Worst state you've been in due to substance abuse

[Garage_Doors]

This reminds me of a bunch of youths talking in the pub. Each one trying to out macho his mates.

The topic could be
1. Birds I've laid
2. Blokes I've beaten up
3. Fastest I've driven my car
4. How much drink I had before throwing up.
5. Drugs I've taken.

As I said - grow up.

Anti nowhere league sang a song about them.

 

[Hillian1]

So if apprearance on the 6 o'clock news is your criteria for being acceptable practice then lets get a few You Tube videos of Islamic extreemists on here. Would that be OK?

Chill out man, smoke a spliff or something, you seem tense.

 

[Mowgli37]

I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.

From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.

1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.

And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.

With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.

I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.

And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.

And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).

It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.

And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.

I don't really like whiskey any more.

The best thing I've read on here all year, solid Gold

 

[maltaseagull]

Pretty much chewed the wall and pretty much lost or damaged every tooth.

At the time, it looked to me like he was biting into a giant Strawberry.

 

[Dan Aitch]

Wouldn't it be funny if someone on here got fired, or refused a job, because their (prospective) employer recognised them on here and decided that their confession about drug use meant that they weren't the sort of person they wanted to employ?

It wouldn't?

It would to me.

 

[Grombleton]

I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.

From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.

1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.

And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.

With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.

I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.

And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.

And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).

It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.

And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.

I don't really like whiskey any more.

A sensational tale.

Mine isn't particularly drug addled, but here we go.

I was in my teens. We had been invited by one of my close friends to have some drinks and stay over at his sisters house. He was house-sitting whilst she was away. We went over, we had a fair bit to drink, smoked some cigars he had pilfered from his job at a high-end off licence. It got late, and some went to bed either a) a bit drunk or b) the need to work early in the morning. It left two people downstairs: myself, and my friend who'll be known as J.
We were young, we were also easily bored; you're in a strangers house, there's no TV (don't ask) and therefore little else in terms of entertainment late at night. So, my friend decided "hey, lets have some shots". "Great idea!" i proclaimed.
So, we had a bottle of vodka. Horrible, horrible stuff - the kind of vodka that could easily strip walls just by leaving it within 10 foot of one. I can't remember the name. We searched the kitchen for appropriate glasses, but could only find cappuccino mugs (what type of kitchen was this?!). So, being the adaptive sort, we figured this would do. So, we began...
The first few shots went down alright - as this was rank vodka we would usually chase this with a shot of coca-cola (we were young and inexperienced). J decided that he didn't want anymore and but would happily adjudicate my in my apparent desire to drink until I can't feel feelings anymore. Several drinks later it transpired that I had pretty much demolished the entire bottle, a 1ltr affair. I decided that I needed the loo, so I traversed the stairs, feeling pretty good and accomplished.

That was all I remember of the evening.

I awoke early the next morning. I was topless. I was on the floor of my friends bathroom, with my friend kicking me in the stomach to wake me up. I was surrounded by vomit. It was in my hair, my clothes and on any surface and in any container that would entertain it as a guest. Hark back to that scene in Titanic, where Jack and Rose are getting it on in the car - you see the handprint sliding down the window in a fit of passion and condensation? Picture that, but replace 'window' with 'shower cubible' and 'condensation' with 'vomit'. Keep the sliding hand bit, though.
I actually felt alright the next day - probably as all the alcohol had left my system and had been repositioned everywhere possible. My friend (whose sister owned the house) claimed that he did need to call out a plumber to sort out the toilet that i had unceremoniously blocked during my bodily fluid logistics experiment, but i claim he's lying (just to save face).

There's a VHS I have in my spare room, with video footage of a number of drunken nights out/holidays that we have captured. Apparently there is footage of the carnage in full flow on there. I've not got it converted to DVD, partly because a) I don't know how to and b) I don't think I want to.

 

[bn1&bn3 Albion]

I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.

From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.

1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.

And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.

With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.

I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.

And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.

And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).

It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.

And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.

I don't really like whiskey any more.

Great story!

Is this where you got your nickname from by any chance?

 

[Green Cross Code Man]

I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.

From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.

1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.

And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.

With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.

I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.

And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.

And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).

It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.

And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.

I don't really like whiskey any more.

Thanks, really enjoyed that, well written, amusing and I read it as a salutary lesson for my kids!

 

[Poojah]

Great story!

Is this where you got your nickname from by any chance?

Ah, now that's another story altogether.

Use your imagination...

 

[foul old ron]

Out of interest where was Sterns? A bit before my time.

It's now called Highdown House or gardens I think. Just past Goring on the Littlehampton road.

 

[Billy the Fish]

Literally crying at poojah's story!

