Tag Archives: alcohol

Taste My Special Sauce

23 Aug

As I queued at the kebab van, drunk and bleary eyed, I couldn’t help but drift off into a daze, thinking about how nice it would be to finally get home and climb into bed, snuggling up to my greasy food. There are not many things better than a massive portion of fat riddled food at the end of a drinking session. Licking the hardened burger or garlic sauce from the side of one’s mouth in the morning or waking up with the half eaten kebab having formed some sort of elaborate chin strap on your face, are both things that have happened to many of us.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by a gentleman who was at the counter in front of me.

 

“Excuse me, but where is my food?”, he enquired.

 

He was softly spoken, and quite posh I thought. He must have been in his mid-twenties.

 

“It’ll be ready soon”, replied the bloke behind the counter.

 

“But I’ve been waiting ages. You’re serving other people before me”, said the posh fellow, now raising his voice slightly, but still maintaining an air of decorum.

 

“No I haven’t”, snapped the kebab van owner.

 

By now, a few other heads in the queue had turned and we watched like spectators at a tennis match, our heads moving from side to side as the posh man and the kebab man exchanged words of “Yes you have”, “No I haven’t”. With the posh chap getting ever so slightly more irritated at the kebab van owner, I wondered what the next move would be in this bizarre exchange.

 

I didn’t have to wait long.

 

The kebab van owner picked up one of the squeezy ones bottles of garlic mayonnaise, and aimed it at the now ‘agitated’ posh man. Without a word of warning, he applied the pressure required to send an arc of gooey sauce into the man’s face, making him take a pace backwards. The attack of garlic mayonnaise did not cease though, and the bottle continued to be squeezed harder and harder; a relentless torrent of white sauce coating the posh man’s face in its entirety. The rest of the queue stood aghast, wondering what the reaction would be to this quite unnecessary attack. The final dribble of sauce left the bottle, dropping onto the cold pavement, and the posh man put his fingers to his eyes and scooped away the garlic mayonnaise. All I could see were his startled eyes, and nothing else.

 

“What was that for?”, he asked. How he kept his calm I’ll never know. His shirt was also covered, and the sauce dripped off his face onto his chinos. He was a mess.

 

“All I wanted was my food, and you’ve squirted sauce all over me. What is wrong with you?”, he said, this time a bit louder, and stepping forward to the counter. With that, the kebab van owner picked up a bottle of tomato sauce, and unleashed another attack. The sauce pounded against the man’s face, and I have to admit I was now crying with laughter. Again, the full bottle was emptied against his face, covering it again. His clothes were now completely wrecked.

 

“WHAT WAS THAT…Fghghh gghhhh ghhh”, he began, his shouts interrupted as a cascade of sauce filled his open mouth.

 

“FOR?”, he managed to spit out.

 

The commotion had attracted the attention of a couple of policemen who came over to see what was happening. They watched, with the rest of us, as the posh bloke berated the kebab man for his antics, pointing his finger at him. It reminded me of a head teacher telling off a naughty pupil. Once his rant paused briefly, the policeman took him by the arms and started to lead him away.

 

“Me? You’re are arresting me?”, protested the posh man, still dripping with sauces. He looked towards the queue, hoping someone would back him up, but most people were either wondering what the fuck had just happened or laughing.

 

Then noticed me laughing, which to be honest, wasn’t hard, as I was almost bent double. It had tickled me somewhat.

 

“Oh you think it’s funny do you?”, he asked, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder.

 

“No, I just don’t think red is your colour”, I drunkenly replied, and I laughed at my own, lame joke. He did not look impressed.

 

And that was that. The posh bloke was led away, and the queue continued to be served as if nothing had happened, with people trying their best not to step in the sauce that had dropped onto the pavement.

 

“Yes Sir, what can I get you?”, asked the kebab man to the bloke next to me.

 

“Where is my food, I’ve been waiting ages?!”, I joked.

 

“Oh fuck off!”, he replied, smiling, and handed me my kebab. I left, content.

A Drunken Announcement

9 Aug

On a night out with a few work colleagues, I ended up a bit worse for wear quite early on in the evening. This resulted in me losing my phone in a crowded bar in the centre of town. I should mention that normally, without the influence of drink, I’m always aware of where my phone, wallet and keys are, but the more I drink, the less concerned I get about them.

