Reason #59: after party pooper

I started this blog/journal/confessional just over six years ago, so it goes without saying that a lot has changed in that time. Gone are the heady days of my eighteen year old self, where partying for three days straight was like water off a duck’s back. These days you can find me passed out in a corner while the party continues around me. Of course, I’m ageing gracefully.

I recently took a trip to Dubai as I have family over there and fancied a nice, sunny break from the bleak reality of the UK. It just so happened that my visit coincided with one of my favourite DJs playing a day party on the beach, which made the trip just that little bit sweeter. Dubai is known for its lavish, luxury lifestyle but I hadn’t quite comprehended a) how extravagant it would be and b) that I would not have to pay for a single drink, as long as I continued to be afforded the privilege of owning a vagina on my body, which it turns out, wasn’t and still isn’t planning on going anywhere soon.

Surrounded by mostly lovely, but shamelessly conceited people taking endless selfies of themselves, I was quite pleased my vag-owning body had given me the luxury of a table full of never-ending bottles of Belvedere, Cafe Patron and Cristal to numb the pain of feeling like a badly made sausage next to a parade of Miss Essex entrants – I can say that because I’m from Essex. Before I knew it, the sun had set and closing time had rolled around. Obviously I was not done yet, despite at this point only being able to focus on things with one eye open. Navigating my way to the ‘afterparty’, I sunk a few more drinks before heading off with some strangers to another bar, sneaking one for the road into the taxi and downing another one before I even got into it.

It’s safe to say that I was absolutely hammered by the time we reached the third bar of the evening. I drank a shot of sambuca and a double vodka, lime and soda, just to cement how fucked I was, and toddled off with my new friends to an apartment one of them was living in. From here on in, it’s a hazy blur of chainsmoking on the balcony and guzzling more vodkas, then my mind went dark and then I woke up.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around and noticed I was in unfamiliar territory. I looked down and realised my phone was dead and I had been sleeping on a really thin mattress on the floor. A memory popped into my head, ‘you laid down here last night…’. I got up and scoped out the house, walking into bedrooms and excusing myself, before I finally found the toilet – I actually managed not to throw up, surprisingly. When I came out, I looked down and realised a note had been placed on the inside of my phone cover. It read:

“We tried waking you up, like we were literally shaking you, but you somehow have not woken up (how??) so we’ve gone home, but let us know when you wake up and get home safe”

Anyone who has stayed in Dubai will know that most of the apartments have receptionists at the entrance. As I stumbled out and hid my face from the gaggle of people at the front desk, I knew they thought I’d done a lot worse than pass out on the floor. When I finally got back to my apartment, my dad asked, “where have you been?”. At that moment, I didn’t know if it was worse to say that I had met a boy or I go so drunk I slept on the floor, so I went for the classic teenage line of “out”. Nailed it.

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Reason #58: not getting in

I write to you, over a year since my last post, having hoped for myself that things might have changed, that as I got older, I’d get better at holding my alcohol. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I’m still shit. Heaven knows I’ve tried, but I think I am destined to remain a lightweight for the rest of my days. Anyway, hello, how are you? I’ve missed you. Here’s a late Christmas present from me to you.

I have never – to my knowledge, I could have been so drunk that I forgot – been refused entry into an establishment for being too drunk. Never. A shocker, I know, but NEVER. Until last month, after I returned home from Ibiza. IBIZA. Not even in Ibiza for fuck’s sake.

I’d been home for a couple of weeks when I decided it was probably time I went out and tried to speak to people I used to know before I left for the city, and then for an entirely different country altogether. My anxiety about having to see people I didn’t want to see was eased by a few (x3) drinks, which was turned into complete jubilation upon seeing old friends, which then turned into shots. Lots of fucking shots.

Next thing I know, it’s 2 am, I’m at my friend’s house and we’ve bought three bottles of wine. I did not need three bottles of wine but hey, we had them, and they needed to be consumed. I soldiered on with the wine, drinking until (apparently) I could no longer speak properly, I could only point at the wine and drink it. I fell asleep on my friend’s bed and woke up startled as she told me and my other friend that we needed to leave. “Fuck it,” my other ejected friend said, “let’s go to the 24-hour casino”. Bear in mind here that it was 7 am and we’d just woken up slaughtered, we were optimistic in the face of a blatantly awful situation.

