Booze Revooze: A Drinker’s Skewed View of THE KING’S SPEECH

[Click here for a guide to Booze Revooze and the rating system used]

From the juiced-box and NOT the soundtrack:

[Press ‘Play’ for s-s-s-s-s-some r-r-r-real st-t-t-tut-t-t-t-tering]

I'm Speechless

Ramblings: The King’s Peachy

Final Proof: 3½ Shots

You know how you get drunk with English royalty—even one you’d bone? Sure, they’re nice enough as they sit there sipping the tea they spiked with Beefeater and they’re cooler than you thought because they get a little buzz on and tell a few jokes and say some shit you wouldn’t expect a Queen or a queen (hey, that’s the way they roll) to say and open up a little wider than you’d have thought possible as the gin starts diluting their blue blood, but they never truly cut loose as an English girl after three pints. Nobody laughs so hard beer comes out their nose and nobody gets so drunk they piss themselves and walk around in squishy shoes but instead, like at a British pub, the whole evening shuts down at around 11pm. You’ll be entertained for sure, but if you want a movie that’s not as flat and tepid as English beer, The King’s Speech is a royal disappointment.

Miss Demeanor Says This Looks Like Our Apartment

i liked The King’s Speech and if you don’t believe me all you have to do is look up there and check out the 3½ shots i gave this bad boy. This movie was as traditional and respectable and pleasant as teatime, and if that’s what you’re looking for then go and see this and god bless you and all who sail on you. But if you’re looking for something with more kick than warm milk, you may find yourself less high than dry here.

Still, i had a couple favorite parts and they were this one scene where the ponce and future King (Colin Firth) learned he could overcome his stammer by swearing. The other really cool thing was his wife’s (Helena Bonham Carter) desperate hope that things would be OK for him. That was pretty touching.

I G-g-g-got Your B-b-b-back

The rest of the movie was interesting in a historical way because there was a lot of shit that happened in England before that i really didn’t care a lot about and this movie showed me why not. Plus it got nominated for a buttload of Oscars so it must’ve been a good movie.

Speaking of Oscars, i wanna raise a glass to Colin Firth and foremothe because he got so drunk after winning a BAFTA (the British rip off of the Oscars) that he left his statue in the bar. If that’s what he does when he wins, i’m hoping if he loses he’ll come into the Bar None to drown his sorrows.

As if that wasn’t enough and you and i both know it never is, here’s the link to Oscar’s Booze Revoozes.

Guess what, we got us some vestibule virgins… i’m carding Freya Wilson and Romona Marquez. Freya played the young Princess Elizabeth, Romona was Princess Margaret and, at 11 and 10 years old very respectively, these talented young ladies aren’t allowed any further into the Bar None.

Freya Wilson

Ramona Marquez

Buzz Kills (Watch Out for Spoilers)

Sex: 0 Shots

Yeah, this movie was as sexy as pre-war England. Or post-war England. Or England any time, if you want to know the truth. Seriously, when someone asks you to rank sexy places, the United Kingdom is at the top only of Tom Cruise’s or Richard Gere’s To Do list and that’s just because it’s home to Freddy Mercury, Elton John and George Michaels.

Of course, there’s Helena Bonham Carter but she can’t carry the sexy for the movie all alone, especially with all the clothes they made her wear. Sure, it was nice seeing her in a more traditional than Harry Potter and the Burton stuff, it just would’ve been nicer to see her more traditionally naked.

Here’s more action than you’ll see from her in the movie.

There’s a couple spare shots of her hanging out in my drawers. Keep scrolling down ’til you see them.

For those of you less into tongues than twisters, i got Colin Firth.

A Smoke

Drink: 1 Shot

Not a whole hell of a lot of that going on here either but at least it was more than the sex.

Here’s the breakdown:

  • They drink whiskey from a decanter
  • Expensive champagne and buckets of booze at King Edward’s Scottish party
  • Beer in pubs during The Speech

The King's Speech in the Bar None

Slurred Speeches

Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush): My father was a brewer, at least there was free beer.

.

Lionel: I’ll just put on some hot milk.

Prince Albert / King George VI (Colin Firth): I’d kill for something stronger.

A Smoke

Rock & Roll: 0 Shots

Get real.

Boring Technical Crap

Written by: David Seidler

Directed by: Tom Hooper

Starring

  • Helena Bonham Carter – Queen Elizabeth
  • Freya Wilson – Princess Elizabeth
  • Ramona Marquez – Princess Margaret
  • Colin Firth – King George VI
  • Geoffrey Rush – Lionel Logue

Bottom Line

See it so you’ll have something to talk about when pseudo-intellectuals squat the stool next to yours.

Al K Hall’s Drawers

Haven’t Had Your Fill of the Booze Revooze? Click here for another round.

Oscar’s Booze Revoozes

Here’s a list of the Booze Revoozes written about films nominated for an Oscar:

(Oh yeah, the dead links will be resuscitated when i get off my ass and write them.)

