OK, so I've come to the conclusion that alcohol is the world's worst evil.
And unlike the usual "I'm NEVER DRINKING AGAIN!!!" moment, I've come to this decision not after a heavy night of drinking and with a raging hangover. I've come to this decision sober. Sober as hell.
Alcohol ruins us. It makes us sad and depressed. It makes us angry and aggressive. It makes us arrogant and loud-mouthed. It makes us childish. It makes it uncomfortable for non-drunks to be around us. It makes us lose money. It makes us stupid. It makes us forgiving in the wrong situations. It makes good guys wankers, and it makes sweet girls whores. We make the excuse that it gives us confidence, but really it just lowers our standards. It makes us abandon our friends. It makes us say things we don't mean.
And for what?
What are the benefits?
I mean, things are good after a couple of drinks I'll grant you. The high isn't even that good, and the second you push it too far you're virtually guaranteeing that you'll do something to make an idiot out of yourself.
So I've decided I'm giving up drinking.
And I'm going to start doing cocaine.
That's right full on cocaine.
No feeder drugs. No pussyfooting around. I'm going to snort that white powder till it rots my nasal cartalidge. I won't take it too far, I'll be sensible.
Of course, I am missing out one major problem. And it's a problem that has vexed me ever since my decision to give up alcohol a few minutes ago.
What the fuck do you drink?
I don't mean on a night out (on a night out I'll certainly enjoy the irony in going to the bar and ordering a Coke) I mean what do you drink when you get it and just want to have a sit down and relax during the evening.
Wine and beer are quite literally the ONLY savory cold drinks outside of water and milk. (Hot drinks should always be sweet, I think).
I'm not asking for much. A savory drink. I don't like sweet. I like savory.
Coke etc.? Fruit juice? Squash? Shloer?
You could have non-alcoholic beer, but I think that's missing the point really.
Feel free to offer suggestions, I would LOVE to be proved wrong.
Maybe instead of Coke, I'll just dissolve a teaspoon of cocaine in my water and drink that. It's gotta be good.
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Friday, 15 October 2010
One Thursday night, and a revelation.
The level of wit didn't extend much beyond a scrawled "insert penis here" followed by an arrow pointing to the vagina/anus/mouth of the victim. "I Love Cock" made several appearances, not to mention the ubiquitous "I'm gay".
This is why giving drunk people in a club an unlimited supply of Crayola pens is not a good idea.
Permit me to furnish you with the context.
20:04 - Thursday night
Nicki was late. It wasn't unexpected. I was in my nervous state I'm always in when people are late. Once it goes past two or three minutes I become extremely anxious and usually I'm not able to relax or think about anything other than the minutes leaking further and further from the time.
She turned up not long after. It's kind of like when I used to wait for a bus on a rainy winter morning, and it didn't turn up, and I'd be really angry. And as the time passed my rage become stronger to the point where I would think:
"I'm gonna have a go at the bus driver, he's so late".
But then when the bus turned up, I was so pleased to see it, I forgot all about being angry.
Not that I was angry with Nicki, just anxious, I think.
Will and I got in, and we started the epic journey to Joe's at 20:09.
20:10
We arrived at Joe's.
A brief exchange of pleasantries followed a discussion of the plan.
Curry, we could all agree, was going to be the ultimate highlight. However, there was certainly an air of reluctance to commit to going out afterwards.
Joe was saving money for the Verses tour starting soon. I had work in the morning. Will was going elsewhere. Nicki really wanted to go out to, what she described as some sort of club/bingo hyrbid which Mary was photographing and had put us on the guestlist.
At that point I was fairly convinced I wouldn't be going out.
I would consider it, but ultimately, I was fairly sure I was going to pansy out.
20:23
Joe drove, and we parked in George Street. Complaints were made about the cold weather, but it definitely wasn't cold. However, for the purposes of dramaticism, we will pretend Hove was sub-arctic that evening.