We jumped in a taxi, got to the casino and did our best to act sober. We screwed our eyes, tried to make ourselves more rigid as we swayed wildly towards the security staff and attempted to remember how to speak. A flat out ‘no’ greeted us before we’ve even had the chance to be asked for ID. A perplexed look crossed our faces, which might have already been there because, well, wine. We consulted each other and decided to retreat, buy more (!!!) wine and go back to my mum’s house, where we were greeted by my mother, who was getting ready for work. We tried our sober-casino technique on her as we swung from the door frames we were desperately clinging on to, but failed to convince her of any sobriety either.

I don’t know at what point we gave up or when my friend left, but I woke up with two bottles of wine by my bed and the sight of them kickstarted a fun-filled afternoon of puking. All in all, I’d say it was a successful Tuesday evening all round.

As if this was not already enough though, on Boxing Day I went back to the same casino, absolutely smashed, and was once again refused entry for being too drunk. Being the cunning, drunken genius that I am, I went down the stairs, took off my coat, put my hair in a ponytail and went back up to the desk, confident that I was the master of disguise. When I got there, she asked if she had just refused me entry, but I was so drunk I couldn’t give her an answer. Then she threatened to go through the security footage and I panicked. After getting so close, I was forced to retreat once more.

I give up on that fucking casino.

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Reason #57: lost in the loo

I’ve touched on this before but I feel this is an area that I need to explore a little further because for some reason, it’s started flaring up again. Basically, when I get drunk, I forget where the toilet is or get total amnesia about where I’ve come from when I get out of the toilet. I don’t know if this is a thing that other people experience but it’s weird as fuck and I need to share it, so once again, here we are.

Last year, I went back to a mate’s house and I was absolutely hammered (obv). We passed out as soon as we got in, but I woke up at some point and found my way to the toilet with absolutely no problem. When I got back into bed, he was gone – I assumed he had just got up for a bit, so I starfished in the middle of the bed and went back to sleep.

I woke up a few hours later when it was light outside, still in the middle of the bed, and was confused as to why he hadn’t come back. I looked around and didn’t recognise the room, but not in the usual way where you wake up in a room you don’t recognise but you know it’s the one you went to bed in. I had no idea what this room was. I heard noises outside and walked around the corner to find my friend – in his bedroom. I had forgotten where it was and ended up in his housemate’s bed – luckily they weren’t home. When he asked me why I’d got up in the middle of the night and slept in another room, I just had to shrug and pretend I hadn’t totally forgotten where I was going. Mortified.

Recently, I stayed in a hotel with a friend, and again, as always, I was fucked. Hotel rooms – generally speaking – are not that big, and this one was no exception. I settled in for the night, confident of my hangover the next day but too tired and drunk to care. A few hours later, I awoke to use the toilet and stumbled in. As I sat there, the room was spinning, and at some point I rested my head on my knees to try and stop it.

I have no idea how long I was there for, but when I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was or where I’d come from. Looking around at this alien bathroom that had none of my things in, I sorted my shit out and washed my hands. As I walked out of the bathroom, I looked around at the dark bedroom and realise that I’m in this hotel. Completely freaked out, I fall back into bed and coax myself into a slumber by reminding myself where I am. For a good three minutes, I had no idea whose bathroom I was in and thought I had been kidnapped.

A guy I was very newly seeing invited me to his house for the first time after a night out where we’d both got pretty hammered. I’d said I would rather wait for the first train because it was too early to meet his family, but he insisted that it was fine to go back to his – his mum “couldn’t wait to meet me”. Oh, how wrong he was. I don’t really remember a lot about getting back but realistically, we probably had drunk, sloppy sex and then went to sleep. I woke up in the morning feeling hungover and afraid to leave the room, but nothing could prepare me for what I was going to find out.

Apparently, in the middle of the night, I had got lost on the way back from the toilet, half naked, and had been found by this guy’s mum trying to go into the wrong bedroom. She had to direct me back to the right bedroom and I have absolutely no recollection of it whatsoever, although I’m still not sure how true it is. Either way, that was the first and last time we ever met. Needless to say, she didn’t like me very much at all and I never wanted to go back to her house ever again (and I never did).

