Painting the Town Extremely Red

My last post touched briefly on my exploits when out in Manchester with friends applying red paint liberally to the city centre.

And it got me thinking about how much this has changed over the years.

I thought I would present for your fun and enjoyment, dear reader, an account of the first time I had a tussle with alcohol while attempting to paint the town red.

If you are squeamish, stop reading now.

For the rest of you ...

My tussle with alcohol was hardly a fair fight - I lost!

Spectacularly.

Let this be a lesson to you if you are young and foolish as I was then.

Back in 1980 I was an eighteen year old spotty kid with long, bushy and unmanageable hair who was discovering for the first time that it was possible to venture out and, with the aid of alcohol, have a wonderful night of laughter and drunken debauchery.

I had sampled the delights of alcohol briefly and at that age I really didn’t like beer at all.

Despite this, I succumbed to peer pressure and along came that fateful day when I first got really, really drunk.

At the time, I was in my second year in the sixth form at school, preparing for university but my best mate at the time had left a year or so earlier and joined a building company.

To protect his identity I shall simply call him S.

Unfortunately for S, his job only lasted a year before he was made redundant with a few other mates, some of whom were in their early twenties. They decided to drown their sorrows with a pub crawl around Walsall town centre and I was invited along.

I had only ever had a couple of beers and I reasoned, foolishly in hindsight, that drinking was easy and it would be fun.

We started at 7 o’clock and aimed to move around the numerous pubs drinking half a pint in each. Because I hated beer, one of the lads suggested I try lager and lime. It was quite pleasant and I thought that this would become my drink of choice.

We visited pub after pub and the more I drank the happier I became. I started chatting to complete strangers as my inhibitions were washed away in a tsunami of alcohol. I even recall kissing a girl at one stage to raucous cheers from the lads I was with.

I loved it and the fuzzy haze that was beginning to descend made me feel even better.

I was brave.

I was adorable.

I was loved by everybody.

I could conquer the world.

I was absolutely totally and utterly rat-arsed.

As you can imagine the inevitable happened. I recalled being in a certain pub at a certain time and then my mind went blank. It was as if God himself had erased part of my mind. One minute I was in a pub, the next I was in Hell.

I thought I was dying.

With the help of S, my irate mother and my irritated father, I was able to piece together the events of the previous evening.

S and I had walked home and at some point I had fallen over in a pile of mud – the evidence was there in front of me. My jeans were caked in filth and my shirt that had started the evening light blue had become a dirty brown.

I had arrived home and walked into the house where apparently I had said “Hi Mum, I’m off to bed.” Except it hadn’t translated that way – it came out as a drunken vocal splurge and my mum chose that moment to severely bollock me, an act that proved to be a catalyst to the inevitable consequence of drinking far too much.

My next words were “I feel sick!”

She understood that sentence and as I collapsed onto the floor she found a bucket and put my head in it – not one second too soon.

Ten minutes of puking later, my dad arrived home and saw my mum emptying the contents of the bucket down the toilet and cursing me with all of her venomous might.

My dad then made a fatal mistake. He uttered the words that would haunt him for the next 24 hours.

He said “That’s my boy,” and laughed as he carried me to bed.

My mum exploded in rage and had so much to distribute that she shared it equally between my father and me.

She was livid and sleep didn’t subdue the erupting volcano within her.

Next day she screamed at me from the moment I opened my eyes.

My head was pounding so much that I thought it was going to explode. I spent the entire morning retching over the toilet.

The phrase “Calling God on the great white telephone” had never been more apt.

My stomach was empty, yet I continued to puke air – this was a new and hellish experience for me and my stomach was in agony. My throat burned with fury and my headache was so bad that I thought my brain was trying to break out of my skull.

To make matters far worse, my mum continued to vent her spleen. There is nothing worse than being screamed at by an irate woman when you have hangover so evil that Satan himself would shy away from it.

I wasn’t the only target of her wrath. My poor innocent father was verbally ripped apart for laughing and uttering his ill-chosen words. He was a laid back guy but even he started shouting at me as he buckled under the onslaught.

“Look what you’ve done. You come home pissed and it’s ME who has to suffer.”

“But Dad – I’m dying here – and she’s screaming at me too.”

“I have NO sympathy!”

I stayed in bed being plied with water by my angry mum for the rest of the day and only surfaced in the evening. Thankfully, by this stage my mum had decided that she wasn’t going to speak to me any more (which was a major bonus).

My dad glared at me – because she hadn’t stopped haranguing him.

