The Demon Drink....

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by Juan_Ramirez_III, Dec 6, 2010.

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  1. I am very fond of alcohol, it's unfortunate that my personal breaking strain is closely akin to that of a barbecued Kit Kat and as a result of this I habitually spend 2 days spewing fetid air and bile onto the bathroom floor but a good solid 3 day session is worth the shame of shitting yourself on your mates settee..

    I'm a pleasant drunk though, mix in a line of coke or a wee dab of speed and I am unforgivably aggressive and to be frank a foul man to be around but a night on the nips and Stella alone generally has me bezzering car park attendants and tramps whilst I meander through the mean streets of Cheshire.

    A continual theme though that re-occurs throughout these moments of madness is my shit hot ability to not only function well but to actually achieve results, this allows me to see half bottles of Chekov and draught packs of Warsteiner as friends, brothers even.

    As a result of this a few things have come to light, being drunk has enhanced a particular set of skills that would have otherwise remained dormant. Driving for example. I have struggled to get home after protracted nights out, trains stop at 2, taxis are hard to come by but I find now that leaving the motor in a quiet corner off Oxford Rd and with a well rehearsed undertaking of back streets and A roads I arrive home accompanied by a Killers CD on full blast with my permanently nodding head hanging out the window.

    I am also in debt to the devils water for it's ability to make me shockingly confident in my day to day dealings. Some of my friends only ever see the pissed version of Senor Juan, a bumbling bafoon who uses long words in the wrong places and who thinks it's 'ace' to ring people at 3 in the morning to discuss man-bags, Mel B's fabulous tittys and the sinister trade dealings between the state of China and the despotic breadheads that rule Africa.

    In short, beer is King, it's the only thing I know of that you can imbibe for the price of getting a spare house key cut but that which makes you finish the evening shirtless in the back of a pakis taxi air drumming the opening bars to 'Bloody Sunday' on your knees whilst screaming directions as you career through empty streets.

    Beer has it's downsides though, pounding the loose back box of married OAP's whilst keeping your eye on the time for the last train is not the most fun one can have but the tang of whisky on your tongue desalinates the ming of an unkempt and middle aged vagina.

    All hail the ale.....
     
  2. Mrs Whey-Aye-Banzai told me that she didn't know I was pissed all the time till she caught me sober once.

    I can also relate to much of your post, but I would wouldn't I? I'm what's known as an alkie, though it's been a good few years since I had my last drink; but that took some grit, determination, and a lot of help from AA.

    Enjoy it while it lasts! [​IMG]
     
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  4. I too can relate to this (not the muff diving married women bit though) as I am totally incapable of "just having the one" drink.

    To date, the results of my mega drinking abilities has ranged from being found asleep on the stairs of the house that was hosting a bbq lying in my own vomit, to accidentally knocking over the fattest bird in the pub and squinting helplessly on as she spanked in, face-first to the fruit machine.

    In fact, now I am thinking about it I spend most weekends drinking obscene quantities of Sailor Jerry and doing a spastic yoga walk back home, dropping kebab and loose change all the way. And sometimes the odd shoe.

    I should seek professional advice really, but luckily I have very understanding friends who "help" me by positioning me right next to all the alcohol at parties :)
     
  5. Wankas. Git ta fu ya bassas.
     
  6. Sorry. i meant to say GIT TA FU:::::: YA BASSAS!
     
  7. The worst drunks are those irritating cunts who type in faux Scots accents.
     
  8. Fuck me. I thought you were dead!
     
  9. That's fucking uncalled for!!!

















    You missed out the possessive apostrophe!
     
  10. I wonder if Ord_sgt has an opinion on this?
     
  11. Nah, the worst are the ones that eat out your arse and look like a post millenial Janine Butcher....

    Gawd bless you Carly, you drunken fat whore with a glans like clitoris
     
  12. JRIII: you have a real, serious and deep seated problem that will kill you unless you address it immediately.


    Cocaine? Ok, not too impressed by that, but I can see that you are trying to help the South American economies. Fair enough.
    Speed? Chemists are struggling to make a living selling shampoo to pubescent teenagers too scared to buy a condom.
    Booze? Well you are helping cross-border EU trade, which is to be lauded, even at such a hefty self sacrifice.