Best Picture

The Social Network

The King’s Speech

127 Hours

Black Swan

True Grit

Actress in a Leading Role

Nathalie Portman in Black Swan

Actress in a Supporting Role

Helena Bonham Carter in The King’s Speech

Hailee Steinfeld in True Grit

Actor in a Leading Role

Jesse Eisenberg in The Social Network

Colin Firth in The King’s Speech

Jeff Bridges in True Grit

James Franco in 127 Hours

Actor in a Supporting Role

Jeremy Renner in The Town

Geoffrey Rush in The King’s Speech

Directing

Black Swan by Darren Aronofsky

The King’s Speech by Tom Hooper

The Social Network by David Fincher

Also Runs

Alice in Wonderland (Art Direction)

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 (Art Direction)

The Hot Rod Unloads: Hot, Heavy and Drunken Petting

You know how you get drunk and start thinking that you have the sexual prowess of a porn star, before deciding to try acting on it and discovering that, actually, you don’t? I put this to the male members of the Bar None’s quorum of intellect, since they’re the ones most likely to try it on with the females in the joint…. it’s a broad generalization, I know, but are you really going to argue the point? It’s my experience that alcohol makes men randy, and women flirty – there’s a subtle difference I’ll get to in a moment; we all know a randy drunk man experience, right girls? Let’s face it: men, when pissed, think they have a 12-inch penis and a body like The Situation. Girls, though, tend to follow the example set by Cyndi Lauper: the Before looks stunningly hot, sexy and sultry, the kind of woman most men would lust after – the After looks like a cross between Sid Vicious and Sid Haig, a laugh like Fran Drescher on helium, and an exhibitionism mandate that makes Graham Norton look like a choirboy. Which is why Beer Goggles are a great invention.

From the Juiced Box: Kevin Bloody Wilson – Do You F*** On First Dates?

 

The greatest invention ever?

Beer goggles are often blamed for a multitude of facepalm moments The Morning After, as you roll off the bed and try escaping the clutches of whichever fat-best-friend you slutted yourself with to get into the panties of the girl you’re really into. Alcohol makes the brain process images in a different kind of way: the ugliest, fattest, most socially repugnant member of the opposite sex is suddenly transformed into (at least) an option for copulation, if not an outright certainty. Thoughts along the “well, he/she isn’t that bad lookin’” line start to bubble up, and before long, you’re playing tonsil hockey with somebody who looks like they’ve eaten a herd of cows. The speed at which this occurs is directly proportional to the quantity of alcohol imbibed.

 

Ye Olde Timey Sexing

All of which leads me to the topic of this post: the inexplicably amusing concept of Drunk Sex, and the journey we all take along the pathway to it. Most consenting adults have tried it at some stage, with varying degrees of success. Men find alcoholic courage allows them to try it on with a woman, bypassing the social conventions of meeting and getting to know a woman before trying to sleep with her. Women, on the other hand, get all flirty by steadfastly refuse to put out: drunk women are, frankly, a sexual pain in the ass. In every way imaginable. Most of the time, when the clothing becomes less restrictive, and more bare flesh is shown, and the louder the laugh and the wobblier the walk, the less inclined the womenfolk are to let a man…. well, you know. It’s my experience that woman become a giant prick-tease after they’ve had a skin full. It’s frustrating as all hell for the men, who’re only trying to do the most natural thing in the world by screwing their brains out in an orgy of lust and sexual release – like two positives, drunk women and men will almost always repel each other.

 

Fun? I doubt that...

That being said, there are exceptions. On the occasion when two people manage to get themselves into the position (ahem) of being intimate with each other, and both said people are a little hammered (or blind drunk, whichever you prefer), the act of procreation becomes something of a routine the likes of which will never make it onto Comedy Central. Limbs thrashing, sweaty skin and the slo-motion fumbling which feels like Basic Instinct but looks more like Showgirls, Drunk Sex is like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole. The man usually has a lack of ability to maintain his erection, and the woman is breathing so heavy the curtains threaten to open by themselves and expose all the goings-on to the rest of the world. Neither wants to admit they’re unable to enjoy themselves because they’re concentrating so hard on being the Perfect Lover and being not-quite-so-pissed, the sexiness of the fantasy is replaced with the cold, limp realization that sex whilst drunk is an event so replete with ineptitude it’s never gonna get a look in at the Olympics. So after the man fails to satisfy the woman, or himself for that matter, and both of them collapse on the bed/floor/pavement in an exhausted pretense of being “finished”, one of them will invariably mention the concept of “spooning”, and so they both fall into a slumber with the aforementioned unfinished business a rapidly evaporating memory.

 

An example of wooden things spooning....

However, the real belly-laughs come from The Morning After, when both parties awake to find that the person they thought was quite hot and sexy the night before, actually looks like a reject from Hoarders. The Lauren Hutton gap-toothed look you thought was modern and chic the night before is actually a Redneck-style cigarette-caused tooth decay miasma of proportions not seen since Faces Of Meth. If both parties wake up at the same time, that uncomfortable awkwardness of the realization usually results in a conversation along the lines of:

Ugh. What time is it?”

10.”

In the morning?”

I have to get to work.”

It’s Sunday.”

Right.”

Pause.

I have to get to work. I’ll call you.”

Hurried location of clothing, buttons half left undone, then a swiftly written fake phone number, a pause by the door to look back longingly (which is actually a mental note never to drink and fuck again), and scarper to wherever it was you think you left the car.

That’s if both parties wake at the same time.

 

This could be you on The Morning After...