With the illumination of a large Tesco substituting poorly for the Aurora Borealis, we battled against the gusty winds until we reached the blissful relief of the Hove Tandoori curry house.
20:31
We were seated. The restaurant was smaller than I remembered it, but perhaps that was just becuase it was utterly packed. Infuriatingly small serving spoons did not detract from the quality of the chutneys or the raita. I had manly beer, whilst Will and Joe pansied out with coke. Nicki had a non-gender specific cider.
Nicki was particularly displeased with the lack of a ladies-first attitude when giving out the menu and drinks. Perhaps Indians are just more enlightened in terms of gender equality than we?
Nicki "signed herself in" to the restaurant on her new iPhone, giving any stalkers she may have, an easy time.
20:56 (I estimate)
Our main courses arrive.
Joe had a lamb dish that he had been raving about for the last millenia. Will disappointed me, as usual, by ordering vegetarian. Nicki had a Mermaid Korma (christened due to the gigantic, fantasty-size of the king prawns she had ordered). I had a Muglai Chicken.
Delicious, I must say. I tried a little of all their three, and they were really, really nice.
Using an "app" the aforementioned iPhone, we attempted to find out what music was playing in the background. Unfortunately "Generic Indian Restaurant Song" was not listed on the database.
21:25
I defeated my curry with ease, but the others didn't fair so well. Joe disappointed me the most with his failings.
Usually, once your done eating in an Indian restaurant, your waiter will remove your dishes and then immediately furnish you with a plastic package which, when opened, reveals a volcanic-hot mini-towel to "freshen" yourself.
The Hove Tandoori does things a little differently.
A small porcelain plate was placed in front of us, with what looked to me like 4 big white Refresher sweets (apparently they looked like marshmallows to Nicki). However, when boiling water was poured onto them, they sprang into life, erecting to their full height. With tongs and assurances that they were "very hot", our water placed one each in our hands.
It was those lava towels! NO PLASTIC PACKAGING.
I was highly impressed, let me tell you.
21:45
We paid and left the restaurant.
It was at this point that Joe admitted he would go out as long as we didn't stay out more than an hour or so.
This worked to my advantage, as I didn't want to let Mary's guestlist kindness down, but had no intention of going out for a whole night.
So we drove to Brighton's Churchill Square carpark, and Will ventured to the PavTav.
22:03
Walking to the seafront means go past Oceana. And going past Oceana means you have to go past people queueing to get into Oceana.
The queue itself feels like Groundhog Day. Everyone looks/smells/acts exactly the same. Male teenagers drenched in Lynx's newest flavour, wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch shirt and one of those studded-leather "Jesus Loves You" belts speaking with a semi-London accent. I don't think they could aggrovate me more if they tried.
We made it down to the seafront and made our best guess as to where Digital was. It wasn't far.
There was some initial confusion, as the guestlist-woman (I am unsure if there is a specific word to describe her, I don't think "bouncer" is correct. Maybe I'm being think?) was unable to locate our place on the guestlist.
An exasperated Mary was forced to come out and sort thing out, but we made it in eventually.
22:14
When we got inside we were immediately provided with a Crayola pen (mine was orange, I still have it) and a little bingo sheet thing.
People were using their Crayola pens in the manner I told of earlier.
22:44
After Killing In The Name played (which was the musical highlight of the night) a man took to the stage in a formal shirt and tie, and began a humorous skit about health and safety. The costume would have been much more realisitc had he not been wearing the cliched geek glasses, which have become fashionable amongst even those who have never heard of binary.
A little while into the skit, the host (as he shall he now be known) announced that tonight was "not about health and safety" because "we don't give a fuck about health and safety" and that tonight was about underground bingo. He was very charasamtic, and funny, and I think the concept of the night is very good. I would have really enjoyed it a couple of years ago.
The premise of the night was that inbetween dancing and drinking, the music would occasionally stop and bingo would be played until someone won. The prizes ranged from a soft toy panda to a HD video camera.
I didn't win anything. Even if I had I don't think I would have pushed my way through the crowd and claimed my prize.
