I consider myself to be quite conscious of what I eat and drink and do what I can to be reasonably healthy. I don’t want to die before I’m 40 as I’d much rather live until I’m in my 80’s where I can happily soil myself and let my pretty blonde nurse clean me up. So I do as the government says by not regularly consuming over 3-4 units of alcohol per day. In actual fact I very rarely drink throughout the week as I think it’s much safer and far more responsible to just binge drink.
Saturday was a good day this weekend. Sunday was not. Regardless of the after effects you can’t quite beat a good night out and it isn’t really until the morning after when you see how the night ended. I woke up on Sunday to find the gherkins from my McDonald’s burger thrown against the wall of my lounge and more worryingly, my pillow stuck to my head. Who knew that vomit shared the same qualities as a UHU stick? Although, I think I got off pretty lightly. After a few phone calls to friends to find out how/if they’d got home I discovered that one of my friends had thrown up all over his bedroom floor after a failed attempt to catch it in his t-shirt, whilst my other friend had been rudely awakened by his neighbours as he laid asleep on the sofa. Mind you, he was on their sofa, in their house. They had every right to call the police.
My recollection of what happened from the night out is pretty vague, but I do remember my friend doing a dirty fart in the taxi and the driver having to open all four windows whilst we all clutched our noses in despair. I also remember loving the ‘freshen up’ man as I stumbled towards the toilets half hanging out. He is my most favourite man in the whole of the world. The ‘freshen up’ man is a wonderful man. He knew immediately how to make me smile with a rendition of “you’ve got to freshen up for the punani” just as my aiming went slightly astray and I covered my grey trousers with my own back-splash. Essentially he’s a toilet attendant in a night club, but to me and many others he’s so much more than that. He’s a magical, mythical man similar to Saint Nick. He can be at a whole host of toilets across the land where he dispenses the soap for you, passes you a towel and even wishes you a nice day. It doesn’t end there though; he sells squirts of aftershave, sticks of gum and Chupa Chup lollies. I reckon if I’d of slipped him 50p he might even had dabbed my crotch dry for me. My other personal favourite songs of his are “splash for the gash” and “wash your fingers for the mingers”. His lyrical brilliance knows no end and come to think of it, he must have helped thousands of men get laid over the years. We should knight him or something.
Clearly, binge drinking is the way forward if you want to become that person who wakes up with a sick filled pillow case and mocks toilet attendants. I’m ok with that, but I have to admit I am a tad worried about explaining the picture in my phones outbox that I sent my girlfriend at 04:31 whilst she was innocently sleeping. In my drunkenness I clearly thought it would be a good idea to draw some eyes on my penis and take a picture of it. I am secretly proud of myself for taking the time to title it ‘snake eyes’, but now I don’t feel quite so hilarious having realised that I’ve drawn on my foreskin in permanent marker.
Life’s more colourful when you binge drink. Same again this weekend?