What not to drink…

I’m reminded of the innumerable times I’ve heard the phrase ‘just say no’ muttered in jest, sincerity and a mixture of the two from varying sources when I [try to] recall the events of Tuesday night. I’m also reminded of how spectacularly I failed to do such an apparently simple task (so the diminutive clause would suggest, anyway) on said night, hence the events that I struggle to recall on Tuesday night. I wish, therefore, to put a qualifier with the phrase ’just say no’, and comment that one must ‘just say no when presented with a drink that costs more than £4 and from a mixture of taps and optics’.

 
All in all, both the idea and attempt by a large portion of the horde to drink the seven stars dry were exemplary. I think everyone had at least six drinks, some having many, many more (no names mentioned, mind) and so my hearty congratulations to everyone.

 

Personally, I thought my own inevitably messy end was sealed when I entrusted my drink choices to Alan and Mitch. Forgetting momentarily that they had avowed earlier in the night to get me, in my own words, rollock-titted, and having already consumed four beers of various origins, they presented me with their creation. This and subsequent drinks lack a formal cocktail name to the best of my knowledge, though I’m fairly sure they can be best surmised as ludicrous. This said, I heartily recommend them to anyone with a stomach of steel and a wallet thicker than the standard misogynist target.

• Double Vodka and Flat Cap (Local Ale)
• Half Cider, Half Toby (Bitter), Double Vermouth
• Cider and Pernod
• Cider and Curvoisier

Of the four, my personal favourite was the Cider and Pernod, though this may have been in contrast to the unequivocal foulness of the preceding drink. Alas, after the last drink I managed to negotiate my way into the waiting taxi where I quickly decided that I didn’t like to have my eyes open whilst it was moving. As a result of my sitting there with eyes closed and enough alcohol in my system to allow me to piss a reasonably fortified cocktail I quickly fell to sleep.

Upon being nudged into life again back in Manchester I struggled to stand, opting for the classic 45 degree slant rather than the proven much more successful vertical position and was promptly ushered into the house where I made a beeline (if anyone’s actually observed a bee fly then the use here is far more accurate than is implied in standard handling of the phrase) for the front room. The first chair I attempted to sit on pulled itself out from underneath me and so I decided to go for a different chair, reassuring the cabinet facing me insistently that no one saw me. After the second chair joined the same league as the first, I decided to sit on the floor for a while lest my continued spinning and falling inspire me to reproduce one of Jackson Pollock’s great works on the living room floor.

I’m fairly sure the moral of this story is self-evidential, though it remains to be seen whether it will actually make the slightest difference to anyone, anywhere or ever. Alas, I’ve declared myself teetotal for a few hours in order to recover though I’m unsure how successful I’ll be. All’s fair in love, war and binge drinking, I guess.

Gaz out.