 

[BatterSeagull]

Ok My story

Twas a night/morning at Trade @ Turnmills back in 1997. Along with pills and stuff I took an acid tab. All was well until we left the club at lunchtime. Took a cab and felt strange insofar as there appeared to be an awful lot of police cars on the streets of London.
Bugger me, the taxi has a puncture, right outside the Houses of Parliament and me and my mate get turfed out onto the streets, complete with wristband and obligatory water bottle. I was completely gone by this stage but for whatever reason I assumed my mate was in a worse state (he wasn't). We staggered to Lambeth Bridge. I remember looking over the wall and there in the Thames were scores of police boats all with search lights (I assumed trying to find us). I told my mate to stay down behind the wall while I tried to figure out how we could escape. By this time there were sirens sounding all around me so I ran to a phone box and to this day I do not know how I managed to dial the number of another mate who came in his van to pick us up. I was put in the back and remember hearing my mate say that he was fine but it was me who was trashed. All the way home we had to dodge police barriers as I was convinced they were trying to find us.
The trip lasted 36 hours. In my flat, I would see buses going by and on the top floor everybody was a dwarf and they were pointing at me and making funny noises while all the time on a merry go round!
Never again did I take acid, but Turnmills was frequented countless times thereafter. Ahhh, those were the days.

 

[OzMike]

Christmas 2009 and it's the height of the meow craze. A gram costs about a fiver online and about a tenner on the street. Head out on a little pub crawl around the local pubs and wander into about our fourth boozer and I spot a bloke I know(ish) sitting in the corner with a blissful trance look on his face that means he is on something special. I wander over and ask for a tickle in exchange for a drink. He agrees and shoves a bag the size of a facking golf ball into my hand. I get him the drink and piss off to the bogs, where I promptly stick the note into the bag and deeply snort as much as is humanly possible...

I wander back to the geezer feeling nothing but a little bit queezy. I get another pint and head back to my pals. One of my besties notices that my face has gone a bit red and asks if I'm ok.......then all hell brakes loose in my brain. I look at him and his face transformed into a reverse 'have a nice day' smiley face (so the face is black with yellow eyes and mouth instead of vice versa), and everything in the background changed into a Spirograph. Needless to say I am now bricking it big style so with my last remnant of sanity I manage to say 'get me home mate...'

If anyone has seen the Wolf of Wall Street, will know about the 'cerebal palsy' phase of certain drugs. I was in this state for approximately the next 12 hours. During this time I attempted to eat one of my own feet. I called one of my best friends dad at around 2am to ask for help (he lives a good hour away). I left a message on one of my work colleagues voicemail saying goodbye as I am going to die tonight. During this time my brother (and a bird he had brought home) had to stay awake with me to make sure I didn't do anything to harm myself, or have a heart attack. Eventually I came too in my conservatory with the sun rising, and feeling a little bit worse for ware I managed to fall asleep only to have horrific nightmares. I felt like a zombie for the next week, and almost missed out on New Year.

Turns out the bag I snorted from contained a 50/50 mix of Meow and Ketamine. Since then I have never gone near either of these drugs. Lesson learned.

The moral of the story is....................................
It's the last line that also makes me wonder, so not either of these, but plenty of others eh!

 

[OzMike]

Why? Being grown up looks deadly dull !

And you are how old?
Nothing wrong with following more worthwhile pursuits which can be rewarding in a different way.
No ones expects everyone to be saints, but the levels of stupidity witnessed beggars belief.
Sad to see that this type of behaviour is becoming the norm now with major sections of the populace.

 

[OzMike]

Spot on analysis. Despite this incident I still take certain drugs on a recreational basis, but I am nowhere near addicted. Some of the older generation like to tarnish everyone with the same brush, but the fact is I am a relatively respectable individual with a decent job and standup values - much the same as 95% of chaps and chappettes that like a bit of the white stuff at the weekend.

The notion that everyone who takes drugs is a useless addict is as draconian as racism.

Justification?

 

[OzMike]

[/B]

When you say youth worker you clearly mean you just helped out with an evening soccer class or something? I find it hard to believe that someone with such a narrow and black and white mind could actually be employed and have professional qualifications to councel young people?

Who's judging who now.

 

[The Grockle]

No one who was there remembers exactly what happened but it definitely involved the following:

A topless biker gang
My first tattoo
overdose of magic mushrooms
Lowenbrau
The Castle pub in Reigate
9 hours in A&E for me with a shotgun graze down my side inflicted by one of the bikers during horseplay
A plate of chicken being smashe repeatedly into my face.

Bloody hell the castle, that's a blast from the past! Two friends of mine from Brixton used to dj and mc there around 98 when garage was still refered to as underground! The old landlord Lee? Used to turn a blind eye to everything in there and if I recall he was exposed for it in the local rag shortly after he left.

