This is definately not one of my proudest moments. Actually, fuck that, it was an adventure and it's a fucking good story, so I guess I am kind of proud. It's not a story I'll tell my grandkids sober, but anyway. I am also acutely aware that the fact I am so willing to share these things that happen to me so readily is probably one of the major reasons I still find myself single. However, I can't really not put this story up on the blog when I quite happily made a facebook status about it the other day.
No doubt anyone that happened to be in the bar for the full duration of Wednesday night will attest to what a night of utter carnage it was. (Drinking and otherwise.) Obviously, staggering back to Kev's, I was well away. I remember crawling into my sleeping bag and passing out.
Next thing I know, I'm stood in my boxers and t-shirt in a pitch black room, with no idea where the fuck I am or how the fuck I got there. All I know is that there may or may not be someone in here with me, I'm adamant someone put me in here, and I really, really need to pee. I reckon I was in this room for about an hour frantically searching for a way out, to no avail. At this point my bladder is beyond bursting point, and so I start to try and work out what the fuck I'm going to do. Drunk logic decides that my best course of action is to try and catch my piss and put it.....somewhere, back maybe? Fuck knows. But in a stroke of genius my rational brain pipes up: 'You can't catch a stream of piss you fucking moron!'
'But if you do it in short controlled bursts, then the world's your fucking oyster!'
'How is this not the best idea ever?'
I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say, I then proceed to piss all over my hand in a vain attempt to not urinate all over the floor of what I was still fairly convinced was a dungeon. Fade to black. Next thing I know, I walk directly to the door which I somehow now magically know is there, open the fucker and stride out into Kev's downstairs corridor. I breath a sigh of relief as my prison is revealed to be nothing more sinister than Kev's utility room. I go to bed.
I wake up in the afternoon with only a t-shirt on and a vague memory of being trapped somewhere the night before. As it all slowly comes back to me I rush into the utility room to try and clean up the mess, only to find that drunk me had been kind enough to deal with the problem the night before. By mopping it up with my boxers and socks.
Joy.
Obviously I own up to Kev, and as we disect what must have happened, we realise that if I had actually been staggering around the room, I would have knocked over a load of shit, as the room is full of ironing boards and baskets. So we have come to the conclusion that after staggering into the room and walking to the far back corner, I then stood there for an hour, imagining that I was wandering around the room banging on the walls, before pissing all over my hand and staggering back to bed.
I imagine you all now have one burning question:
Is this walking advert for teetotality single?
As I stated at the beginning of this post, yes I am. Ladies, form an orderly queue. Blokes, I don't swing that way, apologies.
Saturday, 1 December 2012
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: And you thought my chat up lines were bad.
Apologies for the lack of updates on here, I've had shit going on and struggled to find the motivation to write anything.
(I apologise to anyone that was with me when this particular story happened, as I think I may get some of the details of who was were at what time wrong, but hey ho, it's my blog fuck you.)
I was on a night out in St Andrews, it might actually have been the same one where I threatened to cut that bitch. After kicking out time, Laurence and I decided to hit up Dervish for reasons I cannot remember. (Corfu is my mother fucking jam yo.)
I was stood in what was meant to be a queue but was much more like a scrum when I looked to my right and recognised the bouncer from The Vic. I can't remember the exact conversation we had, but I'm going to assume it was all about the 'cut you bitch' thing, and then we stared at some chicks tits for a while, and then I got served and went outside. Laurence and I waited outside as we had bumped into Miles at some point.
As we sat there a bloke staggered up to us, and in an Australian accent asked 'Hey mates, can I sit with guys for a while? My brother's gone off to do drugs, and I'm not really into that sort of thing.' 'No worries bud, pull up some kerb.' So we shot the shit with this guy for a while. He told us his name, which escapes me, and that he was visiting his brother who was a student at the uni. He also told us he'd broken his driving license the night before, because he had it in his hand when he was climbing a wall which he subsequently fell off. He seemed nice enough. Then, mid sentence, his head snaps up and he focuses intently on two young ladies stood waiting for a taxi across the street. 'Excuse me mates, I'll be right back.' He then strides purposefully across the road, looks them both in the eye and says ridicuously loudly (and you know that mother fucker was loud when I have an issue with his volume.) 'So, which one of you two cunts is going to suck my dick?' We were expecting him to come back, if at all, with a stilletto stuck in his eye, but the lassies were bizarrely polite. 'We're alright, thanks.' and walked off. He walks back over to us and with a dejected sigh says 'Bugger, that normally works.'
For the next half hour he spends his time talking to us whilst intermittently shouting at random passing women. 'Hey Whore! Want to suck my dick!?' 'Hey Bitch! Wanna suck me off!?' etc. At one point he leaves us to speak to a lassie across the street, and walks off round the corner with her. Laurence Miles and I sat there in stunned disbelief, assuming the line had actually worked.
We were wrong. He returned moments later and in reply to our queries of what had happened somberly replied 'Stupid bitch didn't want to suck my dick.'
Eventually Laurence and I grew tired, and headed for a taxi. As we said goodbye to our Ozzie hero, he looked up the street, to where an ambiguous silhouette was making it's way away from us. 'Hey mates, do you reckon that's a man or a woman?' 'No idea bud.' 'Well, there's only one way to find out,' he said over his shoulder as he ran off after his target, 'HEY WHORE! WANNA SUCK MY DICK!?'
(I apologise to anyone that was with me when this particular story happened, as I think I may get some of the details of who was were at what time wrong, but hey ho, it's my blog fuck you.)