23:32
We walked back to the car. We discussed how old we felt, and blamed the teenagers in the club for making us feel old. Near the carpark, Nicki said the immortal words:
"Are they having sex?"
I looked over to the alley where she was pointing. There were a set of stairs. A man was thrusting, and a pair of bare legs extended over his hips.
They were definitely having sex.
We didn't want to stare, so we carried on walking. When we pulled out of the carpark we tried to get a picture on the iPhone. I don't know how good the picture is, if it ever goes up on Facebook or something I'll add it.
Friday morning
It was sometime Friday morning I realise that I really have no interest left in the going-to-clubs thing. PavTav is fine, and if people want to do something it's not like I'm going to say no, but it just doesn't hold any interest for me. Not anymore.
It's not like it was that night's fault. The night seemed pretty good, and it's not like all the people were dicks or anything.
Just in terms of going out on the town, I'm not really interested in anything more exotic than seeing my friends and drinking to some music I at least remotely like.
Maybe that makes me boring.
But I don't mind.
I'll be boring.
This is why giving drunk people in a club an unlimited supply of Crayola pens is not a good idea.
Permit me to furnish you with the context.
20:04 - Thursday night
Nicki was late. It wasn't unexpected. I was in my nervous state I'm always in when people are late. Once it goes past two or three minutes I become extremely anxious and usually I'm not able to relax or think about anything other than the minutes leaking further and further from the time.
She turned up not long after. It's kind of like when I used to wait for a bus on a rainy winter morning, and it didn't turn up, and I'd be really angry. And as the time passed my rage become stronger to the point where I would think:
"I'm gonna have a go at the bus driver, he's so late".
But then when the bus turned up, I was so pleased to see it, I forgot all about being angry.
Not that I was angry with Nicki, just anxious, I think.
Will and I got in, and we started the epic journey to Joe's at 20:09.
20:10
We arrived at Joe's.
A brief exchange of pleasantries followed a discussion of the plan.
Curry, we could all agree, was going to be the ultimate highlight. However, there was certainly an air of reluctance to commit to going out afterwards.
Joe was saving money for the Verses tour starting soon. I had work in the morning. Will was going elsewhere. Nicki really wanted to go out to, what she described as some sort of club/bingo hyrbid which Mary was photographing and had put us on the guestlist.
At that point I was fairly convinced I wouldn't be going out.
I would consider it, but ultimately, I was fairly sure I was going to pansy out.
20:23
Joe drove, and we parked in George Street. Complaints were made about the cold weather, but it definitely wasn't cold. However, for the purposes of dramaticism, we will pretend Hove was sub-arctic that evening.
With the illumination of a large Tesco substituting poorly for the Aurora Borealis, we battled against the gusty winds until we reached the blissful relief of the Hove Tandoori curry house.
20:31
We were seated. The restaurant was smaller than I remembered it, but perhaps that was just becuase it was utterly packed. Infuriatingly small serving spoons did not detract from the quality of the chutneys or the raita. I had manly beer, whilst Will and Joe pansied out with coke. Nicki had a non-gender specific cider.
Nicki was particularly displeased with the lack of a ladies-first attitude when giving out the menu and drinks. Perhaps Indians are just more enlightened in terms of gender equality than we?
Nicki "signed herself in" to the restaurant on her new iPhone, giving any stalkers she may have, an easy time.
20:56 (I estimate)
Our main courses arrive.
Joe had a lamb dish that he had been raving about for the last millenia. Will disappointed me, as usual, by ordering vegetarian. Nicki had a Mermaid Korma (christened due to the gigantic, fantasty-size of the king prawns she had ordered). I had a Muglai Chicken.
Delicious, I must say. I tried a little of all their three, and they were really, really nice.
Using an "app" the aforementioned iPhone, we attempted to find out what music was playing in the background. Unfortunately "Generic Indian Restaurant Song" was not listed on the database.
