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.

Survival Of The Drunkest?

The human race is evolving and it is all down to alcohol.

You may think that I have lost my mind, dear reader, but if you read on you will find yourself agreeing with me.

I am certain of this.

Well, there is an element of doubt.

Okay – you may NOT agree with me and you might end up considering me to be a weird arse. Nevertheless, please indulge me because I know I’m right.

Well maybe – perhaps!

Picture the scene. You have been invited to a major event that will involve drinking, dancing and generally revelling in a night club, or some similar debauched establishment, and you are preparing yourself.

You want to turn heads.

You want members of the opposite sex to fall in love with you.

You want the world to be talking about you tomorrow.

There is only so much you can do, physically. If, like me, you look like a decrepit old grape, then the task is almost impossible. If you are a woman, no matter how wonderfully attractive you are, you will still want to spend approximately six hours perfecting your appearance.

That is a given and has nothing to do with evolution. That is human pride and the need to be loved. And we all need to be loved (well, apart from Piers Morgan or Sarah Palin perhaps).

The evolutionary part is the way our bodies have developed to cope with the effects of imbibing too much alcohol. Some of these evolutionary traits are harmful - so I guess maybe you could say that there is a paradox here – we are evolving and regressing at the same time.

Of course, not everybody goes out planning to drink a lake of beer and wine. Most people know their limits and can enjoy themselves responsibly.

However, there are those who opt to break the record for the largest amount of alcoholic beverages ever consumed and there are also those who forget about responsibility and simply go with the flow without realising that they too are consuming a small river of beer.

And this is where evolution kicks in – and also regression.

The evening has started and you are surrounded by your friends. Everybody has had a couple of beers and the conversation is flowing. This is when the first evolutionary trait suddenly kicks in – the Beer Brain.

The Beer Brain is responsible for unleashing that inner potential that exists in all of us. When the Beer Brain is activated, entrepreneurial ideas that exist in a dusty old chest within our minds are suddenly released. The fact that this chest has a sign on it saying “DO NOT OPEN – EVER!!!” is completely ignored. Alcohol gives us the ability to shatter that lock and unleash all of our potential on the unsuspecting crowd. There will be those who are sceptical about this – but I am certain that in that chest there is a massive idea waiting to be implemented.

Something like, perhaps, the spaghetti mask. When eating spaghetti and you slurp it up, the end flies around spraying tomato sauce all over the place and, more importantly, all over your glasses (this is painful for me I can tell you). So you wear a metal mask with a mouth hole that takes all the spray as you slurp.

What about a homing sock? Each pair of socks comes with a remote control and an in-built locator device. When the button is pressed on the remote control, the sock comes to you – you will never lose a sock again.

Maybe a pair of underpants that you can turn into a toilet at the push of a button (something like this would be useful for me on my forthcoming trip to China).

How about an ironing machine? All you have to do is throw you clean but frazzled clothing into a machine, wait a while and extract the neatly ironed product. Some men may say that they have a device that goes the whole hog – called a washing basket. All they have to do is pile their dirty washing in the washing basket and, hey presto – in a couple of days it is hanging up crisp and clean in your wardrobe. Sadly, I don’t own such a basket and have to endure the full manual cycle – including the ironing.

After the Beer Brain, comes the Beer Ego. The Beer Ego transforms you into the greatest person who has ever lived – all it takes is a little more beer. Suddenly, when the Beer Ego detonates, you are the world’s greatest dancer, the world’s greatest conversationalist and the world’s most attractive person – all rolled into one. You can do no wrong. Eyes turn whenever you hit the dance floor and every member of the opposite sex wants to have your babies.

What about this poor fella?

Yes - that is me under the influence of the Beer Ego playing my guitar to the Drifters at New Year.

And, of course, there are the Beer Goggles that help you to select an equally attractive mate. The most hideous creature known to man can in an instant become the most attractive person on the planet:

Somebody once told me that Beer Goggles help ugly people get partners. It clearly didn’t work in my case, because Mrs PM really is lovely (mind you – I think she wears her Beer Goggles permanently).

Anyway, having solved the world’s problems with your Beer Brain, charmed everybody with your Beer Ego and used your Beer Goggles to grab yourself a date with a member of the opposite sex, it is now time to go home.

The amount of beer it takes to activate the Beer Brain, Beer Ego and Beer Goggles does take its toll and here, dear reader, is where the final evolutionary miracle occurs. You have two choices:

(1) The Homing Device – this is a built in six sense that somehow manages to inform your addled brain that you have, perhaps, consumed just a little bit too much alcohol. This fabulous mental device guides you in the direction of the exit, fending off all cries of “You can’t go yet, Dave,” with a dismissive wave of the hand and a heartfelt “OMGUWINUM”. This ingenious evolutionary part of your brain can direct you out of the pub or club and start you off on your way home. Mind you, it isn’t totally dependable, in which case a second ingenious evolutionary advancement comes into play:

(2) The Beer Scooter – The problem with the Beer Scooter is that nobody knows exactly how it works. The Beer Scooter is a miracle. Why?