The alternative is one of them (preferably you) wakes first, and notices the harridan next to them has breath that could chemically castrate a Catholic priest, looks like a small moon just crashed into the Earth, has a physical deformity they thought was sexually exciting less than 12 hours ago, and desperately tries to extricate themselves before the other party wakes. There’s no phone number left, often not even any kind of evidence at all that you were there save a skid mark on the sheets or a used condom wrapper (with the condom often still inside, because Ansell are bastards at making condoms fucking impossible to get up and running when your fingers feel like tree trunks) lying embarrassingly in the middle of the floor.

 

There. Is. No. Escape.

I can’t claim to have ever been in that situation, mind you. I’ve only garnered this opinion from what I’ve seen on television, read about thanks to tabloid journalism (yay the British press!) or seen happen to friends I’ve known through the years. I did try a drunken session with my wife once…. so I avoided the unpleasant Beer Goggles in the Bar scenario, but since she was sober it made for a less-than-satisfactory performance that evening, let me tell you. No, I don’t mind admitting it. Drunken Sex is funny to watch, but not that funny to go through personally. It can be a debilitating ego-killer, and it can get very, very messy. Sex should be messy in a good way, not in a drunken spewgasm after fornicating like two morphine addicted elderly folks trying to copulate over a zimmer frame: the sweaty, sheet ripping, pillow destroying, Lady Gaga-styled antics of a normal session in the bedroom should involve almost complete recall of the event, not a blank stare when mention is made of it around the water cooler the next morning.

Just remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a hot night of passion with some wanton drunken skank you just met – even at The Bar None – drunken sex can be a vile, life-altering experience from which there is no forgetting the horror of – gasp – the morning after.

i Left Myself for Dead

Artist’s Hallucination of what this must’ve looked like

From the juiced-box and a testament to me…

For me, suicide was not a philosophical decision, it was an alcohological miscalculation.

Swallowing 8 prescription sleeping pills and more than 100 Nighttime Tylenol (i lied to every doctor who asked and told them i’d only taken around 25-30—fuck, i didn’t want to sound crazy) simply seemed like a good idea at the time.

The upside? Because you know there’s always an upside. The upside was that, in addition to the tatooed bruises, scrapes and cuts i don’t remember getting, i almost got to suffocate in my own vomit and die like Jimi Hendrix.

Earlier that evening i’d been to a grown up cocktail party with Miss Demeanor. You could tell it was a grown up party because it was in an artist’s apartment, all the furniture was white and there were tons of gay men there. Oh yeah and we drank only wine. Personally, i drank loads of it…exactly how much no one can be sure but my consumption was measured not in glasses but bottles.

i don’t remember getting home just like i don’t remember getting the idea to overdose. Knowing me as i do, i suspect the main reason erupted from a dread of going to work the next day with a hangover. Add to that some financial troubles that have been piling up like bills and peaked when i received an expulsion notice upon returning from my Christmas vacation.

Another big inducement was that i wanted to see what would happen next. Either i’d die or end up in a hospital and i was kinda curious to see which one it would be.

After the decision, i remember taking the pills from my nightstand and telling Miss D that i loved my kids, my parents, my sister, my ex and that i loved her. i insisted that she remember this message.

Next thing, i was sitting at the desk with a fistful of capsules in my sweaty hand and, even as drunk as i was, i knew that i was on the edge of something and i had to decide to look or to leap. i reprimanded myself for being a wuss, commanded myself to man up and swallowed the tablets. Then i went to the medicine cabinet for the second bottle of Nighttime Tylenol and emptied the contents of that one as well.

Hiding the various pill containers at the bottom of the trash, i commended myself on my foresight through double vision.

After that, my evening went downhill. i sat down at the computer, posted a message to this blog, then to another blog (“No one loved life as much as me”, or something of that ilk), and then i started posted posting to my 3rd blog and this is what came out:

Never meant for some one as beu(ètttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttyyyyhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggguuuuuuuuuuuuuuyuu s= asyymh

Knowing me as i do, i’m guessing this is a reference to Don McLean’s “Vincent”. (“And when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night, you took your life as lovers often do.”)

i woke up on my back in ICU with my wrists strapped to the bars of my hospital bed. Ironically, the biggest danger came not from the sleeping pills but the Tylenols. i quickly made my way out of the woods concerning the sedatives but Miss Demeanor, myself and the rest would have to wait another 24 hours to discover if i’d recover or die from liver failure. And i did. Just joshing. Here i am.

To conclude, allow me to reiterate what i stated at the beginning of this horrifically boring and sexless post. i did not want to kill myself because of any profound sadness or psychic surrender. i had not been walking around contemplating suicide days before the incident. i was feeling a little pressured by life, but i would not have done what i did if i hadn’t been drunk. Alcohillogical.

Stop Reading Here

A quick disclaimer. While i attempted to pen this post with a certain degree of levity, i do want to acknowledge very clearly that for those in my entourage, there was nothing at all even remotely amusing in all of this. This is especially true for Miss D and my 16-year old son who found me the next morning and had to call the EMTs. My son (and i would not have taken the pills if i’d remembered he was staying with us that night) refused to talk to me for 3 weeks after the event, while Miss D and i are still battling the ramifications.