    Hanging out of the arrse of a married, middled aged, speech impedimented, minging, fanny like an Asda bag of Labrador tongues, ring piece like an exploded jam donut with a convention of klingons and winnets hanging around on the grape like piles? Gadzooks! That Sir, is unacceptable. Take yourself to Wrexham and fuck 3 local girls as punishment.

    Then email me the photos as part of your rehabilitation.
     
  13. Freak yachting accident?
     
  14. Wrexham! Jesus and Mohammed. Are ye blind? Wreham is fat chicks RV numbah 1.
    Tank action...BLAM! reload...BLAM....feck..she is still moving!!! RUN AWAYYYYYY!!!!!!!
     
  15. I've found that imbibing vast quantities of booze, gifts me with mysterious magical powers for a short space of time. I'm not talking any of your poofy powers such as dancing like John Travolta, fighting like Jacky Chan or driving like Colin McCrae. Although I do gain those too, having once been physically restrained from climbing into the cab of a JCB 410, in order to initiate a giant game of Robot Wars over a vehicle pit

    I'm talking of the ability to sense and then outwit wolves trying to stalk me on my way home. Fuck knows what I'd been drinking that night, the hasty river crossing didn't do much to sober me up.

    I'm also often availed with the kind of decision making prowess that would make a magic 8-ball weep. One particular night after a pissup with some mates, all the boring cunts had rung the wives for a lift home. At this time I believed the night still to be young, yes it was midnight, yes all the pubs were shut and yes we were 9 miles from the mess but I gave my head a wobble and consulted the magic 8-ball as to whether we should:

    a) Accept the kind offer of a lift back to camp from one of the lad's wives.

    b) Shout "NO! We're walking!" Whilst offering up and extended arm and a raised palm as if to fend off any other offers of transport based assistance, whilst muttering to my fellow fuckwits and bezzers for the evening Bikeface and Shitcunt "We're walking back... mantest...mumble mumble... Naked! mumble mumble... it's only 9 miles we'll be back in 90 minutes"

    Half way back we thought we'd sourced an alternative mode of transport, having spotted some ponies in a field. A quick set of QBOs were issued and Shitcunt was left smoking tabs with the underpant cache at the FRV. Bikeface and I moved in to CTR the objective, who promptly whinied like fuck and galloped across the field, unluckily for them it was a small field and they soon had two bollocky buff halfwits cornering them. I started doing my best horse whisperer impression and had managed to start stroking one of their noses as I whispered horse soothing stuff Mick Dundee style to it.

    Shergar looked happy enough and Bikeface took this as his cue to throw his leg in the air and try and mount it as you would a pushbike. Even in the moonlit night the sight of him doing an Eddy Honda in front of me and presenting his dangling ginger knackers was burnt onto my retinas and still haunts my sleep. Shergar had seen enough and swung a couple of haymakers in my direction before doing one across the field. A downstairs light came on in the nearby house lighting us up in the field like a Christmas tree, there was nothing for it to observe the tripflare IA drill and run like fuck, giggling like schoolgirls back to the cache.

    Five and a half hours later, as dawn was breaking 3 bleeding, shabby, naked wretches each carrying in their arms a bundle of soiled clothing, looking like we'd carried out a nude liberation of a Romanian orphanage traipsed up the road towards the camp. Pausing near a particularly well grown bush to get dressed whilst calling each other cunts.

    We were covered from head to foot in nettle stings and bramble cuts, as we'd bomb-burst into cover every time a car approached in case it was the Hampshire Five Oh. With 1 x mobile diffy and another smashed it ended up costing a bit more than a cab but C'est la vie.