Seeing as everyone seems to be doing it, I may as well do a little write up an' all.
Now as some of you may or may not know, whoever was in charge of scheduling needed shooting, because it just so happens that Drinkies fell on the same weekend as a really really good mate's 30th. Realising this a few weeks ago, I Facebooked her saying "Oh Shit! I've promised this thing ages ago, and there's no way I'm missing it"
"That's alright" came the reply "my do is on the Friday"
Yeah? Alright for who? This girl (and associated hangers on) is a bit of a legendary caner, and the way I was looking at it, I'd be lucky to get to bed before sunrise. Anyhoo, to cut a long story short I completely forgot to arrange somewhere to stay (foolishly assuming she had room, when in fact the old Lahndan crowd were down) which ended up working in my favour - I hooked up with a really good mate who was out on the night and ended up kipping back at hers, finally managing to get to sleep around 6am (it's not like
that - she's sort of me big sister)
So about 9am her kind of ex fella rolls in, and being as I've only sorta met him once before I thought it a touch rude to just roll over and die, so we got chatting a bit and had a little smoke and that. Luckily, at this point I think I was still pissed, because considering the amount I'd drunk the night before I certainly had no right whatsoever to feel as bright and chipper as I did.
Then the realisation hits me. BUGGER! I'd been talking up this Tuaca shit to all and sundry, promising we'd have a good ol' session on it before/after we headed out, and I'd only gone and left the fucking bottle at home! Not clever. Saddled with that, and the realisation that I needed to sort out my patented hangover cures in a pre-emptive strike, I decided to brave the streets of Brighton. Well, when I say brave, I guess I'm kind of laying it on thick - one of the things I love about the place is that no matter how bad you feel, guaranteed within 2 minutes of stepping out the door you'll see someone looking faaaaaaaaaaar worse than you. What you're generally
not guaranteed is being racially abused in the middle of town by some old biddy who told me "When you come to our country you should obey our traditions", I responded politely, but 30 seconds on thought "Yeah, well if your traditions are being a fucking racist then why don't you piss off back to Germany you Nazi cow!" It's still eating me a little bit now that my addled brain took so long to get into gear, but you win some you lose some.
So I'm on my way, on a mission from God, or at least something like that. My quest - a Bloody Mary, heavy on the Tabasco; a miso soup; a bottle of Tuaca, fresh limes and ginger ale; and above all hopefully a complete lack of vomit. Surprising even myself, I managed to get the crystal and get out of there before the timer ran out. Now all I had to do was not fall asleep on the train. Once again, against the odds - mission accomplished. I guess I owe thanks to Will Self and his wordy ways for keeping me interested enough to stay the distance. As a measure of how long the journey was, the book was started on the initial journey down to Brighton, and 90% finished by the time I got to Liverpool.
I'd be lying if I didn't admit there were times during that journey I thought to myself "This could all be a touch strange. Essentially, these are a bunch of random strangers, armed with the knowledge of more intimate secrets about me than a Priest in confession. Oooer" Nevertheless, hopped off at Lime St. and after a quick discussion with Mike, plumped for the pub nearest the station, one Ma Egerton's. Got in just after the Crouch goal, got a pint of the black stuff and settled down to watch. Anywhere else and I'd probably have felt slightly awkward, what with being Billy No Mates in a pub up North, me with my (posh apparently, according to Pete) Southern accent and that, but I've always enjoyed Liverpool's hospitality and though refrained from banter, felt the togetherness being a Red brings as we all enjoyed Fernando's thriller.
Anyways, the rest as they say is history, Carra never handballed that it was ball to hand [size=6pt](well, maybe)[/size] and at the other end Pennant was deffo fouled for sure [size=6pt](well, maybe)[/size]. Dirk was getting a lashing from all quarters, but I wouldn't have minded seeing him given the pen, just to get his confidence up.
Anyways, 3-0 slightly flattering. I've sunk the pint by this time, and so - despite the slightly metallic minging nature of their Guinness, it was preferable to some piss-weak lager like Carling, so got another pint in. Then John walks in, looks around, clocks the only Oriental and strides over grinning. I played a mini guess who in my head, and though my memory is rather shaky I think I may have called it right - you'll have to check with John. Either way we're in the car, John being a typical cockney, and Mike yer typical Scouser - I can't even remember what was said, but it was funny shit and my doubts weren't so much assuaged as completely erased.