I was on a night out in St Andrews, it might actually have been the same one where I threatened to cut that bitch. After kicking out time, Laurence and I decided to hit up Dervish for reasons I cannot remember. (Corfu is my mother fucking jam yo.)
I was stood in what was meant to be a queue but was much more like a scrum when I looked to my right and recognised the bouncer from The Vic. I can't remember the exact conversation we had, but I'm going to assume it was all about the 'cut you bitch' thing, and then we stared at some chicks tits for a while, and then I got served and went outside. Laurence and I waited outside as we had bumped into Miles at some point.
As we sat there a bloke staggered up to us, and in an Australian accent asked 'Hey mates, can I sit with guys for a while? My brother's gone off to do drugs, and I'm not really into that sort of thing.' 'No worries bud, pull up some kerb.' So we shot the shit with this guy for a while. He told us his name, which escapes me, and that he was visiting his brother who was a student at the uni. He also told us he'd broken his driving license the night before, because he had it in his hand when he was climbing a wall which he subsequently fell off. He seemed nice enough. Then, mid sentence, his head snaps up and he focuses intently on two young ladies stood waiting for a taxi across the street. 'Excuse me mates, I'll be right back.' He then strides purposefully across the road, looks them both in the eye and says ridicuously loudly (and you know that mother fucker was loud when I have an issue with his volume.) 'So, which one of you two cunts is going to suck my dick?' We were expecting him to come back, if at all, with a stilletto stuck in his eye, but the lassies were bizarrely polite. 'We're alright, thanks.' and walked off. He walks back over to us and with a dejected sigh says 'Bugger, that normally works.'
For the next half hour he spends his time talking to us whilst intermittently shouting at random passing women. 'Hey Whore! Want to suck my dick!?' 'Hey Bitch! Wanna suck me off!?' etc. At one point he leaves us to speak to a lassie across the street, and walks off round the corner with her. Laurence Miles and I sat there in stunned disbelief, assuming the line had actually worked.
We were wrong. He returned moments later and in reply to our queries of what had happened somberly replied 'Stupid bitch didn't want to suck my dick.'
Eventually Laurence and I grew tired, and headed for a taxi. As we said goodbye to our Ozzie hero, he looked up the street, to where an ambiguous silhouette was making it's way away from us. 'Hey mates, do you reckon that's a man or a woman?' 'No idea bud.' 'Well, there's only one way to find out,' he said over his shoulder as he ran off after his target, 'HEY WHORE! WANNA SUCK MY DICK!?'
Saturday, 3 November 2012
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: This One Time, On Main Board....
In May I went down to the Army Officer Selection Board in Westbury. In Westbury there is a bar called The Angel. If you ever find yourself in Westbury, I insist you at least stick your head in, as I've yet to find another bar with such......character. After being told by the staff 'not' to go along for ourselves, I convinced the rest of my syndicate to go to this pub and have a cheeky pint to settle our nerves before the next days events. Suited and booted, we head out to the bar. As we get to The Angel I stop to answer my phone, so the guys go in without me. I finish the phone call and walk into the pub. Imagine the cantina from Star Wars, but with less teeth and more farmers. As I step through the door what I can only describe as a tramp grabs my shoulder and says 'You sure you're in the right pub son?' 'From what I can tell I would refer to this as a 'tramp hole', but if you want to call it a pub, yes, I am in the right one.' (I furtively look around for someone from my syndicate, and spot one at the bar) 'Yes, I am in the right pub.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes.' 'Ok then. Give my regards to your mum.' 'Sure.' I then buy my pint and follow the rest of the guys out into the 'Beer Garden'.
It was an alley. With three benches in it, a car, and a staircase up to someone's flat. Also full of farmers/tramps. So we start chatting about topics for the discussion we had to do the next day, and try to ignore the dirty looks we're getting and the one woman crying loudly in the corner. Until she gets up, screams 'Fuck you all, I'm going to kill myself!' and then staggers into what I assume was the toilet, but didn't dare go anywhere near in case I caught syphillis. At this point I'm having a great time, I love pubs like this. The rest of the guys, however, are starting to look quite uncomfortable.
