendency, begat by my Russian family and friends, to drastically underestimate the effect that wine will have on me, assuming that it not being vodka means it's piss-weak, and that it being free means I should keep refilling my glass. (I hang out with writers now. Free wine happens.) Regardless, I've managed to spend my 6 or 7 drinking years with nary a chunder and have never passed out from a standing start. I have done some ridiculous/stupid/uncoordinated things in my life, but I have been pretty much sober for the vast majority of them.

    So! I am going with option "people I know"! The aforementioned Russian background makes this fairly easy pickings. (Side note: Did You Know that a movie widely regarded as the Russian equivalent to Love Actually [i.e. romantic comedy everyone watches at christmas] revolves entirely around a drunk man getting put on the wrong airplane by his drunk friends and drunkenly going to the wrong apartment, where he Meets A Girl? True facts.) My family is actually relatively sober, aside from the maternal grandfather who has a tendency to drink lots of vodka at family gatherings and start cornering people to sing Soviet boy scout songs at them. The diaspora is pretty close-knit though, so I bring thee this story of a friend of my mother's. Mum told me about this (with great difficulty as she was pissing herself laughing) last year after coming home from some sort of night out with the girls sort of thing.

    So we have a friend of my mother's, whom we shall call Tanya for privacy and also because I can't fucking remember her name, and her husband, who shall be referred to as Vasya. Vasya is some sort of building/civil engineering contractor, who is at the time we begin our story just finishing up a four-month stint in New Zealand. Naturally this calls for some sort of celebration of the alcoholic sort.

    All goes well until, on his way out of the pub, Vasya trips and falls down the stairs, knocking himself out. He wakes up hours later in a hospital bed, alone, still fairly maggoted and with a sudden urgent booze-sodden homing instinct. What he does, at this point, is get up out of the bed, tear the fucking IV drip out of his goddamn arm, and proceed to walk right out of the hospital, apparently unmolested, and hail a taxi.

    The cab driver appears nonplussed by the drunk Russian man in a hospital gown, presumably because while he hadn't been coordinated enough to get dressed he at least had his wallet with him. Halfway to the airport, Vasya notices the remains of the IV still embedded in his vein and decides to dig it out, causing him to bleed slightly a little bit all over the backseat of the taxi, as well as, you know, himself.

    Somehow, the airport officials let him onto his flight, where he passes out for a few hours.

    He shows up at his wife's door after four months away, reeking of booze and wearing a hospital gown covered in blood.

    And Tanya, and I am directly quoting my mother here, Tanya describes all this, rolls her eyes and says: "Men!"
    •  
      CommentAuthorsneak046
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.27)
    Too many. Highlights from:

    An entire lost weekend in liverpool.

    The time when my friends and I taunted an angry gentleman so hard he tried to reverse his car at speed into the group of us, missing the group entirely and taking out a wall with the back end of his car - looked like a write-off to me...

    Forgetting where I parked my car and having to find it in the morning before work used to happen a couple of times a year.

    Falling off my bike and faceplanting while trying a jump on my mountain bike while pissed. Best. Trick. Ever.

    Many drunken 'parkour' adventures - incl climbing nearly 4m up the front of a cambridge theatre. Nearly broke my ankle jumping down.

    Those are the ones I feel comfortable re-telling due to legal or moral reasons.
    •  
      CommentAuthorFauxhammer
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.28)
    I wish I could think of some; I tend to brown out when I've got my drinking shoes on. Awesome stuff has happened, make no mistake.
  6.  (9983.29)
    "Brown out", in a drinking story context, is perhaps not the best use of unambiguous terminology.
    •  
      CommentAuthorFauxhammer
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.30)
    No, see, it's like a blackout, but not as severe because you remember bits and pieces.

    Although the last time I went to New York, after between fifteen and twenty drinks, my thought process upon waking went thus: "Uggggh, I'm dying. It was well worth it, though--man, what a great time. How much did I have to drink? Am I about to shit this bed? I think...Yes. I am about to shit this bed. RED ALERT, ALL HANDS TO BATTLE STATIONS, TAKE US TO THE BATHROOM"

    I made it, but barely.
    •  
      CommentAuthorcurb
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.31)
    @Renthing I feel your pain, man. Tequila once cost me a matress. PRO TIP: Don't use it as a chaser to Guiness.
    •  
      CommentAuthorAlan Tyson
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011 edited
     (9983.32)
    I don't remember how I got to the bar in the middle of Boystown, Chicago. I do seem to recall it happening after about half a bucket of Long Island Ice Tea.

