Half-eaten Kebab

Have you ever been drunk?

I have – quite a few times, but thankfully not in recent years. Don’t get me wrong – I do like a pint or two but these days I tend to take it easy so that when I do drink I know I can wake up in the morning feeling reasonably fine.

Sadly, in my youth I was easily led and I thought that I was indestructible, especially when it came to the demon drink. I was rarely so drunk that I couldn’t remember anything but I have been in that position in my youth.

When you are in such a terrible state, weird thoughts go through your head, the biggest one being “I’ll be fine! I can handle another pint!”

Wrong! 

If you are drunk, that is the thought that you should totally dismiss because deep down you know for a fact that when you wake up in the morning your head will feel like Satan himself is hitting it with a lump hammer, your mouth will feel like you have just eaten the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag and your stomach will feel like it is about to explode in a tsunami of half-digested food.  If you have the strength to crawl to the toilet your entire world will spin like a demented spinning top and you will almost certainly be uttering the Hangover Mantra which is:

“NEVER AGAIN!”

Of course when you are in the throes of alcohol-fuelled ecstasy, you have lots of bad ideas. Logic doesn’t seem to enter into your thoughts. If you were sober then you would almost certainly say to your brain “You want me to do WHAT?? No bloody chance!”.

But when you are drunk, your response is “WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!!”.

Before I go on, there is something that any foreign readers must understand. Pubs and drinking are a massive part of British culture (and to a lesser extent Europe too). For example, when I have been to the US, I have been amazed that hanging out in a bar for an entire evening seems to be frowned upon – certainly more so than in the UK where such behaviour is commonplace.

So what good ideas have I encountered when drunk that are really terrible ones?

Have another drink

This is bad because, as I said above alcohol gives you the illusion of indestructibility. In this state you think you are utterly fine until the first light of day brings you back to reality with an enormous crash.

Go for a curry

Indian food is massively popular in the UK and drunk guys will flock to Indian restaurants after a night out because they think that it will satisfy the alcohol-fuelled hunger. Now the problem with a post-drink curry is that first of all Indian restaurants offer even more booze to add to your already saturated brain but worst of all, the bravado of being drunk means that you will almost certainly select the hottest curry on the menu because you think it is a fantastic idea. It isn’t because a hangover with a curry nestling in your stomach is not a good idea. Remember, a really hot curry burns twice; once on the way in and once on the way out.

Chat up a woman

I have fallen foul of this “good idea” many times and have been ritually humiliated. Worse, on one occasion I was out with workmates, including a female friend of mine. While in a pub, she started talking to a lovely young blonde woman who happened to teach her daughters ballet. Sadly, my mind told me to complement this vision of beauty. I walked up to her, in front of my female friend and a lot of workmates and said (I am not making this up): 

“First of all, I’m not coming on to you at all. But having said that, can I just say that you are ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS!!” 

Thankfully, she took it in good stead and said a polite “Thanks” before blanking me out completely. What followed was a tirade of abuse and piss-taking from my work colleagues and, worse, from my female friend who later said “What the phark are you on?” I am still reminded of this even to this day and it happened about twenty years ago!

Buy a kebab

 If you don’t go for a curry, you go for a kebab. Britain is filled with kebab shops, some better than others. When sober, I would never have one because I prefer healthier food. Yet when drunk, it has almost become the law. Kebab shops in the UK are filled with drunk people from around 11pm to much later and I am amazed that people know what to order. One of the problems is that your average kebab is huge and you are incapable of eating the entire thing. This has three possible consequences (and I have seen all three). 

Number one: you leave the half-eaten kebab on the sofa and crawl to bed, only to see it the following morning when your stomach is too delicate to deal with a now rancid stinking half-eaten mess. 

Number two:  Put the half-eaten kebab in the fridge to be finished off for breakfast. This is so wrong because the last thing you want to see when you go to the fridge to get a can of coke to help your hangover, is a half-eaten kebab stinking out your fridge with half-eaten fries that you felt you couldn’t do without. 

Number Three: you fall asleep while eating the kebab and wake up three hours later with your head resting in a mound of spicy meat, fries and rancid salad covered in spicy sauce.

Thankfully, I have grown up a bit and while I still drink, I no longer allow myself to have stupid ideas. That said, I have been known to indulge in a curry or a kebab but, thankfully, with a relatively sober head.

I’ll finish off with a song about a hangover from my collection. Check out the lyrics because they sum up most of the stuff I’ve said in this post.

Embarrassing Moments - Restaurants

Eating out in a restaurant is a truly enjoyable experience, and an activity that I participate in as often as I can. But such is my life that there have been moments of pure embarrassment. I have two tales of woe for you today and in both cases I was a complete arse.