21:25
I defeated my curry with ease, but the others didn't fair so well. Joe disappointed me the most with his failings.
Usually, once your done eating in an Indian restaurant, your waiter will remove your dishes and then immediately furnish you with a plastic package which, when opened, reveals a volcanic-hot mini-towel to "freshen" yourself.
The Hove Tandoori does things a little differently.
A small porcelain plate was placed in front of us, with what looked to me like 4 big white Refresher sweets (apparently they looked like marshmallows to Nicki). However, when boiling water was poured onto them, they sprang into life, erecting to their full height. With tongs and assurances that they were "very hot", our water placed one each in our hands.
It was those lava towels! NO PLASTIC PACKAGING.
I was highly impressed, let me tell you.
21:45
We paid and left the restaurant.
It was at this point that Joe admitted he would go out as long as we didn't stay out more than an hour or so.
This worked to my advantage, as I didn't want to let Mary's guestlist kindness down, but had no intention of going out for a whole night.
So we drove to Brighton's Churchill Square carpark, and Will ventured to the PavTav.
22:03
Walking to the seafront means go past Oceana. And going past Oceana means you have to go past people queueing to get into Oceana.
The queue itself feels like Groundhog Day. Everyone looks/smells/acts exactly the same. Male teenagers drenched in Lynx's newest flavour, wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch shirt and one of those studded-leather "Jesus Loves You" belts speaking with a semi-London accent. I don't think they could aggrovate me more if they tried.
We made it down to the seafront and made our best guess as to where Digital was. It wasn't far.
There was some initial confusion, as the guestlist-woman (I am unsure if there is a specific word to describe her, I don't think "bouncer" is correct. Maybe I'm being think?) was unable to locate our place on the guestlist.
An exasperated Mary was forced to come out and sort thing out, but we made it in eventually.
22:14
When we got inside we were immediately provided with a Crayola pen (mine was orange, I still have it) and a little bingo sheet thing.
People were using their Crayola pens in the manner I told of earlier.
22:44
After Killing In The Name played (which was the musical highlight of the night) a man took to the stage in a formal shirt and tie, and began a humorous skit about health and safety. The costume would have been much more realisitc had he not been wearing the cliched geek glasses, which have become fashionable amongst even those who have never heard of binary.
A little while into the skit, the host (as he shall he now be known) announced that tonight was "not about health and safety" because "we don't give a fuck about health and safety" and that tonight was about underground bingo. He was very charasamtic, and funny, and I think the concept of the night is very good. I would have really enjoyed it a couple of years ago.
The premise of the night was that inbetween dancing and drinking, the music would occasionally stop and bingo would be played until someone won. The prizes ranged from a soft toy panda to a HD video camera.
I didn't win anything. Even if I had I don't think I would have pushed my way through the crowd and claimed my prize.
23:32
We walked back to the car. We discussed how old we felt, and blamed the teenagers in the club for making us feel old. Near the carpark, Nicki said the immortal words:
"Are they having sex?"
I looked over to the alley where she was pointing. There were a set of stairs. A man was thrusting, and a pair of bare legs extended over his hips.
They were definitely having sex.
We didn't want to stare, so we carried on walking. When we pulled out of the carpark we tried to get a picture on the iPhone. I don't know how good the picture is, if it ever goes up on Facebook or something I'll add it.
Friday morning
It was sometime Friday morning I realise that I really have no interest left in the going-to-clubs thing. PavTav is fine, and if people want to do something it's not like I'm going to say no, but it just doesn't hold any interest for me. Not anymore.
It's not like it was that night's fault. The night seemed pretty good, and it's not like all the people were dicks or anything.
Just in terms of going out on the town, I'm not really interested in anything more exotic than seeing my friends and drinking to some music I at least remotely like.
Maybe that makes me boring.
But I don't mind.
I'll be boring.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Fame, and the story of celebrity.