The Hot Rod Unloads: Drinkin’ – Is It A Spectator Sport?

You know how you go to a bar, hop on a stool to knock back a few, before witnessing some complete tool down the other end behaving like an imbecile, and all you can think of is why the bouncer at the door let him/her in in the first place. Usually late in the evening, there’s always a dickhead or two to watch get absolutely smashed by first the drink, then some stranger they’ve met and abused, and finally the bouncer throwing them out. Often, it’s quite hilarious, with the bodily fluids and hoarse, booze-affected vocalisations threatening various forms of “wahahh blergggg ahhhrggerbylyyy”, before finding solace in spending the rest of the evening picking teeth from the pavement outside. Unless it’s you that’s the cause, of course, which would be indicated by a lack of ability to stay inside the bar you just got thrown out of.

The problem with alcohol, aside from the obvious physical stuff, is the fact that it makes some people furious. Not sure why, but there are people in the world known by the somewhat appalling label of “they’re a mean drunk”. Generally, add alcohol to make an absolute wanker. People who can’t handle their alcohol, even in minor doses, and turn to rage and antisocial behaviour to make their points, are among the most abhorrent kind of drunkard – perhaps only bested by those fucksticks who go home from the bar and beat their wives. Generally, antisocial behaviour is less tolerated, and in Australia at least, a lot less socially acceptable than it might have been back in the day. In this day of lawsuits and “what about me?” attitudes from the younger generation, people aren’t so easily ignorant of those who seek to create havoc with their drinking. Since humans are fundamentally social animals, the majority of us spend time in the company of others – work, home or simply out stalking a Hollywood movie star. While normal human interaction is controlled by social etiquette and conventions, the addition of alcohol can often (and does, often) lead to a breakdown in those social barriers, to create a Super Human…. in a sense. A human who is no longer restricted by their upbringing, who no longer walks inside the laws of Right and Wrong, is a dangerous one. Often, they do stupid things involving property destruction and public lewdness, invariably leading to some kind of police involvement. Or, they involve themselves in a dangerous scenario leading to hospitalisation and months of rehab: jumping from a rooftop or driving a vehicle, among others.

 

Drunken Jumping Roofing Idiot.

I’ve seen a few truly hilarious drunken escapades in my time, mostly involving a groom’s Stag Night or a bride’s Hens Night – usually the most socially acceptable scenario in which to get plastered and wander the streets with a pair of fake boobs attached to your front, hollerin’ down any car that’ll stop and asking them to take you to your intended love for a session of mad, romantic sex. (Which reminds me, I’m working on a post regarding drunken sex at the moment!). Myself, I didn’t drink on my Stag Night, although I did visit the obligatory strip club and enjoy a nice, sensual lapdance (or three) from several eye-candy pieces strutting the floor. My intent at the time was to actually be able to remember what happened on my Stag Night, rather than have it disappear into a haze of rum-induced phantasmic ghost-memory, empty moments from which those weird phone calls begin with a husky female voice saying how much they loved what I did to them and wondering if I could do it again, and soon. And missing clothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever tried to pick somebody up while I was drunk, but I will admit to trying to pick up a girl while she was drunk. Bad, I know, but I was about 18 and didn’t know any better. See, I’d been doing a shift of the local radio station for the Saturday night party show, and had been phoned up at the studio by a young girl who wanted me to come to a party with her after I finished. We chatted in between songs and adverts about everything she could think of, and I do remember she seemed like a pretty nice girl, if a little flirty. Mind you, how can any woman resist the dulcet tones of a man on radio, right? Yeah. I finished my shift at midnight, and after a drive of a half hour to the party (it was in the next town from where I was) I met her at a predetermined place we both knew. I can’t for the life of me remember her name, but I think it was Tracy or something. Anyway, MaybeTracy had a couple of her friends with her, and they were all of sweet 16 – and had been drinking. Not that I minded, because as soon as she saw me, young MaybeTracy gave me a big hug and didn’t let go. Perhaps she saw me as a giant bottle of hooch, I’m not sure, but as we walked from my car to the party (about three blocks) she didn’t once let me go. Since I was 18, my hormones were going absolutely crazy with her intimacy – I would be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly turned on, but being stone-cold sober and a little timid to try anything, about the worst I did was put my arm around her to support her as she staggered along. MaybeTracy was quite pretty, a fair face surrounded by a frame of dark hair, and that soft, lilting voice of teen drunkeness – slurred words and spittle.

 

Join me for a drink....

We arrived at the party, which was at some dude’s place whom I did not know, but I went in like I owned the joint, MaybeTracy at my side and her friends trailing along behind, giggling wildly. We sat on the couch, I had a beer thrown into my hands (I didn’t drink the stuff, and eventually found a spare second to casually put it aside without much notice) and we sat there, listening the sounds of Rednex murdering “Cotton Eye Joe.” MaybeTracy was yabbering away in drunk-speak to me, hardly pausing to listen to any reply I may give, while I was passing a casual eye around the room with increasing amusement. The majority of the people at this party were my age or younger, the tweeny-bopper giggle-shits, and the majority of them were holding those stupid pre-mixed lolly drinks with names like Lemon Spike and Pink Velvet and stuff. The dance music, after about twenty minutes of a mega mix of Reel 2 Reel’s “I Like To Move It”, Roxette’s “Sleeping In My Car” and Ace Of Base’s “All That She Wants”, eventually shifted to the more slo-motion make-out crap like Bryan Adams and his band doing “All For Love”. Fuck you Bryan Adams, you soft core music peddler: go back to your garage band in ’69. All I seem to recall from the early 90’s was your gradual whoring of a decent singing career to shite like “Please Forgive Me”, the aforementioned “All For Love”, and “Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman?”, the latter of which is designed specifically to make men feel both guilty and inadequate. Yeah, fuck you Bryan Adams. My radio career highlights involved your incessant warbling – and it ruined me.