“It’s YOUR fault,” she hissed. “If you didn’t drink then he wouldn’t be copying you.”

I sat in silence, nursing a pint of water and struggling to eat some toast.

If you think my tale of woe is bad, you should hear what happened to S. Actually, allow me to tell you. His story is far worse than mine.

I heard about his exploits from his younger brother who laughed so much that he nearly had an accident.

S had arrived home, giggling like a baby. Unlike me, he had vague recollection of what had happened on the way home. We had decided in our drunken wisdom to take a short cut across a building site that was so far away from the street that it was absolutely pitch black.

I had been barely able to stand up let alone walk and soon the inevitable happened; I fell into a filthy and very muddy puddle.

The scary thing is that I honestly do not remember this at all.

When S arrived home, still laughing at my expense, his parents were alerted by what they thought was a maniac. They were convinced that a hellhound had arrived on their doorstep and was trying to break down the door. S could not manage to get his key in the door. His dad opened the door and S collapsed inside the house still laughing while trying to tell his parents about my fall. His words made no sense and eventually his irate father carried him upstairs and put him into bed where he fell asleep.

Mother Nature decided that she had to be cruel to be kind and the inevitable tsunami of vomit announced to S that he needed to get to his own great white telephone in the bathroom as quickly as possible. Sadly, he only made it as far as the window, which he somehow managed to open before chundering into the back garden all over his mother’s prized flower beds.

To make matters worse, he then decided to go to the toilet to relieve himself and somehow managed to stumble into his brother’s bedroom where he chose to urinate all over the floor.

His brother woke up and screamed “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”, waking up his parents in the process. They rushed into the room, switched the light on and saw S standing in a puddle of urine with vomit dribbling down his chin and still holding his todger.

Needless to say, I didn’t see S for two days; neither of us felt well enough to hang out.

I very nearly became tee-total after that. I went to the pub with S and other mates a week or two late and they howled with laughter as they heard our stories.

I drank coke for six months before I plucked up the courage to try lager and lime once more.

I have been drunk since then (obviously) but that first time sticks in my memory because it was so painful.

I have learned my lesson, albeit slowly but have never since been in a situation where I cannot remember getting home. There have always been flashes of memory and the beer scooter has always been there for me.

I often wonder what would have happened had I become teetotal. I have encountered many people who don’t drink because of incidents with alcohol and based on that first experience I can’t say that I blame them.

Common sense now prevails and apart from a few lapses in judgement I tend not to go overboard any more.

Besides, at my age, even the mildest hangovers last for days and it takes a relatively small quantity to spark one into existence.

Added to that I simply cannot take the pain any more.

What a sorry old git I am.

The Christmas Party Hangover

Mrs PM and I have made what could be a big mistake.

Every year our respective companies organise a Christmas party. Last year, they were a week apart. Unfortunately, this year they are within a day of each other. When the dates for each event were specified, my immediate thought was:

“Oh no! Two parties in on consecutive days – we have to miss one of them.”

Mrs PM’s reaction was:

“Don’t be such a wuss! We’ll go to BOTH!”

This coming Friday, my company is heading off to Old Trafford, the stadium were Manchester United play, to partake in an event called “One Night In Bangkok”, which takes place in a huge marquee in the car park next to the ground.

Mrs PM’s mob are heading off to Liverpool to the “Hard Days Night Hotel”, which, as you can probably guess, pays homage to the Beatles. The date? Saturday night; and because it is in Liverpool, we have to drive over there and stay the night.

So the question is, am I wuss or not?

Well, the truth is that in my 20s and 30s I probably would have relished the opportunity. Sadly, my ageing body now refuses to acknowledge the capacity for ale I enjoyed in my youth. I now suffer from “the two day hangover”.

I would guess that a few readers who stumble across the drivel I write aren’t familiar with the sensation of consuming alcohol and the after effects of the debauchery that ensues when one imbibes too much. For those readers, allow me to illustrate how a night out at a typical works Christmas party may pan out.

At approximately 5:30 (two hours before the party starts), I vow not to overdo it. I recall last years embarrassment – actually, that’s not actually true. The photographs jog my memory and the merciless mocking from my workmates etches the unfortunate events in into my brain.

I tell Mrs PM that I will not drink too much. She laughs and says “You said that last year. We’ll see.”

The taxi arrives at 7pm and off we go. The conversation goes something like this:

Mrs PM: I LOVE Christmas. I LOVE Christmas parties.