    I do remember some kind individual saying to me "loosen up, sweetie, you're dancing like a straight guy!"

    I have no idea where my old wallet is, now. I miss it, at times.
  7.  (9983.33)
    So it occurred to me that I never even considered saying congratulations to our overlord in waiting for his impending nuptials. Apparently ebullentsoul is a better man than I (not much of an accomplishment). So... All the best! As a happily divorced man, two words... pre-motherfucking-nup! It's like insurance. A waste of money if you never need it, but so worth it if you do. (or so I'm told. I went the other way.)

    I could tell the story of how I got engaged. I wasn't drunk, but in retrospect I was on a lot of percocet. I will refrain though, because nothing about it paints me in a positive light.
  8.  (9983.34)
    This thread is great and has me tittering like a schoolgirl.
  9.  (9983.35)
    I'm not sure if repeat entries are allowed, but screw it, this is, to me, a beautiful story not a wreckage one...

    Back in the 90s when I'd just started working in London, I went out drinking for a colleague's birthday. I fell asleep on the last train, and ended up in Poole, about 50 miles away from home, bleary, cold, with no money and no way to get home. My fellow castaways were a man who was so fazed by the whole thing that all he could do was scream 'FUUUUUCCKKKKKKK' repeatedly into the uncaring night, and a strange looking guy in his 50s with a bunch of cases. Mr Fuck was a lost cause, so I struck up conversation with the other guy. He turned out to be an itinerant musician who'd missed his ferry to France and had taken refuge in the station. He also had several litres of cider, which we began to drink, from coffee cups we found in the bin. We talked all night, about music, politics and new beginnings. He had fascinating stories to tell about his life and family. I felt interested, engaged, and alive, despite my exhaustion and all the booze. At some points, we warmed up in a taxi whose driver took pity on us between jobs. Eventually we got too cold and went halves on a taxi back to his bedsit, where we talked and drank more, and played and sang songs on an old, beaten up Spanish guitar. He sang me Bird on a Wire, played beautifully, and sung in a high, cracked voice. In the morning, I staggered to the nearest station and came home. We didn't stay in touch, sadly, and I regret it - although he could have turned out to be a total wanker...

    A coda to the story... about three years later, in the midst of a horrific depression, I suddenly had a burning desire to hear Bird on a Wire again. I hadn't heard it since that night. I bought a CD, went back to my room and put it on. The first line of the song literally cut my legs out from under me, my muscles just went and I fell to the floor and cried for an hour - one of the most cathartic moments I've ever had.
    •  
      CommentAuthormuse hick
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.36)
    i went out drinking with my friends from the call centre and the person that i was supposed to stay with disappeared from the club before the night had finished leaving me with no place to stay and no way of getting home (i lived in the country at the time and there was a very crappy public transport system). after tracking down someone (my team leader at the call centre) i persuaded them to let me couch surf but she wanred me that she had to get up at 630 that morning - this didn't sound too great as i was seriously drunk, but i went with it anyway. 630 came around and i rose, feeling like a sack of hammered shit, and was told i had to leave. i stepped outside and it was fucking freezing and that in no way helped my physical state. i stumbled off to the bus stop to grab a ride back home, knowing i had to get something along the way to help with my hangover and for some reason i decided gum and a bottle of water was a good idea. i got on the bus my dodgy stomach swirling all the time (the buses we had were antiques that rattled and shook the whole way) and i was doing fairly well until we hit those stereotypically windy country backroads. i knew i was going to be sick so i stumbled down the front of the bus and asked the driver, someone i'd known for a while to stop because i was going to throw up. now most of these buses have a pole in the middle of the doorway that you can hold onto as you step off the bus and for some reason i thought this one did. the driver decided fro some unknown reason to open the door before the bus stopped. i reached out for the non-existent pole and proceeded to exit the bus with my arm stuck out like i was bloody superman - i hit the ground and immediately proceeded to vomit, spinning over three times as i did this, just to ensure there was an even spread of sick to coat me. the bus stopped and i stood up covered head to toe in upchuck. thankfully there were only four people on the bus, and thank god the driver knew me, or i would have had to walk home after this as well. still, i had lovely friction burns on my expensive new coat, holes in the knees of my trousers, and i stank of alcoholic vomit.
  10.  (9983.37)
    This is nothing on the level of some of these pieces.