 

The Hot Rod in his early days...

The Shittiest Love Song Ever Written – All 4 One: I Swear

Ahem.

Anyway, the Juice-box had just kicked in with All 4 One’s “I Swear” when MaybeTracy decided she’d had enough of sitting there with me, and she got up and started dancing. She grabbed my hand and dragged me up, pulling me close. Dear Penthouse, I never thought this could happen to me. As we swayed there, surrounded by half-shouted conversations and alcoholic staggering, I looked down at her – she looked up at me – and we kissed. Awww. So I thought my luck was in, dontcha know? But the problem was, she was drunk (and getting drunkererer) while I was trying to stay sober – after all, I still had to drive home, and the thought of crashing on the couch of this house was as unappealing as typhoid. I began to feel guilty, an attack of my conscience like Jimminy frickin’ Cricket was sitting on my shoulder yabbering away. I didn’t want to take advantage of her, so my options were to either get hammered myself, or stop and go home. So I went home. Like a loser. A perfect chance to get laid, albeit with somebody who most likely remember later on anyway, gone begging due to my principles. Damn me for not being an asshole.

The point of this, though, isn’t to ask for your sympathy is a missed sexual opportunity. It’s to highlight the fact that I was an alcoholic spectator – instead of drinking and becoming part of the seething mass of teen-drunkeness, I stayed sober and ended up feeling worse. I look back and thank God I didn’t go through with the plans my penis had for MaybeTracy, because I know it was the right thing to do, but for years afterwards I regretted my decision. Had I been drunk, had I had a few bevvies whilst sitting on the couch and cuddling with this girl I’d just met (God, how much of a whore am I? – Don’t answer that!) I could very well have ended up doing the x-axis tango in a blur of thrashing limbs and fumbled seconds. Mind you, watching the girls at this party losing their inhibitions was a pretty sweet trade-off. Whilst on the couch, goggling at the skimpy outfits worn by the girls of the time, the amount of faux-flirting going on by both the guys and girls was extraordinary. As opposed to a drunken rampage of toxic anger and rage, like you’d find at any club and bar you care to visit these days, it seems, the teenage-dance crowd seemed content to get hammered, get frisky, and get-to gropin’. The mix of rampant hormones and alcohol induced a sexually liberated malaise over the group. I did see a few boobs that night, although not from MaybeTracy, which made me happy: a poor offset for the fact that I didn’t actually get any sex.

 

How it looks to slow dance while drunk...

When I moved to the big city, however, the adults there behaved like maniacs when drunk. Instead of a “free love” environment reminiscent of the Swinging 60’s, Austin Powers was pretty much gang raped by the late 90’s adult-drunk animosity which permeated our culture. Instead of the frisky, hint-of-nipple groping going on, for the most part, adults became even more isolated from each other, as alcohol served to inflame tension rather than quench it. The infrequency with which I joined the boys at a bar to drink a few only served to highlight the general stupidity of adult humans when pissed. Almost every time out, we’d notice some imbecile making an ass of himself (side note: now, it’s more often the girls being an imbecile… a social swing which is only too recent) and inevitably the cops would be called as punches started to fly. But, as with the couch party I attended waaaay back, there was also plenty of flesh being shown off. And that’s the thing, isn’t it boys. Go to any bar, anywhere, and if it’s loud enough, eventually those skimpy dresses and short skirts, skin-tight tops and boob-tubes will begin to lack the ability to cover what they’re supposed to. The more crowded the bar, the more likely it is. And of course, the drunker the girls are, the likelihood skyrockets. Which is why I usually like to go to a bar and not drink, just to scab a perv at some free flesh – although when I say it like that, it really does sound disgusting.

 

Early days at The Bar None

Going to bars isn’t high on my weekly quota of activities either, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bar-hound in real life. The danger of frequenting a bar, especially the wrong bar, was made all too clear one day when several of the boys at work didn’t come in for a week because they’d been involved in a bar brawl (something I’ve actually always wanted to see, an all-in brawl like they have in the movies!). When they finally did return to work, all battered and bruised, one of the guys showed me a specific injury which he seemed to be wearing with pride. False pride, I think, as he pulled up his shirt to expose the still-visible bruise-mark of where he’s been hit with a bit of chain: apparently, the biker he’d bumped into at this bar was carrying a piece of chain around just for special occasions, and so had whipped my work colleague like a dog with it during the fight. You could still make out the individual links in the chain from the indents in his skin. Who the fuck carries a chain into a bar? Bikers, apparently.

 

Too much booze often led to a dis-clothesure policy at The Bar None.