This was gonna be awesome.
Back to Pete's, and we're getting introduced to Mr and Mrs - I'm putting on my best 'good first impression' voice and trying to not breathe on them too much, suddenly remembering I'd forgotten to brush me teeth. Still, I think it all went well, the plying of the rellies with alcohol being somewhat of a masterstroke, even if I do say so myself.
Cut to the near future and we're heading into town, only got a fucking Bluenose for a cabbie, so there's a fair bit o banter going back and forth, already I'm in stitches. Pete's fulfilling all my expectations and more, John's much less of a tightarse in real life than he seems on here (
😉) and Mike is classic.
We get to Wetherspoons and it's the proper meet up, trying to put names to faces, Sunny is obvious, Tony I'm having to resist the "It's very much like making love to a beautiful woman" jokes, Sheik takes me a little while to clock . . . oh Christ it's all such a blur already.
I remember getting the latest gossip from a few faces, not really chatting to Ross but being surprised by how much of a pretty boy he is, having a good natter with Sunny and Jay D, but about what I really couldn't tell ya, the joy of meeting Andy and having that moment of being surprised by Rouge, but then realising that I didn't really know what I was expecting in the first place.
To be frank, from there on in it gets very hazy indeed. Getting to Heebies and queuejumping was most satisfying, getting in there and sinking more booze, chatting shit, cutting some rug smoking some fags (mainly other people's) being impressed at the sexual prowess of the Paddies, kind of forgetting people's names, it all descended it to one of these surreal sort of scenes where you're so wrecked, it's almost like you're trying to remember what happened the next day - even though you're actually experiencing it there and then. Now, I'm not the best conversationalist at the best of times, so I'm sure I chatted a fair amount of inane shit to plenty of folks, interspersed with what some on here have generously deemed 'dancing' but is truth was moderately controlled falling over, but I feel there was a few I feel I missed out on, but hopefully there'll be plenty of opportunity to remedy that in the future.
What can I say, everyone was a blast - bit disappointed to miss out on the Jamo and the Mark1975, feel a bit guilty that I didn't make more of an effort to chat more to more people, but it was all good, culminating in ending up in the casino indulging in a bit of the naughty in various toilet cubicles and smoking areas.
Don't really remember leaving Heebies, if I didn't say goodbye then apologies extended - I was proper wreckage crew by that point. Seem to remember having a fair old chat with FFF, and Sunny, both very enjoyable to chat to, which certainly left me a bit hoarse after shouting over the music (which, by the way, was excellent in the most part - nice bit of funknsoul, lahvely)
Anyways, me and Spion sloped off a bit early leaving the scousers and Pat to try their luck (on the cards and the women respectively) while we tried our luck with the cabs. It came good, we got home, and that was it - dead to the world.
To be honest, Piedro probably could have come in there and raped me and I wouldn't have known the difference. Fuck it, Mike could have joined in and got a gang bang on the go, I'd probably have snored through the lot (providing I wasn't gagging on cock that is). I wake up around the time when John's quietly packing up, leaving before his wife castrates him, and it's one of those "Fuck. I'm awake now" kind of moments.
Still, well looked after by Piedro and family, who kept me in nurofen, bacon butties, tea and a wash, and regaled me with some excellent tales of wrongdoing. The 3rd hand boobie fondle story . . . well, I'm sure I need say no more for you to know it was *exactly* my kind of tale.
Trip back with Andy and Ian was fantastic, so much nicer than the dread prospect of shitty English public transport. The undoubted highlight being the little squeal of delight from Andy when the services sign bore the mark of the Colonel, and excited him so much he had to start indicating there and then, despite there still being somewhere in the region of three miles to go. Never have I seen a man, so happy at the prospect of some Unlucky Fried Kitten.
The journey was smooth, the company excellent, the chicken . . . good, but difficult.
All rounded off by a nice cup of overpriced Southern coffee before home. Not a single thing the whole weekend was out of place, everybody was right on the money, not a bad word to say about anyone (who was there). Ijjy, you're one smooth looking muthafucka, George and absolute pleasure, Mark as well . . . oh, I can't be arsed to name all of you, but you were all fucking legends.
Drinkies 2, sign me up now.
In the words of Bill and Ted
"I'm there dude!"
