Drinking Games – Bunnies/Fizz Buzz/Names of/Pass Out etc.

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by Gundulph, Jul 29, 2008.

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  1. Looking for iconic stories and tales relating to any of the classic Drinking Games we have all participated in at some time or other... I have a couple, one in particular of a certain Sigs Sgt (Para/Commando trained chappie) on Byron Heights, Falkland Islands either 89 or most probably 92 (the memory cells are rapidly depleting, with no thanks to playing many of these games no doubt!) who 'being a fellow Squaddie' as he informed the Crabs who were looking after the secret thingy under the 'Dome' - and watching our Section each night, skillfully playing for hours, decided he surely 'Must' be able to play the said Games as well as if not better than, the section of Grizzly Sappers... Oh, How Wrong He Was..... Between Mr Weights and Measures, Bunny Bubbler and Myself - Bunny Chairman he proceeded to blatantly ignore the Rules of Engagement as laid down in the Sapper Bible for Bunnies... I don't think I've ever witnessed anyone crashing out of a game of Bunnies so quickly, not surprising after his 10th Can or Red (or Green, my memory fails me!) downed in quick succession followed by 2 or 3 further cans downed after having failed to go through the correct chain of command for excusing ones self from said game...

    Please add your own Games Tales of Merriment here...

    Even Freckles & Soggy Biscuit stories are welcome 8) (have heard of them)
  2. Several thousand years ago, 1974 or 5, I happened to be drinking in the United Services Chatham Rugby Club, the Engineers Corps Team were there for some reason, anyway the third half had got away to a good start with the Corps Team all sat together, playing the normal drinking games, Mr Chairman awarding more and more ridiculous punishments for transgressions (all involving drink of course), the last, and worst so far had been "Sandy Bottoms" (Note 1) through someone's sweaty sock. I suggested that a far better idea would be "Sandy Bottoms" through the crutch-piece of the knickers of some young Doris I was with. She seemed willing and was going to get them off when some guy got involved and stopped her. Turned out to be her Dad. Well Daddy got quite stroppy until a certain large gentleman from the Corps Team, named Charley Atu IIRC (not sure of spelling) persuaded him that perhaps his health would remain much better if he shut up and fcuked off. He fcuked off, but the cnut took his daughter with him, shame because I was sure she was up for a shAg.

    Note 1: Sandy Bottoms was, and probably still is to drain the remainder of whatever is left in your glass.
  3. BrunoNoMedals

    BrunoNoMedals LE Reviewer

    Pub Golf, Stockport, around 2004-2005.

    Out with the lady and a bunch of her muppet friends, one of whom was anal enough to have produced, in fine detail, a pub golf plan for the night. Fair play, though, it was a hell of a plan. Full 18-hole course, a different drink in each, and for the most part quite sensible parrings.

    Problem 1: I drink faster than most people I know - this is a ballache for getting pissed much quicker, throwing rounds out of kilter, and pissing like a racehorse.

    Problem 2: I was at the peak of my drinking career which, combined with a hefty dinner, had given me an alcohol tolerance for that night somewhere in the region of carrying my own dialysis machine.

    Anyway, off we go. Pub one, and we're quite early. I'm already on my second pint when our umpire turns up and explains the rules (it being my first game of pub golf). By the time the whole group is in place, I'm on Pint #3 and I'm told we're starting on the lager. Pint of. Par 5. Piece of piss, I see it off in two (as a bitter drinker, lager makes me belch like a motherfcuker). Everyone else is taking forever, so I get myself another pint with a whisky chaser.

    This continues for a good few hours - everyone is taking their time over menial tasks - shots of whisky or vodka on a Par 3, taking them 20 minutes or more. I'm shifting mine off at least 1 or 2 under at every hole, followed up by a chaser or another pint.

    By the final hole I'm in an unassailable lead, and get handed a pint of Strongbow on a Par 3. I can't fucking stand Strongbow and I was finally starting to feel the effects. In no rush to see it off, knowing I'd won long ago, I took one sip and handed the rest to SexyNoMedals (who, impressively, landed an eagle on her attempt) before buying myself a proper pint. SexyNoMedals also polishes off mine and is, unsurprisingly, totally mullered at this point.

    Cue lots of charvers getting an eyeful of my missus' minge as she attempts to play pool in a very short miniskirt and high heels. Numerous drunken antics follow and I decide it's time to take her home before I get stabbed, she gets raped, and I don't get laid.

    Off we trot, onto the bus. We get off two stops later before she throws up, and walk the rest of the way down the A6 (stopping behind a shop along the way so she can have a piss behind their garage). Horny drunkeness on her part kicks in just as we reach the connecting road for our second bus, positioned by the college grounds - which we promptly sneak into.

    Once around a suitably dark corner we proceed with the filth. Turns out we're in the creche playground (where the young mums drop their sprogs off before class) and almost certainly under a CCTV camera. Bugger it, thinks I, it's dark. Up with miniskirt, over with thong, and SexyNoMedals gets bent over the dry-stone wall next to the slide.

    After a few minutes of pounding away (who needs romance when they're mullered to the point of sight-loss?) I get into my stride. She's moaning like a hooer and I start to speed up. Then, catastophe: My pounding has forced her head into the wall, and she's banged her forehead something chronic. Moans now of agony, and an interesting conundrum for me - do I have enough time to finish off? As it turns out, no I don't. Eventually the moaning turns into a sob and I notice the tears. I figure it's time to pull out, zip up, hug her in a way that hopefully disguises the fact I'd quite happily carry on, and take her home.

    When we got back she passed out, and I didn't get any. The next morning she was hung over like a barstard and I still didn't get any.

    Fcuking devastated.
  4. At least you got half a shag.