 Being as drunk as I was, I began scrambling around on the small dance floor, hoping to find my precious phone. I think at one point, a small circle of people formed round me, thinking I was doing some sort of funky-worm dance. One girl called me a pervert as she thought I was trying to peer up her skirt. To be honest, I probably was.

The search for my phone proved to be fruitless and there was only one thing left for me to try; an announcement to the whole of the bar.

 I made my way up a flight of stairs to where the DJ was playing. He was positioned on a sort of balcony, looking over the top of the dancefloor.

 “Yes mate, what song do you want?”

 “No. I don’t want to make a request. I want to make an announcement”

 “Sorry, you can’t do that”

 “Please, I’ll be quick I promise, this is really important”.

 Surprisingly, he handed me a microphone. I leant across and turned the volume on his equipment right down which pissed him off immensely. Everyone on the dance floor turned to look up at us, and were greeted with the sight of me, microphone in hand, swaying slightly.  I began to speak.

 “Sssshhhhh. Sssshhhhhh. Everyone, listen. I have an announcement to make. Shhhh! SHHHH! You over there, be quiet a minute.”

 By now you could have heard a mouse fart. I was doing well. Then a couple of blokes over by a fruit machine started talking to one another.

 “Oi. You two. You as well, I need everyone silent. Right, now I have your attention, I need you all to do something. I have lost my phone. What I’m going to do is ring my number and I want everyone to listen out for it. Whoever finds my phone will be treated to drinks for the rest of the night. First I need a volunteer”

 The DJ then tried to grab the mic from my hand.

 “I won’t be a minute mate. Nearly done”

 I looked down at the people below me and realised that everyone single person in the place was looking at me and it made me very nervous. A few of them had their hands in the air. ‘Why the fuck do they have their hands in the air’ I wondered to myself…’Ahh, yes, I needed a volunteer’.

 “You in the blue top. Have you got a phone?”

 The girl I was pointing at nodded.

 “Ok, come up here”

 She came up and I asked for her phone.

 “Right everyone, here we go. Drinks for the rest of the night remember, should you find my phone. Here goes, I’m ringing it”.

 The place was absolutely silent. The DJ was fucking fuming, but I had a crowd on my side now so there was nothing he could do. We were all stood, waiting. I imagined a mass bundle breaking out once we heard my phone, as the people below me jostled to get to it first.

 Then I heard ringing.

 The ringing was loud; my phone was definitely in the building. The ringing was very loud in fact. I felt inside my jacket pocket; there was something in there. My hand reached in, and I pulled out my phone. I started laughing.

 I was escorted off the premises within a couple of minutes.

Rosewater Cocktail

8 Feb

The location was the Falcon pub in High Wycombe on a Saturday night. It was early in the evening and a group of 6 of us were having a few cheap drinks before moving onto somewhere different (and more expensive). I noticed that the table we were sat on had a small vase in the centre of it containing a solitary rose and what I can only describe as dirt and water. I say vase, it was more like a half pint glass; in fact it probably was.

Mike had been on the scrounge all evening. He hadn’t been paid yet and was short on cash, so he was taking drinks from whomever he could get one from. To be fair, he was doing all right, he was getting fairly intoxicated without spending a single penny of his own money. The intake of alcohol soon meant that he needed to nip to the toilet, and I had been waiting for this opportunity since I’d spotted the rose. No sooner had Mike left the table to go and empty his bladder, had I removed the rose from its vase, placed it under the table and put the vase and its contents in front of me. All I had to do was wait for Mike to return. The rest of the group sensed I was up to something and asked me what I was planning, but I said nothing.

I saw Mike ambling back towards us a few minutes later and I put my plan into action. As he got closer to us, I put the vase up against my mouth and tipped my neck back slightly, being careful not to get any of the vile water on my mouth. When Mike was stood right in front of me, I moved the vase away from my mouth quickly and scrunched up my face, as if I’d taken a sip from it.

“Fuck me, that’s strong stuff” I said, putting the vase back down on the table in front of me.
“What is it?” asked Mike, eyes widening as he spoke.
“Some spirit, mate. I just got it from the bar”. The others sat on the table saw what I was up to and began playing along.
“Yeah, I had a sip and I feel pissed already”, added Andy.

Mike had been fooled, I was sure of it and so I offered him the vase.
“DOWN IT, DOWN IT, DOWN IT”, I started to chant and the others joined in, banging on the table for extra effect. Mike took the vase from me and knocked the contents back in one.
As quick as the murky fluid had gone down, it appeared again, as Mike hurled it from his open mouth, covering the table in bile.

