Drinking alcohol is neither big nor clever, but lets face it, it’s the only way some of us actually can speak to women. Bloggrrl probably has no problems speaking to women, and when she announced her September Shots Competition, I thought about entering.
There’s a good reason for me to enter this one, I don’t like entering blog competitions, as usually I have to do things like include three deep links using big words, sacrifice a goat, and complete the Krypton Factor assault course in under 10 minutes. Even the more easy to enter contests ask for links that don’t really fit into my blog. Until this competition, which asks the following question:
“What is the stipidest thing you’ve done drunk?”
I’ve posted about mine a while back, but it’s worth another post.
The year was 2004, Monotesticular Lance Armstrong won his 6th Tour de France, Greece are the surprise winners of European Championships and Manchester United are the not so surprise winners of the FA Cup. Another amazing sporting achievements was me, as my year as a regular member of the Ten Pin Bowling team meant that I was a fully paid up member of the Atheletic Union, and was invited to nights out and all sorts of evenings with girly footballing men and manly lacrosse playing women.
The highlight of the year was an evening dinner and a ball in one of Liverpool’s top function halls. This year, it was the turn of The Gladstone hotel near Lime Street, Liverpool’s main station.
The problems began when – being one of the most popular clubs in the Atheltic Union, we straddled two tables of 8 of us. The price of the three course meal was £25, which included four bottles of wine per table, two red and two white.
The problems began when on our table I was the only person who could stomach white wine, not that I was complaining at the time. So taking the two bottles of Chardonnay underneath my arm, I proceeded to drink, on an empty stomach. I was a student, it was illegal to refuse free booze.
So yeah, drinking on an empty stomach meant I didn’t really remember too much of my meal. In fact, the rest of the evening was a blur, but according to all sources, I disappeared at around 11:30pm.
The next thing I remember was 6am, waking up on a cool April morning, being rudely awaken by a train. Gathering my barings and letting my hangover kick in, I realised where I was.
Chester Station. 40 miles away, or – for those who live in Metric – here’s a map.
Was quite a trek. What did I do? Did I survive the ghetto slums that is Chester? Well surprisingly all things considered I had my wallet and phone, and was still in a suit, so a bacon butty and a pepsi (best hangover cure ever), and I was right as rain.
I mentioned the story to the people I was spending the evening with, and asked me what happened. Apparently the story goes that I was speaking to a mate after meeting his parents for the first time that day. Between our drunken selves we said that we would head back to Colwyn Bay to meet my mum as a surprise visit the next day. I got up and said “I know! Lets do this now!”. My mate backed off, I bought a ticket back to Colwyn Bay, but only got as far as Chester.
I did continue my journey and meet my mum.
What’s been the most drunk you’ve ever been?