The list, embarrassingly, goes on, and I can’t see any signs of it going away. I give myself two years before I end up getting in bed with someone’s parents and I will obviously write about it here when I do. At least I haven’t pissed myself recently

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How to avoid a hangover

This isn’t strictly a reason, but seeing as we’re all here because we’re shameless drunks, I might as well provide something useful other than a place to share your shame. 

As a semi-professional drinker and also full-time employed person (HA!) at a job that requires me to have a brain (double HA!), hangovers are a huge inconvenience at the least, and at the most, threats to my employment. Threats to my employment are threats to my drinking habits. We cannot have this, can we now?

I have spent much time over the years nailing my post-night out hangover-prevention tactics and after much consideration, I would like to share these with you now. They are not scientifically proven but I haven’t been sacked yet, so prepare to be saved! You might find these are tried and tested methods, in which case, I am just here to back up the fact they WORK and you have NO excuse to be hungover. NONE. Maybe sometimes.

1) Drink loads of water. Like, as much water as you can fit in your body without feeling like you’ve got an internal swimming pool tickling your tonsils. I usually find that two pints is a good amount, a nice balance, but you will find whatever works for you. You will feel heavy and sloppy after this, but stick with it.

2) Eat something, preferably bread or anything stodgy. You’ll have heard this a million times but from personal experience, nothing else really compares to the curing powers of bread and waking up with kebab breath is just not the one, but eating anything stodgy is good. Pasta, pizza, potatoes, rice, noodles – CARBS, basically. Feel free to drink the water and eat the food in tandem to save time.

FYI, I am not condoning cooking or cutting anything under the influence, that’s a really silly idea. I once cooked pizza drunk and, forgetting I had a pizza cutter, tried to slice it with a sharp, jagged knife. I woke up the next day with the tip of my index finger being held on with a sponge, secured with the fingers of a rubber glove in a knot around my finger. I bled all over my pizza but determined not to be hungover, I powered through the entire thing. I still have the scar to remind me and I can no longer feel the tip of my finger. I’m a fucking ingenuitive drunk considering I’d just moved house and had no plasters, unfortunately the man in A&E who put my finger back together didn’t think so. I also still had a hangover, but I missed out the essential water-drinking part and fucked it for myself. Proof in the pudding. The plan must be followed in full.

3) Take loads of water to bed with you and every time you wake up, drink more water. You will feel dehydrated and it’s important to make sure you keep yourself hydrated because that’s what’s going to kick your hangover (like I actually know this is true…)

4) After completing the above steps, lay on your left side when you go to bed. This is actually scientifically proven, and will help you feel less bloated and to digest what you’ve just frantically thrown down your throat. Also, if you are going to be sick in the night, you want to be as close to the recovery position as possible so you don’t die.

5) No matter how smashed you get, do not forget to do this. This is the killer and the biggest threat to your hangover-free morning. The water is the most important thing, but if you really want to wake up tomorrow feeling the best you possibly can given the fucking state you’ve come home in, just follow these steps and you’ll probably be alright. You’re probably going to feel really tired in the morning, but if you nail this, that’s going to be the worst of it. You are welcome.

Just as a disclaimer, I’m really sorry if this is all wrong and actually turns out to be a massive threat to your health, but I haven’t died yet so it must be alright, right? If anyone has any other suggestions or wants to let me know how they’ve got on, I think there’s a comments box under here – if you need me, I’ll be having a nap under there with a plate of sausage rolls.

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Reason #56: kebag

Unsurprisingly, I had drunk myself into a stupour, as I have for every one one of these tales. After a particularly heavy evening on the booze, it was time to head home from the club. My friend and I stopped off at the nearest kebab shop and picked up a big, fat, dirty chicken doner wrap, arguably the best-worst drunk food of choice. What sounds more appealing than old, congealed chicken soaked in garlic to hide how rancid it is? Delish.