Me: I am definitely not drinking too much tonight.

Mrs PM: Must we go through this again? Remember last year? Remember the free red wine? Remember Neil making sure that we were on a table with at least four non-drinkers so that we could have MORE free wine?

Me: Yes – but I will definitely NOT overdo it.

We arrive at the party and within seconds one of my mates has thrust a pint of finest bitter into my hands with a “Get THAT down you!”

The pint is quite refreshing and it’s not long before hints are being dropped: “Get the beer in then, Dave!”

Off I go to the bar and, as I order the beer, I repeat the mantra in my brain: “Must not overdo it! MUST NOT OVERDO IT!”

A few moments later we arrive at our table; waiting for us are ten bottles of wine. I look around and see that there are six drinkers and four non-drinkers. Oh no – not again!

Time passes and the people on our table fully immerse themselves in the atmosphere. I am forced (by Mrs PM) to wear a silly hat that looks even more ridiculous with my incredibly bad hair. People blow up party balloons and fire them off at targets (usually managers) with a huge loud “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”. A plastic frog lands in my glass of red wine (how many have I had now?). I pull a cracker with Mrs PM and she wins the prize (again)! As a forfeit I have to read out the terrible joke:

What's big, grey and wears glass slippers? Cinderelephant.

I try to recall how much wine I have had but my brain feels like it is mutating into a giant marshmallow. I look at my glass of wine and it is full. Did I fill it or was it somebody else? Have I had any at all? Maybe one glass, possibly two?

The main course appears and we all dig into our first turkey of the Christmas period (at the end of Christmas we will all transform into turkeys I’m sure of it. Apart from vegetarians who will probably become stuffed peppers).

I take a sip of red wine. And another. And another.

At some point, the beer takes its toll and I have to go to the toilet. As I am walking, I start to work out how much I have had. One glass of wine and two pints. Or is it two glasses of wine and three pints? Alarm bells start to ring. Have I had too much already? In the toilet, I stare at myself in the mirror and then start a conversation with my reflection:

Me: How much have you had? And why don’t you take off that stupid hat?

Reflection: Well you can focus on me and you have definitely made it to the toilet without falling over or wobbling. You’re OK!

Me: OK

A man walks out of a trap and stares at me as if I am a complete idiot.

Back at the table, dessert has arrived. Christmas bloody pudding covered in brandy sauce – a dessert concocted in the bowels of Hades.

“Not Christmas Pudding again. I’m sure I ordered mince pie!”

“I LOVE Christmas pudding,” says Mrs PM. “And this is the first of many portions for you this year!”

Reluctantly and stupidly I eat my Christmas Pudding. It is like eating tar!

My mouth is glued shut and my jaws ache trying to chew this disgusting stodge. I need some liquid – lots of liquid. What’s that? A FULL glass of red wine? I could have sworn that it was almost empty. Oh well!

The wine does the job and dissolves the tar.

The DJ, a man who has eaten two days worth of happy pills, announces that the entertainment is about to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for the PARTY TO BEGIN! Let’s start with that old party classic – YMCA!”

Oh no! I frantically look around as the cold hand of fear clutches my soul. And there she is, making her way across the huge room towards me. I hear the words:

“COME ON DAVE! IT’S TRADITIONAL!”

Cazzy is coming to drag me onto the dance floor for our annual YMCA dance (maybe I will tell you the story of why this is traditional one day). I try to hide under the table but before I know it, I am being pulled by a determined woman towards the flashing lights of the dance floor. I am clutching a glass of wine and drink it to ease my forthcoming humiliation. And there’s nobody on the dance floor – it will just be me and Cazzy – AGAIN!

Behind me, my workmates leap up armed with cameras, to record the event and once more I find myself singing and dancing and posing for photos.

Young man, there's no need to feel down.

I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.

I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town

There's no need to be unhappy.


Young man, there's a place you can go.

I said, young man, when you're short on your dough.

You can stay there, and I'm sure you will find

Many ways to have a good time.


It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a.

It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a.



Suddenly I realise that I’m enjoying myself. I don’t know why I hide from Cazzy every year! With YMCA still ringing in my ears, and now with a few colleagues dancing away with us, we listen to all the Christmas songs from Wizzard, Slade, Band Aid etc. that are dusted off every year.

I am hot now and need to cool down. I return to my table and find a pint of beer there. Good! I’ve had enough of red wine. Oh – there’s a glass of red wine next to it and it’s full – and it’s mine.