I now consider myself to be an alcoholic spectator: somebody who will tell you he’s drinking a Rum+Coke when he’s actually drinking just Coke. I maintain my equilibrium, by ability for rational thought, and my dignity, while laughing internally at the folks who end up plastered all over the floor and sidewalk. Like a massive game of Eye Spy, or Bingo, you mark off the clichéd alcoholic behaviour you witness until the board is full, and you can put your hands in the air and exclaim “BINGO” with as much force as possible. Watching drunk people is more fun that being drunk myself, I find. That’s not to say I don’t mind having a drink, but no longer to excess (unless it’s a special occasion) – I just find people trying to behave normally while their brains feel like hot syrup is much more amusing than a hangover.

So let’s hear it folks: what’s your best Spectator Drinking Story – if you have one. We want the funniest, most insane stuff you’ve got! Let fly below in the comments!

The Hot Rod Unloads: My Last Drunken Night

You know how you resign from a job, and all your work colleagues want to take you to the pub and get you hammered? Ply you with booze, perhaps engage in a few physical challenges midway through the evening and hopefully find you hooking up with a young nubile hottie out with her friends? Maybe even a little out-of-tune karaoke? Or a lot? You know how you look forward to that impending drink-fest with only the merest hint of fear that you could find yourself bondaged to a train carriage on your way to Christ knows where, with no wallet and no phone? Or waking up naked tied to a light pole on a major intersection with an entire used roll of clingfoil nearby? Actually, that last one sounds like a standard Sunday morning at my place…!

 

To find out why this picture is here, keep reading.

The classic scene of the final-day-at-work-booze-up ended up happening to yours truly at the end of last year, when I resigned from my job at a transport company, a position I’d held for about 6 years. My work image was one of relative abstinence from alcohol, an image I’d tried hard to subvert with conversations about a bottle of wine I’d drunk the weekend before, or how I used to party a lot in my younger days – stuff I’d make up to sound cooler than I actually way. The day I announced my resignation to the office, was the day at least three people came up to me and proclaimed that on my last day, they were going to get me absolutely smashed and make me make a fool of myself. I could only utter one single phrase: bring it on.

From The Juiced Box – Jimmy Barnes: Cheap Wine :

I’ve mentioned before here at the Bar None that I’m not the worlds biggest drinker – I like the casual wine or Rum+Coke, but I very rarely drink to excess. Al’s made a living regaling us all with his stories of drunken excess (much of which can be attributed to his recent lack of visibility here at the Bar None) and while it would make me feel better to say that I can drink along with the best of them, I’m afraid to say, I can’t.

So when the date of my impending a-drink-alypse was set, so was the date for my liver to potentially collapse. Warn the ER, I may be comin’ in. The final day, of course, was pretty easy for me, with my feet up on the desk shrugging my shoulders at all and sundry who thought I’d still be doing some work. Idiots! As a going away present, they gave me an inflatable sex toy in the form of a sheep, as well as a voucher to spend on my other favourite thing: BluRays.

Rodney with his ex-work colleagues at the Bar None...

 

But the main event was to come. Around 6.30, a number of us arrived for our session at a local drinking establishment (no, I’m not proud to admit that it wasn’t The Bar None!), and I proceeded to start on my first drink. It was a well mixed Rum & Coke, my drink of choice for writing myself off. My wife had decided to drop me off at the bar, and return home to baby-sit my daughter, which was nice of her – especially considering I’d done the same for her the weekend before! Essentially, I was a man out on the town without a leash: a combination of freedom and alcohol makes for a very tipsy Rodney before the night is out.

Since I arrived first (to my own going-away party… what’s with that?) I had to buy my own drink first, which I did, but as I sat down to enjoy it and listen to the godawful dance beats pumping over the speaker system, several of my now-former work colleagues arrived as well. The most common question I was asked that night, as far as I can recall amidst the blur of wonky floorboards and puking in the bushes out the back of the bar, was “how many have you had?”, referring to the quantity of drinks, of course. After about the fifth drink, I couldn’t remember how many I’d had. Not to mention that my drinks were coming with such alacrity that I couldn’t even finish one before I had another in my hand, and you can imagine that had I been in any condition to allow my brain to function properly, I still would’ve had no idea.

 

Getting ready to start drinking...

After a while, I started to feel very sleepy: it’s a well established fact that instead of getting even funnier and more verbose than I already am, when I have a bit to drink I start to get tired. So there I am, slumped on one of the seats at this bar, a couple of people propping me up and asking me if I needed another drink, when all I wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. But I pushed through. For a while. Funny how you get to the stage where you suddenly realise that you no longer have control over your body, and can recall that moment with absolute clarity later on.

A while later – it could have been and hour or five minutes, I wouldn’t know – I started to get that feeling in my gut that things weren’t right. I’d had a little bit for tea, but probably not enough to stop the vomit-instinct I knew would kick in soon. Sure enough: heave… a bit of a swaying stomach made me reach for one of my mates and ask him to carry me to the lavatory. He and another of my friends do so, with my feet dragging along the floor as I feel them go out from under me. Propped up in the dank, squalid cubicle, smelling a bunch of piss and poo around me, I tried to keep whatever monster was in my guts from breaching the surface. Fuck you man, my gut responded. But I swallowed hard, and forbade a vomit event.