A bloke with two teeth comes over and asks us if we're in town for AOSB. The rest of the guys give him one word answers and then pointedly start the conversation again. 'Fuck it, why not speak to this guy?' I think to myself and start speaking to him. Turns out he'd been in the Army for twenty years or so, blah blah blah, nice guy. The conversation is going well until a face leers up over his shoulder. My immediate reaction of 'FUCK FUCK FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT OH FUCK KILL IT WITH FIRE' slowly turned into 'Wank, I think it wants to talk to me' when she (turns out it was the crying woman from earlier) slurs 'Hi Steve, who's your friend?'. He introduces me, and then winks and promptly fucks off. 'YOU MOTHER FUCKER STEVE! I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE LIKE THIS! SOLID C YOU CUNT!' I mentally scream after him as my syndicate mate's looks of polite disdain turn into abject horror. I put a brave face on and continue the conversation. We work through the usual rigmarole of 'So you're in the Army?' 'Not quite etc etc' which, from the look of utter incomprehension on her face, went completely over her head. She then asks 'Do you want to see my tattoo?' At this point I can almost hear my syndicate chums silently screaming 'NOOOOOOO!' whereas I think 'Fuck it, in for penny, in for a pound.' 'Yeah, sure.' She begins to lift up her top, and as I realise this is how I die, she thankfully stops before it exposes more than her stomach. (Now the story gets a bit sad, and I want you all to understand that I genuinely feel sorry for this poor woman and what she went through. I'm not writing this to laugh at her, I'm writing this to laugh at the situation in general, me sat there in some grotty pub in a suit, her there, steaming drunk with her belly out.) 'It's a tattoo of my baby Jason's foot. I got it done after he died. It used to look really good but then I got fat and now it's all fucked up.' '.........right. You lose this conversation Thomas. What the fuck do you say to that?' 'No, it still looks really good. I'm sorry to hear about your baby, that's such a shame.' (At this point my syndicate have disappeared over the horizon.) 'Yeah, so I'm doing a charity photography exhibit with a photographer friend of mine who also lost her baby to raise money for cot death research.' 'Oh, that's really noble of you, whereabouts are you having it?' 'Australia.' '.....see if she didn't have the tattoo, this is where I would shout BULLSHIT! and run away.' 'Oh right, why there?' 'It's the only place that would put it on.' 'Fair cop. What kind of photography is it?' 'It's lots of abstract stuff to represent the pain we felt. My favourite one is when she clingfilmed me to a tree and then I pulled all these faces like I was in pain.' 'What. The. Fuck. Am I being Punk'd? Please let me be being Punk'd. This is nearly as bad as the time my cousin gave my phone number to a waitress and she told me she'd been raped. (I've only just remembered this story, I'll write it up at some point.)'
Just before my mind can full comprehend what the fuck is happening to me and the fact that I am now on my own with a woman who's looking at me with a look I can only describe as 'predatory' Staff Sergeant Keates appears out of nowhere, points at my socks and shouts 'Are you still wearing those fucking stupid socks Number 56? Get the fuck out of my pub!' 'HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH etc etc' Baby Foot Woman starts to speak 'Piss off love, stop hassling my cadets.' He winks, I make my way inside and towards the door. My Mum's long lost lover grabs me by the arm again. 'Leaving so soon?' 'Yes.' 'Well, send my love to your mum. She'll remember me.' 'That's just great. Are you my real dad?' 'Will do.'
I stagger out into the sunlight and feel freedom of a sort I imagine Mandela felt when he was finally released from prison.
So, if you ever find yourself in the town of Westbury, I implore you: Go to The Angel. You might die, but you'll have one hell of a story to tell when you reach the afterlife.
It was an alley. With three benches in it, a car, and a staircase up to someone's flat. Also full of farmers/tramps. So we start chatting about topics for the discussion we had to do the next day, and try to ignore the dirty looks we're getting and the one woman crying loudly in the corner. Until she gets up, screams 'Fuck you all, I'm going to kill myself!' and then staggers into what I assume was the toilet, but didn't dare go anywhere near in case I caught syphillis. At this point I'm having a great time, I love pubs like this. The rest of the guys, however, are starting to look quite uncomfortable.
A bloke with two teeth comes over and asks us if we're in town for AOSB. The rest of the guys give him one word answers and then pointedly start the conversation again. 'Fuck it, why not speak to this guy?' I think to myself and start speaking to him. Turns out he'd been in the Army for twenty years or so, blah blah blah, nice guy. The conversation is going well until a face leers up over his shoulder. My immediate reaction of 'FUCK FUCK FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT OH FUCK KILL IT WITH FIRE' slowly turned into 'Wank, I think it wants to talk to me' when she (turns out it was the crying woman from earlier) slurs 'Hi Steve, who's your friend?'. He introduces me, and then winks and promptly fucks off. 'YOU MOTHER FUCKER STEVE! I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE LIKE THIS! SOLID C YOU CUNT!' I mentally scream after him as my syndicate mate's looks of polite disdain turn into abject horror. I put a brave face on and continue the conversation. We work through the usual rigmarole of 'So you're in the Army?' 'Not quite etc etc' which, from the look of utter incomprehension on her face, went completely over her head. She then asks 'Do you want to see my tattoo?' At this point I can almost hear my syndicate chums silently screaming 'NOOOOOOO!' whereas I think 'Fuck it, in for penny, in for a pound.' 'Yeah, sure.' She begins to lift up her top, and as I realise this is how I die, she thankfully stops before it exposes more than her stomach. (Now the story gets a bit sad, and I want you all to understand that I genuinely feel sorry for this poor woman and what she went through. I'm not writing this to laugh at her, I'm writing this to laugh at the situation in general, me sat there in some grotty pub in a suit, her there, steaming drunk with her belly out.) 'It's a tattoo of my baby Jason's foot. I got it done after he died. It used to look really good but then I got fat and now it's all fucked up.' '.........right. You lose this conversation Thomas. What the fuck do you say to that?' 'No, it still looks really good. I'm sorry to hear about your baby, that's such a shame.' (At this point my syndicate have disappeared over the horizon.) 'Yeah, so I'm doing a charity photography exhibit with a photographer friend of mine who also lost her baby to raise money for cot death research.' 'Oh, that's really noble of you, whereabouts are you having it?' 'Australia.' '.....see if she didn't have the tattoo, this is where I would shout BULLSHIT! and run away.' 'Oh right, why there?' 'It's the only place that would put it on.' 'Fair cop. What kind of photography is it?' 'It's lots of abstract stuff to represent the pain we felt. My favourite one is when she clingfilmed me to a tree and then I pulled all these faces like I was in pain.' 'What. The. Fuck. Am I being Punk'd? Please let me be being Punk'd. This is nearly as bad as the time my cousin gave my phone number to a waitress and she told me she'd been raped. (I've only just remembered this story, I'll write it up at some point.)'
