To be fair, I never could drink the way I used to.
The warm, snug blanket of immortality that envelops me when I get heavily rat arsed was only ever a tinfoil blanket from a cheap First Aid kit. Great if you sat still and didn’t move, it wasn’t windy and nobody ripped it.
Being a basically anxious soul, with paranoia as a side order and a persecution complex to go, my issues multiplied four fold when I’d sunk a few ales.
Shagging while very drunk is not fun really. Yes, you may pull easier and Yes, you may not care that the woman you’re with is a hatchet faced munter and Yes, you may be able to bonk for ages (if you have stayed the right side of “so drunk you’ll need a splint”) due to not being able to feel the pussy/ mouth/ arse your dick’s in due to 8 pints of lager dulling your ejaculatory response BUT….in the end it’s a wretched experience of fumbling, sodden clothes, rank breath and trying not to fart.
Talking while very drunk is also a bit of a minefield. Many people subscribe to the idea that “the drunken mouth speaks the sober mind”. Problem is, it doesn’t. If you are like me, a little, teensy bit insecure then when you are sober you know that the whole world doesn’t hate you. You know that not everyone is out to get you and you know that not all the women you meet think you’re an ugly bastard. Those little voices that nag will be casually swatted aside when you are lucid and booze free as you are in control of your neuroses. However, once drunk the problems breed like Chavs and all of a sudden you feel the whole pub thinks you’re a cunt and that everyone is noticing everything you do. You will progress from worrying about what you said, to not giving a fuck what you say to saying things you thought you were only thinking.
While 95% hetero, I once got ridiculously drunk on holiday in Greece and found out 3 days later that I’d come onto a straight guy I’d just been introduced to in a bar. A bar where people were known to carry knives or even guns. Only the fact that I was staying with my father who had retired out there and who had a solid reputation as a well liked man prevented me from getting a bloody good kicking for this. The very pissed off other bloke told me exactly what I’d said to him and said that while nothing was going to happen to me now, we wouldn’t be friends. We eventually did become mates and were even able to laugh about the incident (and then agreed to never mention it again) once he realised that I had simply made a mistake that I was genuinely sorry about and wasn’t some predatory arse fucker feigning amnesia,.
Fighting while pissed is ace provided you are one of three things:
a). A big bastard used to fighting in places like
Glasgow, Liverpool or Manchester’s rougher areas.
b). A ripped badass and a black belt in the more brutal martial arts like Kali or Krav Maga.
c). A soldier who’s actually seen combat.
For anyone else it’s a rather dismal display of windmill punches, girlfriends intervening and shouts of “COME ON THEN!!!”
I’ve had 3 fights when blottoed off my tits, and while I won 2 of them I was later informed that the most violent was merely a lot of grunting, shoving and the occasional fist connecting followed by me and the other dude hugging each other and then having a beer.
The personality switch when one is trousered is not a noble, introspective warrior of self reflection. I personally become egocentric, flatulent and insecure.
I got hammered last Saturday and was chatting to a barmaid in my local. She was very friendly and because I fancied her I was paranoid that I’d verbalised wanting to shag her as opposed to merely thinking it. A state of drunkenness where you are too drunk to rationalise normally, are unable to form cogent speech yet are able to analyse that you are drunk. Utterly miserable. I vaguely remember saying to her “have I said anything I shouldn’t have tonight?” and she laughed and went “err, no you’ve been fine”.
I won the Bonus Ball lucky dip and when I went back to collect the money two days later I was sweating that I’d be thrown back out or ignored. The landlady was her usual, friendly yet curt self and it was clear that I’d simply built this fear in my head. Fear exacerbated by too much Guinness.
Another problem of booze is the fact that while it may slip down well it certainly makes your guts stink. Not being a regular boozer (it was 3 weeks since my last drink when I got pissed up on Saturday) I woke up at 10am with the cat attacking my exposed toes to find my bedroom stank like the inside of an abattoir. Spending the morning shitting Guinness back out is not my idea of a good time, and God forbid I’d actually pulled the night before.
Ultimately booze is simply dragging me down. When with mates at a barbecue, a wedding (of a good friend, NOT a family one as we all know you will be judged on every sodding thing you say or do when it’s relatives) or watching an England World Cup game…being drunk is fun. When playing drinking games it can be fun. Where trust and companionship are present and acknowledged, the insecurities of the paranoid drinker can be ignored for a good time to be had.
Personally I find my options for entertainment without drinking limited, but think it’s time I found some.
I know I’m a nice guy. I just wish Guinness thought I was too. Especially when he’s with 7 of his mates and brings a couple of Jacks with him or even his cousin Jaeger.