There’s a whole host of ways to get lashed out of it and they’re all a bit different. Here’s a small selection of my personal favourites.
A sophisticated choice for the evening. Not that sophisticated though, it cost four quid in Aldi. Time to relax and pour a nice big glass of.. Hang on, you don’t have a glass because you’re drinking in a field. Oh well, I’ll just drink straight from the.. Wait, you don’t have a corkscrew either. You manage to bash the cork into the bottle with your shoe, cutting yourself in the process. No harm, you can rinse out the wound with the wine. Fuck, that stings. The first delicate sip follows.. Subtle aromas of ethanol, with bits of shoe and a hint of broken glass. Time to go to the nightcl.. Oh, you’re asleep in a ditch. A lingering air of sophistication.. and piss.
A potent combination of unwarranted aggression and poor decisions.
You’re in a taxi on the way home after a pleasant evening out. You have more than enough money to pay. Better call the driver a cunt and pull a runner, leaving your unsuspecting pregnant wife to pay the fare.
You’re at a football match in mid-December and you’re topless. Your team is winning comfortably. Better throw a handful of coppers at the referee.
You’re at the home of a friend who has kindly offered up their house for a quiet social gathering. Better kick them square in the bollocks.
Cans of what? Doesn’t matter.
How many? A few.
How many is a few? Who knows?
Trusty old cans, the bastard cousin of pints. Not really a particular kind of alcohol, I know, but bear with me. The most basic tool of getting wrecked. Multi-purpose. Suitable for all occasions. Easily carried in a plastic Tesco bag and later recycled into ashtrays. Standard level of drunkenness guaranteed. After a certain number of cans you’ll be appropriately hammered, but then you’ll just kind of level out and enter a zen-like state of intoxication. If there was a food pyramid for alcohol, cans would form the base.
My personal favourite. A special kind of intoxication. After a bottle of Buckfast your brain behaves a bit like it’s gone to the darts for the evening. Someone scores 180, the darts tune goes off (da da da da daa, dadadada daa, dadadada daa, OI OI OI), you jump out of your seat, elbow your begrudging wife in the face and spill your pint of Tennent’s everywhere, all whilst dancing the only dance you can think of (bounce on the spot, alternate left arm in the air and right arm in the air, repeat). Lasers are going off, there are men dressed as wombles and you’re surrounded by illegible handwritten signs. It doesn’t matter, you’re far beyond the point of being able to read anyway. At the darts, the music stops after a minute or two and everything calms down, for a while at least. After a bottle of Buckfast, this scene will rage inside your head all night long and inevitably influence your behaviour.