 

[Seagull kimchi]

Taken a wide variety of substances on numerous occasions - had a couple of hairy moments. But nothing has come close to how messed up, damaged, anti-social and dangerously stupid alcohol has made me on too many occasions.

 

[Skaville]

I remember this one surprisingly well. I was 17, and had decided to nip round to my best mate's before we went for a night out on Cleethorpes seafront. Fortunately for me, my mate's house also happened to be a corner shop which his mum and dad owned. As was customary at the time, we slyly helped ourselves to a bottle apiece of booze from behind the counter. Since we were effectively stealing his mum and dad's stock we never took the expensive stuff, so my weapon of choice that night was a bottle of cheap as fúck whiskey. The sort you could clean your toilet with.

From here we walked a few doors down to the house of another mate who had already been joined by several other friends of ours. As I supped my way through a couple of cans of cheap lager, I began to hatch a plan. A plan to look not only cool, but also hard, in front of my pals. Since I was immortal, or at least I assumed I was at the time, why not pour a pint of my cheap as fúck whiskey into a glass and down it? In one. I couldn't think of a good reason not to so, having pitched the idea to the room and having received much encouragement, I began to pour whilst simultaneously attaching a Tesco bag over my ears and under my chin in anticipation of the inevitable chunder that was to follow.

1, 2, 3, and down we go! Shítting hell, that was easy. I hadn't actually considered that I'd be able to do it, but it turned out that this particular brand of cheap as fúck whiskey was smoother than expected and there I was in a room full of astounded teenagers with an empty glass and a belly full of booze. Strong booze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that at this point, I might feel a bit shít, but other than a light sweat I felt fine. I suspect I may have smelled like shit, but I felt as fit as a fiddle.

And so, having all but forgotten about my amazing feat, out on the píss we went. And that was all fine for the first hour or so until things started to kick-in. And boy, did they kick-in. Within the space of about 10 minutes I'd gone from relatively sober to as píssed as I've ever been, either before or since. Speech was out of the question, walking was fast on it's way out and my vision was limited to a vague impersonation of reality, blurred and in slow motion.

With my last remaining ounce of sensibility, I calculated that I probably wasn't going to see this night out and decided that I best attempt to head home. Anyway, it's only about 3 miles back to my mum and dad's house. Piece of píss.

I began to slowly slalom my way home, sometimes on on my hind legs, other on all fours. But one inch at a time, I was going to make it home. What I found odd at this point was that despite the fact I was so incredibly píssed, I didn't actually feel sick. At all. However, that didn't mean that my body's internal chemistry set wasn't hard at work. Something was brewing, and that something was heading south. Fast. Faster than I could walk home anyway.

And there was another problem. It was only about 9:30 in the evening. And it was July. A lovely summer's evening and it was barely even dusky. I'm walking through a residential area and everyone has their curtains and windows open - I can't just pull my keks down and take a shít in the middle of the street. Can I? Ah fúck it, of course I can. Pants round my ankles, I start the job, but I'm clearly not a well boy and have a weapons grade dose of diarrhea. And of course, since I'm in the middle of a densely populated street, I have no toilet paper to hand. Never mind, I've only got about another mile to go, it'll be alright.

And I make it. I don't know how, but I've made it home. Now I may be home, but I'm not in good shape as I crawl onto my mum and dad's porch and headbutt the door in order to get their attention. Naturally, my dad's a little surprised. He was enjoying the final moments of Holby City whilst tucking into to a Chinese takeaway and he's not expecting me home for hours. He's even more surprised to find his incapacitated son lying prone on the floor, pursued by what can only be described as a giant breadcrumb trail of human shít (and, I think, a little bit of píss as well).

It would appear that I didn't do quite as well with my impromptu-poo as I had first thought. Rather than depositing onto the street as I had imagined, I'd instead caught pretty much the whole lot in my underpants. Some of it remained there, but the lions share had slipped and seeped its way through my jeans, down my legs and onto (not to mention into) my shoes. Somehow, somewhat gravity defying, it was also up my back as I lay there like some kind of oversized, drunken baby. I know it's hard to quantify this, but there really was a lot of poo. Ever so much. Think of the most poo you've ever seen in one place before, and it was probably at least three times as much as that.

And there, as my dad looked down on me not knowing whether to beat me senseless (I was pretty much already there, to be fair) or call for an ambulance, my night ended as my whole world slowly faded to black. Possibly for the last time, I really wasn't sure.

I don't really like whiskey any more.

Brilliant! Was your username inspired by this episode?

 

[Billy the Fish]

To be fair, this thread has been much more fun than bickering with each other about signings


Has anyone ever ended up properly seeing double? Only had it once for any length of time, I knocked up a big slug of CKM and spent the next half hour seeing 4 of everything, vision split 50/50 in each eye!