When I started out on my adult life at university I had led a very sheltered life. My parents were not keen on eating in sophisticated restaurants. Furthermore they weren’t keen on eating in any restaurants whatsoever. So when I arrived at an Indian restaurant as a naïve nineteen year old, I had no clue what I was letting myself in for.

Of course, as is traditional in British culture, Indian restaurants are a challenge to all young men who have been enjoying a night out. It is a ritual we all go through several times in our lives; we quaff a gutload of beer and then challenge each other to eat the ripest and hottest curry on the planet.

On this, my first visit to an Indian restaurant, beer had flowed all night and all of us were rather boisterous having imbibed several pints of ale. My memory of the night is hazy but I do recall sitting down and looking at a menu full of exotic Indian dishes, none of which I had heard of. I didn't know a Bhuna from a Rogan Josh. I had eaten curry before as my dad used to cook it regularly. I quite enjoyed it. What I didn’t know was that my dad’s curries were rather mild.

“What shall I have?” I asked innocently.

“Try a Madras,” said one of my so-called friends.

By the time my meal had arrived I was ravenous. Several pints of ale had stimulated my gastric juices to the point where I was willing to eat the tablecloth. So when I was presented with a dish of Chicken Madras I attacked it with gusto.

I think the delay was around two seconds.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHH!” I cried and was so shocked by the burning sensation that I somehow (don’t ask me how) managed to snort Madras sauce up my nose. My entire nasal cavity and mouth were on fire. I felt as if I had snorted lava. Of course being under the influence of alcohol, a substance that increases reactions exponentially, I mutated into a desperate dervish, whirling around and howling like a crazed cat. I was blinded by tears of agony and stumbled around gasping for breath. I may have been breathing fire.

My so-called friends shrieked with laughter as I miraculously managed to totter to the nearest waiter pleading for water to relieve my anguish. The other restaurant patrons were hardened curry eaters and screamed with laughter (they were also drunk). Even the waiter was laughing as he handed over a jug of ice cold water. I think I drank the whole lot in one go.

Next day I suffered. Boy did I suffer. I had a hangover and I could taste and smell the Madras all day, giving me a constant reminder of my traumatic experience. I didn't realise just how much curry burned. When comedians joke about putting toilet paper in the fridge they are not kidding. I wanted to fill the toilet bowl with liquid nitrogen.

It took a while for me to pluck up the courage to eat Indian cuisine again.

Some years later I was in Amsterdam on business with a friend and colleague called Paul. Both us were willing to try something fresh and exotic so we opted for an Ethiopian restaurant. Ethiopian food proved to be quite unique and also quite spicy. By this time, thankfully, my palate for piquant food had evolved and I relished the dish. A wonderful Ethiopian waitress brought our food; she was wonderful, with dark brown and smooth skin, wearing a white blouse with a black lace tie and black skirt. She was delightful as were the other lovely waitresses – all dressed in an identical uniform.

About half way through the meal, I was aware that something was missing; I needed a refill for my empty beer glass.

“Fancy a beer?” I said to Paul. Before he could answer, I waved my hand in the air at the nearest waitress.

“No,” said Paul looking around.

Ignoring him I continued to wave and eventually attracted the attention of the waitress.

“Don’t!” pleaded Paul looking suddenly rather perturbed

“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to have one.”

He shook his head in exasperation as the waitress approached the table.

“Can I have a beer?” I said. “What do you want, Paul?”

Paul said nothing. he simply put his head in his hands.

“You want a beer?” said the sweet waitress. “I can get one for you if you like.”

“Yes please,” I said.

She walked to the bar spoke to the barman and pointed to me.

“You idiot!” said Paul.

“I’ve only had one,” I said. “I’ll be alright.”

It was then that I noticed something odd. The waitress walked over to a table and sat down. I also noticed something else. She wasn’t wearing a tie and her blouse was a different style from the other waitresses.

She was a customer just like me.

Another real waitress bought my beer as my face reddened enough to set fire to the tablecloth.

I had to swallow my pride. I stood up and walked over to the poor woman who I had cajoled into going to the bar on my behalf.

”I’m so so sorry,” I squarked. “I mistook you for a waitress. I … I … I ….”

“It’s alright,” she smiled as her fellow diners sniggered at my expense.

I bought her a drink to prove that I wasn’t an ignorant arse (just a stupid buffoon). Paul, being a good friend and colleague spent the remainder of the evening telling me what a moron I was. He delighted in telling the tale to complete strangers in bars and of course, my work colleagues upon our return to Manchester. Thanks, Paul!

Sadly, I haven’t learned from these mistakes. There are other incidents that make me want to crawl into a hole and seek sympathy from woodland creatures. I will save those for another post.
In the meantime, Mrs PM is taking me out for a pleasant meal tomorrow night as a belated birthday celebration. Let’s hope she realizes what she is letting herself in for. There’s plenty of scope for embarrassment in the old dog yet.