 

The drinking begins...

I was dragged outside by my now-concerned mates, and as I stood there against a railing, overlooking a nicely hedged sunken garden, I unloaded. All that rum and coke came back up, a creamy stream of projectile chunder looking more like chicken soup than stomach contents. At the same time as it sickened me, I was quite impressed: I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up so hard or so much apart from having a stomach upset. My mates patted me on the back… well, one of them did. At the same time as I was having a conversation with the bushes below and emptying my tea into them, a quite attractive woman came up and started chatting to one of my mates: ostensibly seeing if I was okay, but secretly I think she was trying to pick up. The mate who was being chatted up suddenly seemed to forget I was there.

Immediately after my spewgasm, I began to feel better. I didn’t know it at the time, but this feeling would pass. In the moment, though, I decided to get back to the bar, and my other friends, and keep drinking. My legs still wouldn’t work right, so I was half-carried, half-staggered back to the bar, propped up on a stool, and made to drink more. I say “made” when I really mean “self inflict”. A few Jager Bombs later (a mixture of Jagermeister and Red Bull), and I was completely, utterly, irrevocably fucked. And by fucked I mean totally smashed. I didn’t even know which way was up. I think it was to the left, but I wasn’t sure.

The drinks are taking effect.

 

After a few drinks (I think), I began to feel horrific again, and once more asked to be taken outside where I could safely release my stomach again into the bushes. I did so. But at that point, somewhere in the fog my brain called “thought”, I realised I’d had enough. I was beyond fucked, and I had a wife and child back home to get to – if I thought a taxi would stop and pick me up, I might have fumbled my way through the process. But the wife of a good mate came out, I grabbed her arm and asked her to take me home, in the most forceful manner I could. Not because I hated her or anything, but because I wanted to impart just how fucked I was, and how important it was for me not to be offered any more drinks.

She and her husband slid me into their car, and while my guts probably had no more contents to eject anywhere, I wasn’t about to take a chance. I grabbed an old McDonald’s bag stashed in the back seat and held it to my face like an aircraft sick-bag, and we began the journey back to my place. A journey which seemed to go on forever, with all the lights, motion and sounds of a city in party mode (it was a Friday night, after all) scrambling rational thought and creating a discombobulating discordance that made me even more disoriented. They dropped me out the front of my place, where I staggered down the back to where the garage door opened as I fumbled with my keys. I was going to go in the back door, since I didn’t want to wake the good wife, and with our bedroom quite close to the front door, thought the sound of me struggling with something as complicated as a fucking door lock might cause a reaction I didn’t need. The fact that she’d left the front door unlocked, and had told me she would before I even left, had been forgotten.

 

Really starting to feel it now....

I couldn’t open the back door. The exterior light had blown, and blown good, which meant the moonlight dampened by a think band of cumulonimbus had to be enough. It wasn’t, and I think I stood at the back door for about fifteen minutes convinced I’d be able to pull an Ocean’s 11 out my ass and get inside. I staggered back, and slumped against the car parked there behind me. God I was tired. I don’t recall ever being so tired in my life, at least, not this week anyway. I decided to rest my head on the back of the car, just for a moment. Moment. Moment. Several moments. Waking with a start, and wondering just how long I’d stood sleeping on the car like an idiot, I made the decision to go in the front door, my memory suddenly recalling the open-door policy we’d instigated that night.

Stumbling through the front door with the subtlety of a hamstrung elephant, I slid down the hallway to the lounge, where I was going to sober up a little. On my way, I grabbed a bucket from the laundry to catch any future vomit (one can never be too sure) and slid, sighing with gratitude, into the soft, cushiony embrace of our modular lounge. By this stage, I’d started to think about what had happened during the night: I had gaps, and that wasn’t a good sign. But I don’t think I did anything untoward, except the bit with the vomit…. and that was to be expected.

 

Been here? Let us know!!!

My evening ended with me waking up at about 6am, a carpet-mouth and slightly fuzzy head, getting a drink of water (the first of many that day…) and going to bed. My wife woke up a while later, and left me there (so she said) to sleep it off. To this day, the best recollection I have of the night is a gallery of photos on Facebook, the contents of which I’ve shared through this article. Considering a photo of the tits of the “Hottest Girl At Work” was taken (see photo below) and I don’t even remember it, I consider the evening to be the highlight of my life thus far.

So why recount this story? I know it’s not that alarming, nor is it the wildest night many of you have ever seen, heard or participated in. I didn’t wake up tied to a pole with clingwrap, nor did I find myself naked on a train bound for somewhere I didn’t know; for a casual drinker such as myself, though, I thought I managed to scrape through a potential disaster like getting hammered into oblivion with a great deal of fortitude. I didn’t embarrass myself (any more than normal), nor did I injure myself or anybody else in my efforts.

However, the following day, when I went to pull my keys from the pocket of my jeans, I pulled out a condom. I don’t carry condoms as a matter of course, because I have a wife and always know I’m faithful to her, but it did surprise me. My investigations revealed that one of my friends had decided it’d be a good larf to put a condom in my pocket for the wife to find when she washed my clothes… yeah guys, a great larf!