“MUST NOT OVERDO IT! MUST NOT OVERDO IT! OH SOD IT!!!”

The remainder of the evening becomes a blur. Many photos are taken of me eating mince pie while doing the Macarena; I am videoed singing “Man I Feel Like A Woman” by Shania Twain, my jacket and tie are off and I am bounding up to the dance floor for every cheesy pop song that I despise.

At the end of the night I am in a taxi, convinced that I am as sober as a judge. At home I rest my weary head on my pillow and catch the train to Dreamland. The slight buzzing sensation in my head is nothing to worry about.

WRONG!

The next morning I open my eyes and realise that I am being beaten up. My head is pounding. I can’t see the assailant at all and I wonder why the invisible man is trying to hammer nails into my skull.

And then it starts to come back. The mantra “mustn’t overdo it” is a distant memory. I close my eyes again but the beating doesn’t go away. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth by the remains of Christmas Pudding (something that could be used to surface motorways).
I am desperately thirsty and pluck up the courage to go downstairs for much needed water. I see my suit cast to the four winds – didn’t I hang it up last night?

I struggle downstairs, my head pounding like a pneumatic drill.

Mrs PM is in the kitchen as fresh as a daisy.

“You look like shit,” she laughs. “You overdid it, didn’t you?”

“Why are you so fresh?” I ask.

“I took it easy,” she replies.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is sticking up in every conceivable direction; my eyes are bloodshot; my tongue looks and feels like a carpet in a demolished house; the bags under my eyes are so big you could pack a turkey in each.

As I sip from a glass of ice cold water, Mrs PM reminds me of what occurred the night before. I start to cringe as I recall dancing like a demented gorilla to songs like “The Birdy Song”. Once more there is video evidence of me pretending to be a Kevin Rowland and belting out an awful version of “Come On Eileen”.

Mrs PM reminds me that I fell over during “New York, New York”. Apparently there’s a photo of me sitting on the floor like a complete arse and grinning inanely.

But thankfully, Mrs PM reminds me of other people; the man who was sent to bed in the hotel for being too drunk; another who did a break dance with his tie wrapped around his head like Rambo; others who spilled red wine down their pristine white shirts;

I’m thankful that I only fell over once. I’m grateful that I didn’t insult anybody.

So, this year, I really DO have to take it easy. Last year, my hangover was bearable but lasted two whole days – the first day recovering from the after effects of over-indulgence (headaches, indigestion etc.), the second day due to lack of sleep from the first night.

I will report on this busy weekend sometime next week.

And I must remember the mantra – I MUST NOT OVERDO IT!

One Night In Wan Chai

Waking up with a hangover is a very unpleasant experience. I been afflicted by hangovers quite a few times in my life and have come to realise that the older you get, the more powerful the effects. In my youth, I would wake up with a headache and a feeling of nausea. The headache would feel like a lazy woodpecker tapping a rhythm in time with my heartbeat – annoying but nothing more – and would be easily curable with an aspirin. The nausea would be overwhelmed by a good old full English breakfast. By lunchtime I would be human again.

Now, in my mid-forties, hangovers are dreadful. The woodpecker has been replaced by an army of maniacs with road drills; the nausea is now a tsunami of gut-wrenching mayhem. The cures are the same but the effects last longer.


Why am I telling you this? Because on our third day of our recent holiday to Hong Kong I woke up with a hangover. Combined with my age and the effects of jet lag, the hangover took on a life of its own, beating me up relentlessly and mercilessly. Mrs PM and I had planned to spend the day roaming around the wonderful city. The excesses of the night before put paid to that, not least because we had slept until one o’clock in the afternoon. The only consolation was that Mrs PM (who is incidentally seven years younger than me) was just as bad.

How did this come to pass? How did a supposedly sensible and mature man like me allow myself to get so horribly drunk? I made a mistake – I allowed the teenager in me to take control.

It all started off so innocently. We had vowed to attempt to beat the jet lag and stick to our rough plan. Ten years ago, during a three month stint working in Hong Kong, we used to visit numerous restaurants and bars in Causeway Bay and Wan Chai. Our plan was to have a dignified meal in Causeway Bay and pop to Wan Chai to visit the Old China Hand and perhaps have a beer or two in another bar somewhere before retiring sensibly to bed at a reasonable hour.

It all started so well …

The meal was very lovely, a nice steak in a restaurant in Times Square in Causeway Bay. Mrs PM and I chatted about old times in this wonderful city, remembering favourite restaurants that had disappeared, others that were still there and reminisced about our first few weeks together.