“What the fuck was that? It is really strong stuff”, he said, standing dumbfounded with a look of confusion on his face.
“Strong?” I asked.
“Yes, I wasn’t expecting that. It tastes bloody horrible, and it’s got little floaty bits in it like Goldschlager. I’ll stick to what I’m drinking, thanks”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him what he had actually drunk. I know it isn’t the worst thing in the world that he could have had in his mouth (he could have had Bill Oddie’s member, for example), but it is still pretty awful. The next morning I asked Mike what it had tasted like. He described it as ‘slimy vinegar with lumps and bits in it’. Gutted.

Pint of Piss

12 Jan

Andy turned to look at me, his face going slowly crimson. He leant in and whispered in my ear, “Mate, I need a piss so badly. I don’t think I’ll make it to the toilets.”
I let out a laugh and then looked around me. The pub was very busy; it was a Saturday night after all, and the toilets were up a flight of stairs on the other side of the bar.

“Here you go, fill this” I said, handing him an empty pint glass. I could see the doubt run through Andy’s head, but he merely shrugged, took the glass from me and moved it under the table.

“Ahhhhhhhh, that feels so good” he exclaimed as the buildup of urine was suddenly released from his body. Anyone watching would have wondered what the fuck he was doing. He was sat hunched over at the table with both hands hidden from view, with orgasmic expressions etched over his face. I wondered if he’d get kicked out for having a supposed social wank. Twenty or so seconds later, his job was done.

“What shall I do with it?” Andy asked me.

“Drink it, it’s probably all alcohol anyway” I joked.

Unfortunately Andy wasn’t that stupid. Instead he just placed the glass back on the table, where it stood proudly, just looking back at us. Despite my protests, Andy wouldn’t take it elsewhere and so it was up to me to move it.
As there were quite a few of us out on this particular night, we were split over two tables. I decided that the pint of piss should sit on the other table – it was putting me off my drink.
I picked it up and it was still warm. This made me feel a bit sick, it was almost as if I was touching Andy’s piss. Luckily, I only had a short distance to travel, and I placed the glass down on the other table. Everyone sat there turned to look at me as I did so and all I said was ‘No-one bother drinking that’. Then I returned to my seat, and watched.

“Thanks mate” said Andy, “I didn’t want that there either, it fucking stinks”.

“I still can’t believe you actually did that” I replied.

As we chatted we kept glancing over at the pint of piss, and it remained in the same spot, untouched. The rest of the group were quite oblivious to it, and if was getting surrounded by empty bottles and other pint glasses as they knocked back their drinks. About 45 minutes after I’d put the glass on their table, the inevitable happened.

Warren was quite drunk and looking for something to whet his whistle. The bar was crowded so he scanned the table for anything he could chuck down his throat. Being almost full to the brim, the pint of piss instantly caught his eye.

“Who does this drink belong to?” he asked the rest of the table.

“No one, he just left it here” Mike replied, pointing over at me.

Warren clamped his hand around the glass a took a huge gulp from it, just as I was in the midst of shouting ‘NOOOOOOO!!!!’

I was too late. I watched in horror as Warren swallowed.

Amusingly, he then slammed the glass back down on the table, shouting “Fuck me! That tastes like piss!” It was too much for Andy, who was now bent double from laughing so hard. Warren saw that he was in hysterics and marched over, with the pint of piss in his hand,
“Is this yours?” he muttered, quite calmly for someone that had just swallowed his mate’s urine.
“Yes, sorry Warren” Andy replied sheepishly.

What came next still makes me smile. Without warning, Warren tipped the rest of the piss straight over Andy’s head, before gently placing the empty glass back on the table, spinning on his feet and meandering back to whence he’d came. Andy sat where he was, silent with a shocked expression. At first he was open mouthed, but he quickly closed it as his own urine cascaded down his face. Eventually, he got up and without saying a word, headed to the toilets so he could dry off under the hand dryer.

To his credit, he did stay out for the rest of the night, despite smelling like a stale tramp. Every so often the unmistakable tang of piss would catch my nose and I’d turn around to see Andy approaching and I’d laugh as people we didn’t know fought with each other in an effort to get out of his path. Andy was undeterred by it all.

“I only smell off piss, at least I didn’t drink it”, he’d say.
And I suppose he was right, really.

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