So I ask you, dear reader: tell us your best drunken story. We want details, and the gorier and more insane, the better. Drinking stories make me laugh hard, I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because in order to achieve them we must make ourselves truly inebriated, a consequence of too much drink, but it’s a choice we make, and the consequences can often be hilarious [Ed: They can also be downright dangerous, but we aren’t here to pass judgement on those who drink to excess!]. The comments section below awaits your tale of drunk. Get to writin’.

From the Emergency Barfcast System….

This is the Bar None’s Emergency Barfcast System. If you’re hearing this now, it means I no longer have the capacity to run the Bar to the quality you all think you deserve. Therefore, I have instigated the bar-tacular secondary drunk-making device, and his name is Rodney. He has been fully trained in the art of pouring y’all a beer or three, so saddle up and enjoy a drink with him while I’m not here to do so myself.”

You know how you go to a bar and your favourite beer wench ain’t behind the counter any more? Imagine this kind of thing happening at The Bar None…. okay, stop imagining it coz it’s finally happened.

By now, all the regular patronisers of the Bar None will be aware of the fact that recently, our superstar barkeep has been out of the office for a variety of personal reasons, and as the most frustrated of all Al’s customers with being unable to get a beer ’round here, I’ve decided to say “Screw it, I’m gonna pour the drinks for a while.” So…. I’m gonna pour the drinks for a while, in Al’s absence. You cheapskates won’t be getting ’em for nothing, though, so pony up the cash, my friends, as we continue our drunken revelry well into the night tonight.

 

Rodney preparing for a night at The Bar None...

First, a little about me, Rodney, your guest Barkeep for the duration (at least, until Al swaggers back into the bar all Indiana Jones-style and kicks me out again!). When I’m not stooped over the vast mahogany bar that is your favourite drinking establishment, trying desperately to figure out what the fuck goes into a Blood and Sand cocktail without going to the beach, I write film reviews for my own website, fernbyfilms.com. Now, I know it’s a bit much to plug my own site while helping Al out for a while on this one, but those of you seeking a bit more background to my good self only need go over there for a quick gander to get the lay of the land. Either that or I tell you that I’m a Gemini, I love movies and playing with my young daughter, and I’m partial to dirty sex in the morning dawn. When I’m not writing film reviews of my own, I’m often reading others at various places around the Web, and one day whilst trying to click on RedTube with a dodgy mouse, I accidentally stumbled upon this place. Suffice to say, I haven’t left, and Al’s put up with me as a source of constant income if nothing else, so I say thankyou to him. I never did get back to RedTube. I don’t needs me no porn no more, apparently.

Second, no, I’m not gonna elaborate on Al’s current situation, which I think has been covered in detail by his supremely better looking other half, Miss Demeanour, in a previous post. Once Al’s back in the Bar where he belongs, slogging away trying to mix those stupid teenage cocktails Sex & The City has a shitload of responsibility for, it’ll be up to him to let loose the beast of information he’s no doubt working on whilst holed up in his Trainspotting-style bedroom, replete with ceiling-crawling babies and hot, sweaty broken sleep.

Third, and probably most importantly, I’m not here to replace Al at all; I offered my services to tend the Bar for a while during Al’s absence, but this is by no means a permanent change. Al will return (unless he wins the lotto!), and I’ll go back to my own work once he does. In the meantime, I hope I can bring you at least some of the great humour and warmth Al dishes out with his stuff, although I’m hardly the same quality wordsmith the great man himself manages to be. I tend to use a hundred words when three will do, while Al uses just one when four will suffice: and usually that one word is a cuss word of some sort too.

So think of me as Al 1.2, a kind of off-shoot of the big man hisself, although I’m more used to a cerebral drink about the smoking room pondering the complexities of life than a pavement-cuddling spewgasm of binging and memory gaps. I have a few neat ideas of stuff to give to you all while Al’s away (well, technically not away as much as unable to contribute: his eyes are everywhere and like the jolly fat Christmas dude, he knows when you’ve been drunk or sober…) and I hope and pray to God himself that they turn out the way I hope. I want to be invited back at some point.

 

Santa drops in on Al at The Bar None.

This situation (me running Al’s bar while he’s out) reminds me of that old joke (at least, I hope it’s an old joke, otherwise old people are gonna think I’m an idiot!) my dad told me once while sitting watching the football:

A guy walks into a bar and asks for a glass of beer, and the bartender says, “That’ll be four cents, please.”
The guy nearly spits out his beer. “Four cents?!” he says in amazement. “How much for a plate of fish and chips with extra mashed potatoes and gravy and a side order of peas?”
“Eleven cents,” says the bartender.
The customer says he’s going to recommend this place to all of his friends because of the low prices. “Wow!” he exclaims. “Where’s the manager so I can thank him for these low prices and shake his hand?”
“Upstairs,” says the bartender, “with my wife.”
“What’s he doing upstairs with your wife?” the customer asks.
“Same thing I’m doing to his bar and his money,” the bartender calmly replies.

Ahh, a classic. It’s my all-time favourite bar-related joke, and it’s still funny because it’s the kind of thing that could actually happen. So here’s a question to all our loyal stool-hoppers: what’s the best booze-related joke you’ve heard? Something funny, a bit raunchy or bawdy is okay, but it must be related to drinking. Send us your thoughts in the comments below!!!