Isn't it interesting how popular music artists go through different chapters in their careers. Michael Jackson, for example:
The Chapter 1 stage consisted of being a talented little kid with dark skin and a great voice. Chapter 2 was the phase of slighty plastic appearance but still perhaps the world's greatest entertainer with incredable dance moves, churning out pop hits like it was easy. In Chapter 3 he became a talentless white guy living off past glories. Then came Chapter 4, the controversial "paedophile" stage. I'll be the first to admit I wasn't a fan of Michael Jackson as a paedophile, so I was very pleased to see him move onto Chapter 5, where he made the excellent career move of dying and reminding us how great he was.
It's like this for many contemporary artists, they go through Chapter in their careers too, except that these days there are several easily defined career paths for the modern music maker.
For a female:
1) Write a popular and succesful album, instilling the virtues that you don't need to get naked to sell records.
1a) Optional: Hint that you could well be A) a lesbian or B) a man
2) Release a mediocre record, but achieve decent sales figures because your music videos have virtually constant shots of your tits, arse or other bare body parts.
3) Become an overweight alcoholic whose career will eventually be saved by the book deal you recieve for writing about your experiences as a single mother bringing up your kids whilst addicted to the sauce.
4) Fund your retirement by sparodically selling pictures from your wedding/holiday/funeral to HEAT magazine.
Easy.
The Chapter 1 stage consisted of being a talented little kid with dark skin and a great voice. Chapter 2 was the phase of slighty plastic appearance but still perhaps the world's greatest entertainer with incredable dance moves, churning out pop hits like it was easy. In Chapter 3 he became a talentless white guy living off past glories. Then came Chapter 4, the controversial "paedophile" stage. I'll be the first to admit I wasn't a fan of Michael Jackson as a paedophile, so I was very pleased to see him move onto Chapter 5, where he made the excellent career move of dying and reminding us how great he was.
It's like this for many contemporary artists, they go through Chapter in their careers too, except that these days there are several easily defined career paths for the modern music maker.
For a female:
1) Write a popular and succesful album, instilling the virtues that you don't need to get naked to sell records.
1a) Optional: Hint that you could well be A) a lesbian or B) a man
2) Release a mediocre record, but achieve decent sales figures because your music videos have virtually constant shots of your tits, arse or other bare body parts.
3) Become an overweight alcoholic whose career will eventually be saved by the book deal you recieve for writing about your experiences as a single mother bringing up your kids whilst addicted to the sauce.
4) Fund your retirement by sparodically selling pictures from your wedding/holiday/funeral to HEAT magazine.
Easy.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Alcohol, and its failings.
Inspired by Tom's blog, which you should all read by the way : http://thisonejustcameoutoftheswamp.blogspot.com/ , I have decided to write a blog detailing why I don't get with girls at clubs, and why alcohol has failed me.
See, the whole concept of clubs is a difficult one. I was thinking how absurd the concept is really. Thousands of Britons go out nightly with the expressed purpose of getting drunk and "seeing what happens". Some people are going "on the pull", some are targeting someone, some are intent on getting whatever they can, but I bet that a good proportion of the single population of clubs are just there to see what happens. You go to enjoy yourself with your friends, and have a good night. Maybe a person of an appropriate level of sexual attractiveness and strength of character will be there. But probably not.
Taking Back Sunday put it quite nicely in Cut Me Up Jenny: "I took full advantage of, being taken full advantage of, yeah I took what I could get".
At this stage, of course, personality is virtually reduntant, as Tom makes clear, you can't hear a word, and perhaps the only way to accurately establish whether or not they are your kind of person is whether or not their lips are pressed against yours, and their hands reaching expectantly at your errogenous zones.
This is the problem for me. Overthinking things at clubs.
There is a lot to think about when trying to "pull" a girl at a club.
Firstly, you have to ask yourself, am I attractive enough to get with her. This first hurdle, is all too often the stumbling block for me. Hair that is about as controlable as an enraged rhinocerous, legs that are roughly half the size of my torso, and a stupid neck, are not a winning combination.