Just before my mind can full comprehend what the fuck is happening to me and the fact that I am now on my own with a woman who's looking at me with a look I can only describe as 'predatory' Staff Sergeant Keates appears out of nowhere, points at my socks and shouts 'Are you still wearing those fucking stupid socks Number 56? Get the fuck out of my pub!' 'HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH etc etc' Baby Foot Woman starts to speak 'Piss off love, stop hassling my cadets.' He winks, I make my way inside and towards the door. My Mum's long lost lover grabs me by the arm again. 'Leaving so soon?' 'Yes.' 'Well, send my love to your mum. She'll remember me.' 'That's just great. Are you my real dad?' 'Will do.'
I stagger out into the sunlight and feel freedom of a sort I imagine Mandela felt when he was finally released from prison.
So, if you ever find yourself in the town of Westbury, I implore you: Go to The Angel. You might die, but you'll have one hell of a story to tell when you reach the afterlife.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: YOU DON'T CUT IN LINE!
Let's get this out there first and foremost: I don't like most St Andrews students. Obviously I get on with the ones I actively socialise with, but for the most part the others are insufferable cunts. If you live in St Andrews, you know the type, 'Rar rar rar, Daddy owns a yacht.' Self entitlement dripping out their Jack Wills wearing arseholes. Anyway, this is one encounter I had with some wankhole fresher on a night out. (If you're a St Andrews student and reading this, I assume that's because we get on, otherwise I wouldn't have given you the link. Therefore, sleep easy, I do not think you are a cunt. Currently.)
So Laurence and I are doing our usual St Andrews night out of crawling round a few pubs before hitting the Vic. When we finally get to the Vic, there is a queue to get in. 'No worries, we're all civilised people here, and understand how such a vital pillar of British society such as the queue functions.' I thought to myself. So we get pretty much to the front of the queue, with one guy stood in front of us when I hear someone behind me say, in one of those really grating American accents, (I like American accents, but you know that one one that just hurts to listen to? Yeah, that one.) 'Don't worry girls, I got this.' I am then unceremoniously pushed aside by some 'It' girl moron and her whore friends. 'You most certainly don't got this, bitch.' 'You do realise there's a queue here?' I say. A polite opening gambit, but with just enough malice that you'd know shit's going to go down if you don't get back in line. She doesn't even deign to respond, instead giving me one of those derisive laugh/look me up and down combos that people like that do.
Now, I would like to consider myself a pretty 'chill' individual. It takes quite a lot to rile me up, but there are one or two things that will piss me off almost instantly. One of those is when a mother fucker cuts in line. Unfortunately for this idiot fresher, the one thing that will sure fire fuck me off in a second flat, especially when drunk, is that little fucking snort laugh 'who the fuck do you think you are talking to me?' look that girls do when they think they're better than you. So the red mist comes down, and this bitch is about to have a very bad night. This scene from Super (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APfYfZm5f6Q) plays out in my head and I start to regret the fact I don't own a wrench.
'Hey bitch, get the fuck back in line or i'll fucking cut you!' 'Wow, really? That's a bit harsh, no?' She gives me another snort laugh look thing. 'Woah woah woah, back the fuck up. Twice? The snort laugh thing. Twice!? If I was the kind of mentally unstable person that carries a knife around with them, shit would be going south at a rate of knots right about now.' 'Hey, I'm fucking talking to you! You think you're one of those, 'ooo, i'm so pretty, I can get what ever I want just by flashing my eyelids' girls, aren't you? Well you wouldn't be so pretty if I cut your fucking face!' .'Classy, real classy there Thomas. Nice one.' 'Actually, the bouncer's my boyfriend.' 'Ooo, I'm so scared. Except for the fact I've known that bouncer for three years you stupid cow! HAHAHAHA, trump card, bitch! You can't call my bluff in St Andrews, this is my home turf you dumb mother fucker! And also, like fuck someone like you would let yourself be seen dead with a fat fuck like him' (Don't get me wrong, I love that guy, but he is pretty large.) 'Is he fuck your boyfriend.' 'Yeah, he totally is.' 'Well, if he's your boyfriend, kiss him.' 'Errrm.....' 'If he's your fucking boyfriend, kiss him.' 'You're an asshole. I didn't want to get into this club anyway.' and with that she walks off. 'That'll teach you to cut in line! FUCK YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!'
'Wow dude, that was a bit harsh, don't you think.' pipes up some old bloke stood next to me in the queue. 'Nope, most of these pricks think they own the place anyway, you let them away with something like cutting in line and the next thing you know these mother fuckers will be hunting you for sport. Got to teach them their place.' My gaze falls upon the guy stood in front of me in the queue, who is now cowering slightly. 'You're a student, aren't you?' 'Yes,' says his mouth 'Please don't fucking kill me' says his eyes. I lean down so we're eye to eye. 'But you know your fucking place. See, you guys own this town. That's a fact, this town literally loses 75% of it's business when you twats aren't kicking around. But you try bringing that 'we own the town' bullshit into our pubs, we'll have a falling out. Try bring that 'I'm so important, I own this town' attitude into somewhere like the Keys. You'll go home in a body bag, mark my words.' I look down to check my phone or some shit, 'So anyway, what's your name?' I look back up and the nameless student is running for his life down the street. Oops.