After leaving my friend for him to go and meet his girlfriend, I proceeded to lone wobble home. Around this point I had recently lost my keys and so to try and avoid losing them again, I’d put them on a lanyard. Thinking ahead at this point, I put the keys around my neck to make sure that I didn’t lose them on the trek home. Some way along the journey, I must have put my wrap in my bag, presumably because I realised I was way too hammered to walk in a straight line and stuff my face at the same time. It didn’t take long for me to forget that I had done this…

Predictably, I managed to get lost on the way home (the journey is basically a straight line), so I was relieved to finally find a road I recognised; by chance the main road that runs parallel to mine. Then, a sudden panic kicked in. Where are my keys? FUCK! I dropped to the floor and sat cross legged on the pavement with my bag in front of me. After looking in my bag, I remembered that I had put my kebab in there and it was now absolutely everywhere. Little bits of chicken, seemingly covered in curry sauce (like seriously, curry sauce on a kebab, what the fuck was I thinking?) had got all into every crevice, sauce coating everything, but at this point it wasn’t important. I had to find my keys. I can’t lose another pair of fucking keys.

As I sit there with the entire contents of my bag strewn on the floor in front of me, sans keys, my friend who I had left earlier rings me.
“Where are you?”
“I’m around the corner from mine, where are you?”
“I’m outside your house, my girlfriend wasn’t awake… What the fuck have you been doing for me to beat you here?”
“I got lost, I can’t find my keys… I’ll see you in a bit”

As I let out a huge sigh of despair, I realise what I’ve done. I look down at my chest and see a gleaming set of keys hanging around my neck. I look in front of me and see my entire life scattered across the pavement, covered in kebab. I look inside my bag and see more kebab. There seems to be more kebab everywhere than there could have actually been in the wrap. After a moment of contemplation about whether or not I could eat the rest of the kebab, which was now covered in bits of tobacco and dirt from the inside of my bag, I repack my foul-smelling bag, bin the wrap and walk along with the local crackhead, Beth, who arguably smells better than I do.

Waking up the next day, my head is fuzzy and my room smells like a chicken shop. Foolishly, I get up to inspect my bag and have to run out of the room heaving. After sweating it out overnight, the smell is now worse than ever. I attempt to salvage the contents of my bag by washing them under a tap, but the sickly smell remains. I stick my handbag in the washing machine and pray for redemption.

Later on, I decide to head out to meet some friends, refusing to be defeated by my hangover. I grab my coat in haste and make my way to the bus stop. As I get outside, a chill catches the air, so I put my coat on and zip it up. A repugnant yet familiar smell fills my nostrils. I look down to find kebab juice all down my coat. I take it off and brave the cold. It starts raining. I am forced to walk in the pouring rain with my jacket in my arms and my dignity, once again, in tatters, and absolutely smothered in garlic.

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Reason #55 tony

Last year I went to a party which, depending on what circles you move in and how much you give a shit, was a pretty big deal. I’d been having a shitty week/month/life/whatever and I was really looking forward to hanging out with my best mate at this party, dancing about like an idiot and having a great time. Except, he pulled out of coming a few hours before, leaving me no time to find someone else that wasn’t going to try and have sex with me, so I was forced to go by myself. MAJOR error.

After having a small mental breakdown at work about not being able to take anyone with me, I decided to fuck being stressed and head down to the pub straight from work for a colleague’s birthday. Two pints of cider down, I made my excuses and went home to get changed, skipping dinner, choosing instead to opt for a portion of anxiety over outfit choices. I was nervous about the party as I didn’t really know many people there incredibly well, but I figured that if I was the right amount of licked, I’d be able to socially lubricate myself enough to charm anyone and everyone and, ergo, the party would be GREAT.

The problem with being the ‘right amount of licked’ is that, as we all know by now, it’s a very short space in the sober-drunk spectrum. It doesn’t take that much to bypass it completely and land yourself in obliteration, which is exactly where I headed on a super-fast Vomit Comet. It probably didn’t help that I drank two cans of Strongbow on the way there and two cans in the queue, which altogether would have been about two hours. It also probably didn’t help that there was a £10 minimum spend on card, so I bought myself two drinks as soon as I got in there. I mean, probably, this is all just speculative hindsight. Basically, within the first half an hour of being inside this party, at this point having drank six ciders, one pint of beer and a vodka, with no dinner, I was a goner.