Arguably, of course, you could ask if she is attractive enough for you, but as I established quite a long time ago on this blog, women are infinitately more attractive than men, so it will rarely be a problem. But let's look past this.
Once you have established that you believe you are, in fact, attractive enough, you must face the next question. Is she drunk enough?
I am willing to bet you could produce a pretty consistent line graph showing your chances of success rising exponentially with each additional vodka shot she consumes.
If she appears drunk enough, excellent, there is only one step left.
Are you drunk enough?
Now this one really is a tough one, and one I have not mastered. If I drink too little I find myself aggravated by the oft-awful music playing. If I drink too much I end up sitting out on the street desperately trying to remember my own name, and how not to throw up.
Now then, we can see that I gave alcohol just one simple job to do; make me ultra confident, and it failed. The reason I drink alcohol is definitely not because I like the flavour. It's not because I like waking up and feeling like my mouth has experienced a drought only comparable in the hotter regions of Africa. It's not becuase I don't like remembering things.
I drink because, fundamentally, I am not all that confident, and I need to forget that. I need to be innebriated to the point where ultimate clarity has taken over and I can focus solely on the fact that I only live once, and that girl is hot.
It comes down to an epic battle between thinking vs. alcohol. Thinking almost always wins. And on the rare occasion alcohol wins it tends to go crazy and obliterate any thoughts, not returning til perhaps midday tomorrow.
I am no longer convinced.
See, the whole concept of clubs is a difficult one. I was thinking how absurd the concept is really. Thousands of Britons go out nightly with the expressed purpose of getting drunk and "seeing what happens". Some people are going "on the pull", some are targeting someone, some are intent on getting whatever they can, but I bet that a good proportion of the single population of clubs are just there to see what happens. You go to enjoy yourself with your friends, and have a good night. Maybe a person of an appropriate level of sexual attractiveness and strength of character will be there. But probably not.
Taking Back Sunday put it quite nicely in Cut Me Up Jenny: "I took full advantage of, being taken full advantage of, yeah I took what I could get".
At this stage, of course, personality is virtually reduntant, as Tom makes clear, you can't hear a word, and perhaps the only way to accurately establish whether or not they are your kind of person is whether or not their lips are pressed against yours, and their hands reaching expectantly at your errogenous zones.
This is the problem for me. Overthinking things at clubs.
There is a lot to think about when trying to "pull" a girl at a club.
Firstly, you have to ask yourself, am I attractive enough to get with her. This first hurdle, is all too often the stumbling block for me. Hair that is about as controlable as an enraged rhinocerous, legs that are roughly half the size of my torso, and a stupid neck, are not a winning combination.
Arguably, of course, you could ask if she is attractive enough for you, but as I established quite a long time ago on this blog, women are infinitately more attractive than men, so it will rarely be a problem. But let's look past this.
Once you have established that you believe you are, in fact, attractive enough, you must face the next question. Is she drunk enough?
I am willing to bet you could produce a pretty consistent line graph showing your chances of success rising exponentially with each additional vodka shot she consumes.
If she appears drunk enough, excellent, there is only one step left.
Are you drunk enough?
Now this one really is a tough one, and one I have not mastered. If I drink too little I find myself aggravated by the oft-awful music playing. If I drink too much I end up sitting out on the street desperately trying to remember my own name, and how not to throw up.
Now then, we can see that I gave alcohol just one simple job to do; make me ultra confident, and it failed. The reason I drink alcohol is definitely not because I like the flavour. It's not because I like waking up and feeling like my mouth has experienced a drought only comparable in the hotter regions of Africa. It's not becuase I don't like remembering things.
I drink because, fundamentally, I am not all that confident, and I need to forget that. I need to be innebriated to the point where ultimate clarity has taken over and I can focus solely on the fact that I only live once, and that girl is hot.
It comes down to an epic battle between thinking vs. alcohol. Thinking almost always wins. And on the rare occasion alcohol wins it tends to go crazy and obliterate any thoughts, not returning til perhaps midday tomorrow.
I am no longer convinced.
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