After the meal, I noticed that it was getting late (around ten o’clock) so I suggested paying a visit to one of my favourite old haunts in Wan Chai, an Australian bar called Carnegie’s, for a night cap. Mrs PM concurred and later we found ourselves stepping out of the MTR station on Lockhart Road. To my delight, Carnegie’s was still there and still rocking as it used to. What’s more, they had a promotion on vodka, which proved to be very appealing to Mrs PM and to me too, since alcohol prices in Hong Kong aren’t cheap.

I had a beer and Mrs PM had vodka and cranberry juice. The rock music was loud, the atmosphere was vibrant and the clientele had started dancing on the bar and generally having a good time. I remembered good times from my time there and was captivated and consumed by the atmosphere. Before I knew it I had ordered another beer, then another.

Eventually we ran out of cash and, led astray by the alcohol, I volunteered to find an ATM, leaving Mrs PM to enjoy her drink.

For those of you who don’t know, Wan Chai is a very lively area and also full of strip clubs and girly bars. I was a solitary male, walking around on my own, searching for an ATM. To the women trying to attract men into the strip clubs and girly bars, I was prey. I walked past one such bar with an old woman sitting outside persuading men to come in. When she saw me, she leapt off her seat, grabbed my arm and tried to haul me into her club. Waiting at the door was a voluptuous young Chinese women with open arms waiting to ensnare me and drag me into her web of debauchery. I panicked and tore my arm away from the old woman screeching apologetic excuses. I managed to get away but before I had walked five yards, another old woman from another girly bar had launched herself in my direction. Somehow I managed to stumble away from her before she grabbed my arm. I’m sure that never used to happen in Wan Chai ten years ago.

Eventually I found an ATM and returned to the safety of Carnegie’s where I related the tale of my narrow escape to Mrs PM who, in deep sympathy, laughed her head off. At this point I encountered a drunk Australian who walked up to me, clapped me on the back and said “Jimmy! What are you doing here?”

“My name’s not Jimmy,” I replied.

“Bloody hell,” he slurred. “You look just like Jimmy. Are you sure you’re not Jimmy?”

“Positive,” I replied with a smile.

“You look just like a bouncer I know called Jimmy,” he continued. “Are you sure you’re not Jimmy?”

His mates joined in, trying to convince me that I was indeed an Australian bouncer called Jimmy. Eventually I returned to Mrs PM and she laughed at my expense for the second time that night. I can see her point; I do not possess any of the qualities that a bouncer requires, such as build, aggression, height and strength, plus, despite evidence to the contrary, I do have a personality. I could possibly be a bouncer but only at a club for children under ten – and even then I might struggle if one or two ate too much sugar.

Back in Wan Chai, we were having such a good time, that we decided to visit another old haunt, an Irish pub called Delanie’s, where we had another quiet drink. Across the road from there was a lively bar called Amazonia, featuring a live band covering hits by the Beatles. This was too enticing to walk past. As we settled down with yet another beer, a new band appeared playing classic rock hits. I was struck by the number of men in the bar, my age or older, who were cavorting with young Chinese women – it looked ridiculous so we decided to return to Carnegie’s for the infamous “one for the road”.

I have no idea how many more we had or what time we left. I do have hazy memories of being in a taxi and listening to the driver ranting about how terrible it is to be a taxi driver in Hong Kong.

As we left the taxi, the teenager within retired for the night leaving the mature person back in charge, giving me the opportunity to buy two bottles of water from the 7-11 next to the hotel. I knew we had had far too much to drink and would benefit from quaffing a large quantity of water. Thank goodness there was a sensible part of my addled alcohol-soaked brain still working.

The following morning (afternoon), as I prised my tongue from the roof of my mouth with my toothbrush, stared at the creature in the mirror with wild hair and bloodshot eyes and fought the hangover with every weapon at my disposal (water, aspirin, self-pity), I began to regret my over-indulgence. Mrs PM was also feeling very sorry for herself.

United in pain we faced our hangovers and ventured out of the hotel to Lan Kwai Fong where we found a pub that served English breakfasts all day. Armed with bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, gallons of orange juice and coffee, we did battle and eventually won. We were able to face the day as human beings – or in reality, two aliens pretending to be human beings. Our hangovers dissipated and we reflected on our night in Wan Chai.

We both agreed that we had overdone it. That teenager inside me has a lot to answer for. But, I tell you what – Mrs PM and I both agree - we had had a fabulous night.