What happened that night goes from blurry mess to total blackout quite soon after that point, but I remember a lot of chatting shit, chewing people’s ears off, drinking large quantities of free vodka and trying to walk home – you know, the usual stuff. When I woke up the next day, alone, in my knickers, head pounding, I rubbed my eyes and felt confused about the night before, yet happy there was no one in my bed. After a few hours of rolling around, groaning about my hangover, I decided to get up and speak to my housemate.

“Did you bring someone back last night?” she asked. “No,” I said, with a confused expression, “why?”. “Oh, just because, you know, I saw someone leaving your room at 5 o’clock this morning… He was wearing a red beanie hat?”. Then it clicked. As I’d walked out of my bedroom, I’d seen a Just-Eat takeaway bag from the weekend before, laid out with a phone number and ‘Tony” written in mascara, but because I was still so drunk, hadn’t really paid any attention to it. Not really grasping the gravity of the situation, I asked, ”who the fuck is Tony? Who does he think he is, using my mascara? Does he know how much mascara costs?”. “Do you think you had sex?” I screwed my face up and shrugged. “Dunno,” I said, “doesn’t feel like it”.

I later found out that at the party, I’d made a really hideous pass this guy I know (it worked but I still cringe about it to this day) and then insisted I was capable of walking home by myself, whilst I zig zagged down the street. He hailed a taxi, gave me some money, piled me into the vehicle and sent me on my merry way back to my house.

This, you’d think, would be a surefire way of making sure I got home okay. Except somehow, between getting out of a taxi at my house and getting into my house, I’ve picked up a total stranger and let him into my bedroom. Where Tony came from, where Tony went and whether I slept with him is still, to this very day, a total mystery. I found the underwear I’d gone out in on the floor later on, but no evidence that I’d slept with this guy. I tried to find out who he was by texting him but he never replied. I tried putting his number into Facebook and Google, but nothing came back. To be honest, admitting I had no recollection of him in the first text I sent was probably me asking for him not to reply.

If we’re looking for silver linings here, then I didn’t wake up in a shop doorway or die. But at the time, I wasn’t even phased by the fact that a) I couldn’t identify who this person was, b) I couldn’t say for definite that I didn’t have sex with him, I certainly wasn’t in any state to but that doesn’t stop people and c) that he could have been a crazy criminal and robbed/hurt me and I’d have had no idea who he was.

So this is partly warning to you all and partly plea for Tony to come forward and confirm what I have been telling people for the last nine months – that he was just a nice guy who helped me get home. It doesn’t explain why he was in my bedroom at 5AM, but when I don’t know if I came straight home, there could be loads of explanations for that, right? Surely…? Yeah? Yeah. Good. Glad we all agree. Until next time…

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Reason #54: getting psycho

I have a personal belief that everyone is a little bit crazy, it’s just how well you hide it. You can be trooping on through life, doing a really great job of fooling everybody, maybe including yourself, that you are fine, but when it comes to getting a few drinks down you, the walls come crashing down, the tears come flooding out and the emotions are ready to be bared like a flasher down a dark alleyway.

It can start with one innocent comment, one uncomfortable situation, one shot too many, but once that ball starts rolling, everything stars spiralling out of control – your mouth, your mind, your mobility, and probably other things beginning with ‘m’ that I can’t think of right now. Half the time it seems that whatever was bothering you before you started drinking isn’t actually the thing you end up being bothered about once you’re drunk. However, an outlet is an outlet, and whether you’ve got some crazy ass crying to do or you just need to behave like an out and out nutcase, it’s just something you need to get out of your system.

I’m all too familiar with it all, and as much as its always fucking shameful, I know I’m not alone. From the attempting to drag some boy off who is really not interested in going anywhere with you, to *slyly* trying to convince a girl not to go home because she’s leaving with someone you like, or getting all HAM with a stranger who happened to make a comment that hasn’t sat right with you, to sitting on the toilet with the door open and inviting everyone in the loos to “have a look at yer fanny” – plus everything in between – it’s all pretty distasteful (and almost as bad as the one you’re going to wake up with in your mouth in the morning).

If you wake up this Bank Holiday weekend having let out your inner bat (shit mental), don’t worry, because the rest of us are going to be right there with you, head in hands, dignity AWOL and sick nicely tickling our tonsils. Doesn’t that sound GREAT?

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