So, surprise surprise, we don't get let in to the Vic. They said it's because it was full, but I reckon the fact I'd threatened to stab someone in the queue probably had something to do with it.
The End.
I realise this was a bit of a diatribe, but I really, really don't like St Andrews students. (That's a sweeping generalisation, I don't like the 'yas', it's just easier to say St Andrews students, because that's their stereotype.)
But on the brightside, at least now you know not to get me started about living in St Andrews.
So Laurence and I are doing our usual St Andrews night out of crawling round a few pubs before hitting the Vic. When we finally get to the Vic, there is a queue to get in. 'No worries, we're all civilised people here, and understand how such a vital pillar of British society such as the queue functions.' I thought to myself. So we get pretty much to the front of the queue, with one guy stood in front of us when I hear someone behind me say, in one of those really grating American accents, (I like American accents, but you know that one one that just hurts to listen to? Yeah, that one.) 'Don't worry girls, I got this.' I am then unceremoniously pushed aside by some 'It' girl moron and her whore friends. 'You most certainly don't got this, bitch.' 'You do realise there's a queue here?' I say. A polite opening gambit, but with just enough malice that you'd know shit's going to go down if you don't get back in line. She doesn't even deign to respond, instead giving me one of those derisive laugh/look me up and down combos that people like that do.
Now, I would like to consider myself a pretty 'chill' individual. It takes quite a lot to rile me up, but there are one or two things that will piss me off almost instantly. One of those is when a mother fucker cuts in line. Unfortunately for this idiot fresher, the one thing that will sure fire fuck me off in a second flat, especially when drunk, is that little fucking snort laugh 'who the fuck do you think you are talking to me?' look that girls do when they think they're better than you. So the red mist comes down, and this bitch is about to have a very bad night. This scene from Super (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APfYfZm5f6Q) plays out in my head and I start to regret the fact I don't own a wrench.
'Hey bitch, get the fuck back in line or i'll fucking cut you!' 'Wow, really? That's a bit harsh, no?' She gives me another snort laugh look thing. 'Woah woah woah, back the fuck up. Twice? The snort laugh thing. Twice!? If I was the kind of mentally unstable person that carries a knife around with them, shit would be going south at a rate of knots right about now.' 'Hey, I'm fucking talking to you! You think you're one of those, 'ooo, i'm so pretty, I can get what ever I want just by flashing my eyelids' girls, aren't you? Well you wouldn't be so pretty if I cut your fucking face!' .'Classy, real classy there Thomas. Nice one.' 'Actually, the bouncer's my boyfriend.' 'Ooo, I'm so scared. Except for the fact I've known that bouncer for three years you stupid cow! HAHAHAHA, trump card, bitch! You can't call my bluff in St Andrews, this is my home turf you dumb mother fucker! And also, like fuck someone like you would let yourself be seen dead with a fat fuck like him' (Don't get me wrong, I love that guy, but he is pretty large.) 'Is he fuck your boyfriend.' 'Yeah, he totally is.' 'Well, if he's your boyfriend, kiss him.' 'Errrm.....' 'If he's your fucking boyfriend, kiss him.' 'You're an asshole. I didn't want to get into this club anyway.' and with that she walks off. 'That'll teach you to cut in line! FUCK YOU! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!'
'Wow dude, that was a bit harsh, don't you think.' pipes up some old bloke stood next to me in the queue. 'Nope, most of these pricks think they own the place anyway, you let them away with something like cutting in line and the next thing you know these mother fuckers will be hunting you for sport. Got to teach them their place.' My gaze falls upon the guy stood in front of me in the queue, who is now cowering slightly. 'You're a student, aren't you?' 'Yes,' says his mouth 'Please don't fucking kill me' says his eyes. I lean down so we're eye to eye. 'But you know your fucking place. See, you guys own this town. That's a fact, this town literally loses 75% of it's business when you twats aren't kicking around. But you try bringing that 'we own the town' bullshit into our pubs, we'll have a falling out. Try bring that 'I'm so important, I own this town' attitude into somewhere like the Keys. You'll go home in a body bag, mark my words.' I look down to check my phone or some shit, 'So anyway, what's your name?' I look back up and the nameless student is running for his life down the street. Oops.
So, surprise surprise, we don't get let in to the Vic. They said it's because it was full, but I reckon the fact I'd threatened to stab someone in the queue probably had something to do with it.
The End.
I realise this was a bit of a diatribe, but I really, really don't like St Andrews students. (That's a sweeping generalisation, I don't like the 'yas', it's just easier to say St Andrews students, because that's their stereotype.)
But on the brightside, at least now you know not to get me started about living in St Andrews.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: Why my antics New Year 2012 didn't really surprise me.
As I aluded to in my post about last New Year, I have a history of shenanigans on New Year.
During first year, I was invited by a mate to a flat party at Opal to celebrate New Year's. He knew the host pretty well, but I'd never met them before. We pre'd at my mates for a bit, and then suitably pissed up, we headed to the party. As usual, the lift was broken in the block the party was in, but the lift in the adjacent block was working, so we took that to the floor below the one we needed and then walked through two flats to get into the block we wanted. On the way through the second flat I looked into the kitchen and saw a shiny, new, unopened box of Cornflakes, which I decided it would be hilarious if I took to the party with me.
We arrive, and are immediately told that no one is to touch the christmas tree in the corner of the lounge, as it's the property of the one flat mate who isn't there and he expressly warned them not to touch it. We all swear blind we won't touch it, and start playing drinking games.