    Got very drunk very early at a teenage party camping in the woods. Woke up a couple hours later still pretty drunk. Everyone decided to get naked and walk to the nearest road. Then when we got there we decided to walk to the nearest main road. Then there we decided to walk up a hill and then run down another one running over cars. My friend tripped over a spoiler and gashed his knee open. Then we got to a roundabout about where we had the choice of walking into town or going back to the campsite. We chose walking into town. By the time we were in town it was getting pretty light so we had to come up with an idea of how to get back to our site unseen. Fortunately, that was solved for us by a passing police car and two weary coppers who we managed to half-convince that we were the victims of a malicious prank against us and had only been outside naked for a couple minutes rather than the hour or so we'd been wandering about committing petty vandalism in the buff and they gave us a lift back to a field, the nearest place to where we were camping that we were willing to admit to staying in case they later decided to do us and come looking for us. One final mad naked dash across a field and another main road and we were home and dry. Avoided the centre of town for another six months. I knew a guy who worked at a shop on the main drag who said the CCTV from outside it was hilarious and got shared between people for ages.
  11.  (9983.38)
    This story can't even begin to compare to the other tales here, but it's a treasured memory among my group of friends and the only thing I can contribute to this thread, being a heretic who swore off the demon drink many years ago because it tended to turn him into a massive jerk.

    It was in the aftermath of a friend's 21st birthday party. I hadn't been drinking but a mate of mine, Ryan, had been sucking down everything he could get his hands on for hours. Earlier in the night I'd had to follow him when he wandered out into the street because I was seriously worried that he'd fall into a nearby lake and never resurface.

    By the time we were heading home he'd drunk himself into a sort of trance-like state where you could prop him up in a corner and he'd just sit there quietly grinning, only sparking up into action now and then to ask for more booze. Which was great because it made it really easy for my other mate Justin and I to bundle him into the back of Justin's car and strap him in. I took the passenger seat (not wanting to be anywhere near Ryan in case his stomach decided to void itself) and we set off along the deserted early morning streets, discussing just how sick he was going to be the next morning.

    Suddenly he sparked into life "Guys! Guy! This is really important! Guys! Guys! Listen to me! Guys! This is really important! Guys!". We halted our conversation and turned in our seats to hear what he had to say.

    "This is really important guys! ... Dada-DA-da-da-DA! Da-DA! Da-da-DA! Dada-DA-da-da-DA!"

    My Sharona had just come on the radio.

    We pissed ourselves so hard we nearly shot off the road into someone's house.

    Ryan spent the next two days curled into a fetal ball in his bed groaning for someone to kill him. To this day he maintains that he would have been perfectly fine if he hadn't mixed beer and spirits. We never found out what was so important :)
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeJul 1st 2011
     (9983.39)
    @curb

    My god, man, were you full of self-loathing and wished to punish yourself? The only worse combination I could think of would be tequila with Irish Creme chasers. Makes me sick just thinking of it.
    • CommentAuthorkozmund
    • CommentTimeJul 2nd 2011
     (9983.40)
    I apologize if this seems weak in comparison. Living in Michigan, I met a fellow who had moved from London about 6 months before. We became friends, our wives' became friends, and eventually I took him to my favorite Dirt Bar for a musical performance I was photographing for the band. I took special care to introduce him to the doormen, bouncers, and the badass sound man. We drank really quite a bit before the show started, and then we got up to the front of the crowd in the time honored photographer tradition. About 15 minute into the show, my Londoner said he didn't need to be all the way up front and would meet me in the back by the bar when I was done. About 20 seconds later, I glanced back and saw that he had some very, very confused guy pinned against the wall by their throat, with the sound man peeling them apart. The sound man started laughing when he saw who it was he was letting out of a choke hold.

    Long story short, I learned a valuable cultural lesson. At certain types of shows in the US, it's assumed that you can lightly push someone as a way of showing displeasure, even if they're getting out of your way. Certainly, it might start a fight eventually, but there will be words or more shoves first. In London, I'm told, "if some cunt touches you, that means it's right fucking on."

    I miss that mad shit. And that's not even getting into the "what happens when you say 'cunt' in America" story.

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