Guiness is not a suitable boatrace beverage....how I lost two whole days to the black death....
Long time lurkage....first time posting....

It’s long so bear with me...

From the age of 16 or so my merry bunch of friends and I patronised a popular local pub down the road. Twas a blissful place... staff that were easy on the eye, honest decent clientele and a landlord with a relaxed attitude to the prevailing licensing laws of the time. (Sadly, tis no longer the aforementioned happy place as the landlord has moved on and the notrights, chavs and assorted scumbags have slowly taken over). Over time we were accepted into the inner circle of the pub's regulars and were invited to join in Dave the landlord's extra curricular activities.

The usual modus operandi after 11pm would be for the chosen few to move into the tap room whilst the riff raff were herded out of the exits, the doors were bolted, blackout curtains drawn and the jukebox and pool table set to free play and the drinks would flow. The bar operated on a serve yourself policy, noting down what you had in the little black book and you settled your tab once a week. If we were feeling peckish, the fryers would be lit and chip butties prepared. The system worked as everyone respected Dave and his hospitality.

Often we would drink through the night and wander home whilst the milkman was doing his thing....good times.

One such night, between Christmas and New Year as I recall, my mate Greg had been nominated to serve all present in lieu of punishment for a previous school boy error which escapes my memory. He took his punishment graciously and performed his duties as bar keep in good spirit. We were on the the Guinness and a jolly good time was being had by all present. The challenge of a boatrace was laid down by one of the old boys. Not wanting to shy away from a bit of banter and also being fairly sure of ourselves after a skinful, we obliged and 2 teams of 4 were formed and 8 pints of the black gold lined up on the bar.

Dave started the proceedings and we won the first heat by a considerable margin (I can down a Guinness without coming up for air).

The old boys understandably wanted a rematch, yet more Guinness was poured whilst I frequented the gents. On my return I was handed a pint of the black stuff and took my place as tail end charlie in the 'boat' and the race commenced. The progress was notably slower this time, the previous pint laying heavy in our stomachs. As it came to me it was neck and neck, I chugged for England but alas it was a dead heat.

I set my empty vessel on the bar, and took a seat; something wasn't right, I had a funny taste in my mouth and could feel a low grumble from the pit of my stomach. I put it down to the brain fog descending after a few too many and decided to 'man up' and join my companions at the bar. Greg handed me another pint and the score had to be settled.

Once again I took my place and did what needed to be done... I don’t know who won or lost, nor did I care.

It turns out that Greg and Dave had been doctoring my pints with a not insignificant quantity of paint stripper masquerading as cheapest of the cheap white rum.

I passed out and I’m told by Greg that he bundled me in a taxi to his house, and manhandled me on to his sofa.

I have no recollection of coming to slightly as Greg’s dog licked my face, nor do I remember getting up ranting and then running out of the house into to the December darkness in t shirt and running as fast and as far as I could whilst Greg was in pursuit to see I came to no harm. When he caught me I got him in a headlock and threw him into a bush, that’s what friends are for right? I don't remember any of this.

Fuck knows how I got home, must have been the beer scooter, when I did I left the front door not only unlocked, but wide open.

My mother, bless her cotton socks, tried to rouse me well into the following afternoon when several family members turned up for obligatory seasonal pleasantries. I'm told that when informed of their imminent arrival, I enquired if they had made an appointment to see me. Needless to say I was not for getting up and slept right through until the next day.

I woke up sometime in the early evening the following day, in the same clothes that I ventured out to the pub in 2 days previously. I was sharing my bed with what I later deduced to be the contents of my stomach and the sensation similar to what I imagine having your head slowly crushed in a vice. I got the all too familiar feeling that the big bad beer bear had been and stole my money and shit in my mouth. This was low....definitely not my finest hour.

I had a rinse, sorted myself and my sheets out and decided to get back on the horse, what makes you bad makes you better and all that jazz....

I called Greg and he seemed genuinely worried about me, we met in the pub later, his face was covered in scratches from the head/bush interface that I subjected him to. He gave me the evil concoction in the first place, so we were even. All sins forgiven, he filled in what I did and the ribbing ensued....

Apologies for length, but I don’t hear your mother complaining....
(tofer is sweating like a dyslexic on countdown......, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 20:33, 1 reply)

well written
and thanks for coming out of the lurkage corner.
(shamen Geekius Maximus, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 1:44, closed)