(a) The Beer Scooter obtains fuel automatically (usually in the form of a large Donner Kebab).

(b) The Beer Scooter gets you home, no matter how much cash you have left after your night out on the town. Some sceptics say that taxis or The Nutty Bus are involved – but I don’t buy it.

(c) The Beer Scooter not only gets you to your front door; it gets you in the house, undressed and into bed. Some advanced humans sometimes even find that the Beer Scooter has provided water to help minimise the inevitable cost of your depraved evening.

So there you have it, dear reader; my theory of evolution due to alcohol and in the past, I have taken advantage of all these evolutionary enhancements. Sadly, they have dulled with age – even my Beer Goggles have stopped working.

Alas, so has my Beer Scooter, though I have found a half-eaten Donner Kebab in the fridge on occasion so perhaps it still works - a bit.

Actually, thinking about it, why on earth would anybody put a half-eaten Donner Kebab in the fridge? If anything is going to induce a violent reaction when you have a hangover it’s going to be a cold half-chewed scraggy lump of unidentifiable meat wrapped in cardboard and covered in “all the dressings – especially the monster strength chilli sauce”.

Perhaps we are regressing back to being apes after all.

The Nutty Bus

Picture the scene:

You are in Manchester on a Saturday night at around 11:30 pm. You have been to the theatre or a rock concert, or maybe even out for a couple of beers with mates. You have a desperate need to reacquaint yourself with your lovely bed and are seeking the best way to achieve this.

What are the options?

If you haven’t driven and you live in South Manchester, there are two options: either you take a cab or you catch “The Nutty Bus”.

Cabs in Manchester are quite expensive, particularly the black ones, and on a Saturday night, the price increases even more. If you are with a group of people it can be cost effective; however, if you are on your own it may not be a good option, particularly since, at that time of night, finding a cab can be tricky, since everybody wants one and the queues at the taxi ranks can sometimes be quite long.

Manchester is blessed by an all night bus service, the frequency of which depends on the area you wish to go to. If, like me, you are heading out towards the university and beyond, then you can guarantee that a bus will arrive within ten to fifteen minutes. You can also guarantee that it will be full of pissed nutters – hence the reason why I call it “the Nutty Bus”.

I have had several bizarre experiences on the Nutty Bus, one or two have been quite worrying, but most are very entertaining.

Sadly, one of my first journeys on the Nutty Bus with Mrs PM was a worrying one. Downstairs on the bus was full so we climbed upstairs and found two seats next to each other. Even upstairs it was so full that people were standing in the aisle. In particular, three guys appeared, who were about my about my age and they were all absolutely leathered, so much so that they could barely stand.

One of them was happy – deliriously happy. When he saw that, as usual, the bulk of the passengers were students.

“I love students, me!” he declared, smiling at all the young people around. “You are our FUTURE! You are the future of this country! I LOVE YOU ALL! You will make Britain GREAT again”

Lots of people, including me smiled at this inebriated buffoon. Sadly, three skinheads at the back of the bus for some reason took exception to his words. One particularly brutish looking thug stood up, pushed his way past the people in the aisle, stood in front of the drunken buffoon and shouted “I AIN’T NO FRACKIN’ STUDENT!” and then promptly punched him in the face, drawing blood and shattering the poor guy's glasses. Nobody could believe what happened.

And, of course, mayhem ensued.

The victim’s two mates tried retaliate pushing past their fallen comrade to get to the thug. The thugs two skinhead mates came up from the rear to act as reinforcements. The bus was packed so it was difficult for these two small armies to get to each other. Both parties started shoving innocent bystanders out of the way and and fists started to fly as bodies were pushed aside; at one point somebody was being pushed on top of me so, in a bid to get Mrs PM and myself away from the disturbance, I looked around frantically for a free seat – and spotted one at the back of the bus. I grabbed Mrs PM’s hand we somehow managed to escape the fracas.

People were shouting, women were screaming and eventually a few people dragged the three drunken middle aged men downstairs. It was then that I realised whose seats we were sitting in – the skinheads’ seats.

The one who had caused the fight sat next to me and shouted to his mates “Oi dun ‘im! D’ya see that? Frackin’ student loving bastid!!”

I just sat there like a lemon gripping Mrs PM’s hand as the meathead boasted about what a fantastic mindless thug he was.

Thankfully the thug was so caught up praising his own mindless brutality that he ignored us. We only had to wait five minutes before these savage nutters left us and the rest of the bus in peace.

I have to say that this is the only violence I have ever seen on the Nutty Bus. Almost every other time has been very entertaining and sometimes very weird.

For example, I had been out for a beer in the city with a couple of mates and found myself on the Nutty Bus, sitting downstairs listening to my mp3 player. The bus was getting full and there was a free seat next to me. A youngish lad sat down and his girlfriend looked around for another seat. Finding none available, she sat on his knee at right angles and then leaned back lying across both him and me – with her head in my lap looking up at me.