The Cornflakes are a good ice breaker, although eventually we decide it's more entertaining to fuck with it than it is to talk about it. The box got one of it's sides ripped off, set on fire at least twice and sprayed by a fire extinguisher once. I then emptied the whole pack into the hosts fridge.
At some point I also found a camera, and thought it would be funny to take a load of stupid photos on it. This is when I broke the oath I made early and started running around pretending the christmas tree was a cock, until it broke and we were all too drunk to fix it. Oops. So I took lots and lots of photos, which I may or may not be tagged in. I then go to give it back to my friend, who's camera I thought it was. Turns out it wasn't his, it was actually the hosts. Who I'd never met before. Oops again. ('Oh no, you took some pictures of you and your mates in stupid poses, big deal.' you say. 'If you ever saw some of the photos I took, I think you'd understand why it was an issue.' says me.)
The night starts to tail off at this point, and when one of the lassies starts to spew her hoop in the toilet and all her friends are required to hold her hair, my mate and I find ourselves left alone in the kitchen. I find myself desperate to pee, but obviously the one toilet is in use. My mate convinces me that it's perfectly acceptable to pee in the sink. I run the hot tap for a minute, pee while it's still running, and then empty a bottle of bleach down the sink. In hindsight, that was a horrible thing to do, and this is one of the few times I've ever admitted I actually did this. At the time however, it seemed like the logical thing to do.
It then goes black for a bit, and the next thing I remember is sitting in the lounge trying to watch Celebrity Juice while two people make out in front of me, and me shouting at them to fuck off.
It then goes black again until we are leaving. My friend and I leave the way we came in, so obviously, we replace the now thoroughly fucked with Cornflakes box back where we got it. I just wish I'd been able to see that poor person's face when they came through into the kitchen the next morning to open their brand new Cornflakes and found a charred, empty box where they'd left it.
The End.
So yeah, New Year's and I aren't really on speaking terms. Will that stop me no doubt getting up to shenanigans this year? Will it fuck.
During first year, I was invited by a mate to a flat party at Opal to celebrate New Year's. He knew the host pretty well, but I'd never met them before. We pre'd at my mates for a bit, and then suitably pissed up, we headed to the party. As usual, the lift was broken in the block the party was in, but the lift in the adjacent block was working, so we took that to the floor below the one we needed and then walked through two flats to get into the block we wanted. On the way through the second flat I looked into the kitchen and saw a shiny, new, unopened box of Cornflakes, which I decided it would be hilarious if I took to the party with me.
We arrive, and are immediately told that no one is to touch the christmas tree in the corner of the lounge, as it's the property of the one flat mate who isn't there and he expressly warned them not to touch it. We all swear blind we won't touch it, and start playing drinking games.
The Cornflakes are a good ice breaker, although eventually we decide it's more entertaining to fuck with it than it is to talk about it. The box got one of it's sides ripped off, set on fire at least twice and sprayed by a fire extinguisher once. I then emptied the whole pack into the hosts fridge.
At some point I also found a camera, and thought it would be funny to take a load of stupid photos on it. This is when I broke the oath I made early and started running around pretending the christmas tree was a cock, until it broke and we were all too drunk to fix it. Oops. So I took lots and lots of photos, which I may or may not be tagged in. I then go to give it back to my friend, who's camera I thought it was. Turns out it wasn't his, it was actually the hosts. Who I'd never met before. Oops again. ('Oh no, you took some pictures of you and your mates in stupid poses, big deal.' you say. 'If you ever saw some of the photos I took, I think you'd understand why it was an issue.' says me.)
The night starts to tail off at this point, and when one of the lassies starts to spew her hoop in the toilet and all her friends are required to hold her hair, my mate and I find ourselves left alone in the kitchen. I find myself desperate to pee, but obviously the one toilet is in use. My mate convinces me that it's perfectly acceptable to pee in the sink. I run the hot tap for a minute, pee while it's still running, and then empty a bottle of bleach down the sink. In hindsight, that was a horrible thing to do, and this is one of the few times I've ever admitted I actually did this. At the time however, it seemed like the logical thing to do.
It then goes black for a bit, and the next thing I remember is sitting in the lounge trying to watch Celebrity Juice while two people make out in front of me, and me shouting at them to fuck off.
It then goes black again until we are leaving. My friend and I leave the way we came in, so obviously, we replace the now thoroughly fucked with Cornflakes box back where we got it. I just wish I'd been able to see that poor person's face when they came through into the kitchen the next morning to open their brand new Cornflakes and found a charred, empty box where they'd left it.
The End.
So yeah, New Year's and I aren't really on speaking terms. Will that stop me no doubt getting up to shenanigans this year? Will it fuck.
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!
Last October I went to America with my family. We spent a week in Orlando, doing all the usual shit, like going to Hooters, and then travelled up to Virginia, where we used to live.
While we were there, we had dinner with a couple of my Dad's pilot friends he used to fly with when we lived over there. The dinner was good, in a really nice beach front hotel. After the dinner, Dad and his friends announced they were going to hang around for a few drinks, and I said I'd pass and let them catch up. 'No fucking way man, we're going to get you fucked up!' says Puck. Words cannot even begin to describe how incredible this guy was. The line I've used a lot is 'If you put a Bald Eagle through a juicer, Puck would be what was left.' The guy is a force of nature.