I had never seen this girl before in my life and there she was, smiling up at me as if her position was absolutely normal. Her boyfriend was oblivious and almost unconscious.

She started speaking to me. I pulled off my headphones and she said

“Hello there! Where have you been tonight?”

“Er – just to the pub with a couple of mates,” I said feeling really uncomfortable.

“Where exactly?”

And we had a weird conversation, this young girl staring up from my lap with her boyfriend almost comatose beside me. It was surreal and I wonder what the rest of the passengers thought. Those at the back may have thought I was talking to my own crotch.

If that’s not bizarre enough, on another occasion I was chatted up by a girl who was young enough to be my daughter. There I was sitting next to her when the bus gradually emptied. I didn’t say a word, until she said:

“This is awkward, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the bus is almost empty, so I’m thinking should I move to an empty seat or stay here next to you?”

“Oh!”

“And do you know what I’m going to do?”

“No, what?”

“I’m going to stay next to you because you’re really nice. Do you read the Guardian?”

And we had a conversation about all sorts of weird things before she left. I thought she was going to ask for my phone number but thankfully she didn't.

I’ve also been part of a drunken duo that has entertained the rest of the bus. Well, when I say part of a drunken duo, I mean I have been sitting next to a drunken mate, who shall remain nameless (but you know who you are) but who has suddenly mutated into a madman, singing the praises of William Shatner’s singing techniques (amongst other things) to an appreciative and chuckling audience. I was the straight guy and I must admit even that was amusing because I was laughing at his drunken banter and the attempts of those around us desperately trying to stifle their own laughter.

In fact, some of the funniest conversations I have heard have been on the Nutty Bus. I’ve struggled not to explode with laughter myself.

I’ve seen guys, full of Dutch courage, desperate to chat up that elusive female at the end of the night, raiding the very bowels of the chat-up line phrase book as they frantically offer to walk the girl home.

“It’s dangerous around here! I’ll look after you. You’re an angel and I can’t let anybody harm a feather on your head – er – I mean a hair on your feather - erm - a hair on your head - I mean.”

“Good night, Dan – you are not walking me home. I don’t fancy you!”

The whole bus chuckled at the poor sap as he sat there totally embarrassed and humiliated having failed spectacularly. I’ve been there myself.

I’ve seen drunkards covered in vomit stagger onto the bus, only to be thrown off before they can collapse onto the floor.

I’ve seen a couple of terrified nuns sitting there as if they were surrounded by Satan’s most mischievous imps and praying that they arrive at their destination as quickly and safely as possible as hoards of drunk people flock around them, swearing, laughing and doing crazy things.

I’ve seen two lads hold an impromptu muscle man contest (vying for the title of "Mr Nutty Bus" I presume), stripping down to the waist and flexing their feeble muscles to each other and a giggling audience of passengers.

I’ve seen a bloke walk on the bus with a pizza and then drop it top down on the floor, screaming an almighty “SSHHHIIIIIITTTT!!!!” to mocking and unsympathetic laughter.

I’ve seen a whole bunch of sad individuals jump on a bus at half past midnight clutching their newly released copies of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” and almost wetting themselves with enthusiasm; “I’m so excited! I’ve been queuing up for five hours; I’m going to read the WHOLE thing tonight! AND then I’m going to read it all AGAIN tomorrow! Yes – that’s the kinda guy I am! I’M MENTAL!!!” – you don’t say!

I’ve seen another lad fall down the stairs with a colossal McDonald’s soft drink yet somehow manage not to spill a drop – I wanted to applaud the guy but was too busy laughing.

And I have had some amazing conversations with people myself, some who are just drunk enough to still make sense, just inebriated enough to start a conversation with me and then lower their inhibitions enough to say ridiculous things.

The best people to talk to or listen to are students who have flown their parents’ nest for the first time and consider themselves to be experts on everything from politics to travel. I have to chuckle to myself when I hear two young students sitting in front of me and saying things like “I’ve travelled a hell of a lot you know – I’ve been to France AND Germany. I’m a seasoned traveller. I'm going to go to Italy next."

Wow!

I just want to intervene and tell them all about my exploits. I don’t like stealing their thunder though; I get more enjoyment listening to a couple of eighteen year old students talking about how they are going to conquer the world and how “middle-aged people” (like me) are “clueless”.

Sadly, if Mrs PM and I find ourselves in the city on a Friday or Saturday night, she will insist on a cab – particularly after the skinhead incident. I try to tell her that this is a one-off (it happened around ten years ago now). I have been on the Nutty Bus many times over the years and that nasty incident is the only fight I have ever seen. I try to tell her that a trip on the Nutty Bus is almost as good as watching a comedy show. But she won’t have it. I don’t blame her really.

Anyway, if you are in Manchester at the end of lovely evening and opt to catch the Nutty Bus to the South Manchester area, you will find that it is very entertaining. If you do catch it, keep your eye out for a blond-haired middle-aged guy who looks young for his age – he will be listening intently to conversations around him and trying not to laugh.

It could just be me.