So we wander out onto the beach front bar, which was pimp as shit, all couches around driftwood fires. All the booths are taken, except for one which only has a young couple sat in it. Dad and I turn to go back inside as Puck says 'Fuck those guys, let's see how quickly they leave once we spark up some cigars' and then whips out a makeup box full of fat cigars. Lights one up on his blowtorch of a lighter and kicks back. We all grab one and order some drinks from a lovely waitress who's name escapes me. The talk turns to fighter jets and I chip in when I can. The couple leave sharpish after the wind turns and they end up in a cloud of cigar fog and swearing. We chat for a wee while longer until this older woman comes over and asks if anyone has a light. Puck gives her his lighter and then invites her to join us. She introduces herself as Vicky, from New Jersey. We talk some more until she finishes her fag and leaves. After she's gone back inside Puck turns to me, looks me dead in the eye and says 'You're going to fuck Vicky tonight.' 'I'll be alright bud, she's not really my type.' 'Ok. You ever been raped? I saw the way she looked at you, she wants you bad.' 'I think I'll live.' 'But think about the advantages. She's from Jersey, she's obviously got Mafia connections. Shag her, and then ten years down the line you could be in New York getting chucked out a club and be all 'Guys, I fucked Vicky' and then they let you back in and buy you drinks all night.' 'You make a convincing argument, but I think I'll pass.' 'Suit yourself, but I tell you now, it's going to happen.' For the rest of the night, every time the waitress comes out to refill our drinks he asks her to send one to Vicky and tell her it was from me. I then have to have a fight with him each time to convince the waitress not to send the drink. We also keep asking the waitress to join us for a drink, but she refuses.
During a lull in the conversation, I ask Puck where he got all the cigars, as the box is a pretty impressive collection. 'All over the place man, but if you think this is impressive you ain't seen shit. I've got four more of these boxes in my car. Had to chuck out some road flares and whatever, but fuck road safety man. Got another ten boxes in my closet at home. I'm set for life.'
After a while we'd racked up quite an impressive array of empty glasses, and I notice that all of Dad's friends have made a point of placing them right in front of me. I ask them why, and they just wink and say 'We're looking out for you man, trust us.' Out comes the waitress who's name still escapes me. She goes to pick up the glasses, and because of where they're placed, has to rest her boobs on my shoulder every time she bends over to pick them up. Dirty bastards, but I appreciated the effort. The night gets a bit hazy after that, as I think we started doing Jaeger Bombs and whatever cocktail the waitress fancied bringing us out. I do remember however, that eventually we did convince the waitress to come and have a drink with us, although she was convinced the whole time that we were actually sent by the hotel to tempt her and were going to get her fired.
I wake up the next morning hungover as fuck, which is never fun at the best of times, least of all a family holiday. The smell of cigar smoke follows me around all day, causing me to need to run off to the toilet to spew every half hour or so. Eventually, as I sober up, I remember that the reason I keep smelling cigar smoke is due to the fact that I'd drunkenly put half a cigar in my jacket pocket at the end of the night. Like a twat.
The End.
(Personally, writing this down, I'm not happy that it comes across as well as if I was saying it in person. There's also bits and pieces I didn't want to include here. So, if you want to get the whole experience out of this post, please do ask me to tell you it next time I see you.)
While we were there, we had dinner with a couple of my Dad's pilot friends he used to fly with when we lived over there. The dinner was good, in a really nice beach front hotel. After the dinner, Dad and his friends announced they were going to hang around for a few drinks, and I said I'd pass and let them catch up. 'No fucking way man, we're going to get you fucked up!' says Puck. Words cannot even begin to describe how incredible this guy was. The line I've used a lot is 'If you put a Bald Eagle through a juicer, Puck would be what was left.' The guy is a force of nature.
So we wander out onto the beach front bar, which was pimp as shit, all couches around driftwood fires. All the booths are taken, except for one which only has a young couple sat in it. Dad and I turn to go back inside as Puck says 'Fuck those guys, let's see how quickly they leave once we spark up some cigars' and then whips out a makeup box full of fat cigars. Lights one up on his blowtorch of a lighter and kicks back. We all grab one and order some drinks from a lovely waitress who's name escapes me. The talk turns to fighter jets and I chip in when I can. The couple leave sharpish after the wind turns and they end up in a cloud of cigar fog and swearing. We chat for a wee while longer until this older woman comes over and asks if anyone has a light. Puck gives her his lighter and then invites her to join us. She introduces herself as Vicky, from New Jersey. We talk some more until she finishes her fag and leaves. After she's gone back inside Puck turns to me, looks me dead in the eye and says 'You're going to fuck Vicky tonight.' 'I'll be alright bud, she's not really my type.' 'Ok. You ever been raped? I saw the way she looked at you, she wants you bad.' 'I think I'll live.' 'But think about the advantages. She's from Jersey, she's obviously got Mafia connections. Shag her, and then ten years down the line you could be in New York getting chucked out a club and be all 'Guys, I fucked Vicky' and then they let you back in and buy you drinks all night.' 'You make a convincing argument, but I think I'll pass.' 'Suit yourself, but I tell you now, it's going to happen.' For the rest of the night, every time the waitress comes out to refill our drinks he asks her to send one to Vicky and tell her it was from me. I then have to have a fight with him each time to convince the waitress not to send the drink. We also keep asking the waitress to join us for a drink, but she refuses.
During a lull in the conversation, I ask Puck where he got all the cigars, as the box is a pretty impressive collection. 'All over the place man, but if you think this is impressive you ain't seen shit. I've got four more of these boxes in my car. Had to chuck out some road flares and whatever, but fuck road safety man. Got another ten boxes in my closet at home. I'm set for life.'
After a while we'd racked up quite an impressive array of empty glasses, and I notice that all of Dad's friends have made a point of placing them right in front of me. I ask them why, and they just wink and say 'We're looking out for you man, trust us.' Out comes the waitress who's name still escapes me. She goes to pick up the glasses, and because of where they're placed, has to rest her boobs on my shoulder every time she bends over to pick them up. Dirty bastards, but I appreciated the effort. The night gets a bit hazy after that, as I think we started doing Jaeger Bombs and whatever cocktail the waitress fancied bringing us out. I do remember however, that eventually we did convince the waitress to come and have a drink with us, although she was convinced the whole time that we were actually sent by the hotel to tempt her and were going to get her fired.
I wake up the next morning hungover as fuck, which is never fun at the best of times, least of all a family holiday. The smell of cigar smoke follows me around all day, causing me to need to run off to the toilet to spew every half hour or so. Eventually, as I sober up, I remember that the reason I keep smelling cigar smoke is due to the fact that I'd drunkenly put half a cigar in my jacket pocket at the end of the night. Like a twat.
The End.
(Personally, writing this down, I'm not happy that it comes across as well as if I was saying it in person. There's also bits and pieces I didn't want to include here. So, if you want to get the whole experience out of this post, please do ask me to tell you it next time I see you.)
Thursday, 18 October 2012
Shit You've Probably Heard Before: The night I spent in Amir's car.
I currently live at home, so on a Wednesday night out I crash at MY FRIEND'S house. Normally we walk home together, so I have no issue getting into the house and passing out. One night however, I tell MY FRIEND I'll be alright walking back on my own. (There's more to this night, now I remember, but that's a story for another time.) Anyway, MY FRIEND heads home, locks the door and goes to bed. I stagger back some time later, and am confused to find the door locked. I ring MY FRIEND but there is no reply.
At this point I'm hammered and tired, and just want to go to sleep. It had rained earlier in the night however, so in my drunken state I thought to myself 'I'll sleep here for a bit, but the floor's all wet.' 'But it won't be wet under the doormat!' 'Good shout self.' So I move the doormat and promptly pass out with my back to the door.
An hour later I wake up, shivering with the cold. I come to realise that I can't possibly spend the night like this, so after ringing the doorbell a few times, begin to brainstorm ideas for where I can sleep. Based on the fact that the day he moved in the year before he had left his car unlocked, my brain then assumes that MY FRIEND'S car might be open, so I can sleep in there. Obviously, it's locked. My eyes then alight on a friend of MY FRIEND'S car, which has been abandoned on his drive for ages, as it's no longer road worthy. I try the door and it opens, accompanied by a choir of angels. (That may have been me hallucinating from the cold, I can't be sure.) Anyway, I climb inside and pass out face down arse up on the backseat.
A few hours later I wake up feeling worse than ever, because all the blood has pooled in my head like a twat. I stagger back to MY FRIEND'S front door, hammer on it for a good fifteen minutes before leaving a voicemail that I'm sure he'll be happy to let you listen to next time you see him. Unable to get into the house, I stagger back to the car, and having learnt my lesson the first time, sit in the passenger seat this time. Whack that bad boy back as far as it will go and proceed to have one of the best night's sleep ever.
I wake up later on, needing to grab my work stuff from inside the house. I stagger up to the door, and by some twist of fate it's now open. I think a builder had unlocked it or some shit. Change into my work clothes, stagger off to work and then sit with my head in the fridge for three hours, refusing to talk to anyone.
Amir's car, you may have saved my life that night, and I will love you forever.
The End.
At this point I'm hammered and tired, and just want to go to sleep. It had rained earlier in the night however, so in my drunken state I thought to myself 'I'll sleep here for a bit, but the floor's all wet.' 'But it won't be wet under the doormat!' 'Good shout self.' So I move the doormat and promptly pass out with my back to the door.
An hour later I wake up, shivering with the cold. I come to realise that I can't possibly spend the night like this, so after ringing the doorbell a few times, begin to brainstorm ideas for where I can sleep. Based on the fact that the day he moved in the year before he had left his car unlocked, my brain then assumes that MY FRIEND'S car might be open, so I can sleep in there. Obviously, it's locked. My eyes then alight on a friend of MY FRIEND'S car, which has been abandoned on his drive for ages, as it's no longer road worthy. I try the door and it opens, accompanied by a choir of angels. (That may have been me hallucinating from the cold, I can't be sure.) Anyway, I climb inside and pass out face down arse up on the backseat.
A few hours later I wake up feeling worse than ever, because all the blood has pooled in my head like a twat. I stagger back to MY FRIEND'S front door, hammer on it for a good fifteen minutes before leaving a voicemail that I'm sure he'll be happy to let you listen to next time you see him. Unable to get into the house, I stagger back to the car, and having learnt my lesson the first time, sit in the passenger seat this time. Whack that bad boy back as far as it will go and proceed to have one of the best night's sleep ever.
I wake up later on, needing to grab my work stuff from inside the house. I stagger up to the door, and by some twist of fate it's now open. I think a builder had unlocked it or some shit. Change into my work clothes, stagger off to work and then sit with my head in the fridge for three hours, refusing to talk to anyone.
Amir's car, you may have saved my life that night, and I will love you forever.
The End.
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