The story begins in Derby, were me and my heavily bearded companion Frenchie were picked up by Dave, Joe and Dave’s girlfriend Becky to make the long drive to Liverpool. This drive should have acted as a type of indignation of what the night was going to hold. As I sat cramped up in the middle of the back seat, my body twisted and contorted as if I was the victim of some new terrible torture technique I noticed the closer we got to Liverpool the heavier the rain became. It wasn’t looking good to start with.
Upon arriving at Liverpool, we emptied the car and made our way up the flight of stairs to Dave’s flat to drop of our belongings and then we went to the local Bargain Booze to get a couple of drinks before ending down town. Now I’ve never entered an off-licence in which all of the alcohol is locked behind a wall of glass before, it’s quite strange. You are unable to browse properly, instead you press your noise up against the glass squinting at the price of beer to see which is the best bargain then you make your way to the counter, ask the gentleman (situated at the counter) to fetch your order then you pay. Not the simplest ways of doing things, but this is Liverpool and I suppose crime is rife, especially when intoxicants are involved. Once me and Frenchie received our beer we waited outside and bumped into a friendly local. Now, I’m not saying this guy was on crack, he could have easily been on smack, meth or phet’ too. This charming man gave us a little advice; if you don’t want to get hit in the face with a firework put your hood up! Which isn’t as crazy as it sounds, it was around Bonfire night, so there were fireworks going off, yet at the same time, I highly doubt simply putting your hood up make you impervious to low explosive pyrotechnics towards the face. We retreated to Dave’s to drink a few beers and get ready.
After a couple of semi-warm beers, we made our way into town. Now, we’re not the most decisive collection of people in the world so plenty of time was spent standing in the street deciding which way to go. Finally we left it up to flipping a coin, always a good idea. As the night went on the booze began to flow.
One of my last memories was around midnight when I went to the cash machine, as I got paid just after midnight. I took out £100 and headed back to the bar, buying a round of shots. This is where, at least for me, the night gets a little fuzzy, to say the least. As I sit here trying to grapple with the actions that took place, it’s as if it never really happened, a dream that I half remember, anyway I’ll stop dicking around and get to the points I can remember.
I remember a lot of walking around the city with my jeans around my ankles. I remember plenty of being propped up against a wall, a cigarette forced in my mouth and being told; “Act sober, until we get in.” That single phrase has been uttered to me more times than any other. I assume as the undertaker is stuffing my corpse into the casket, he’ll lean over and whisper; “Just act sober, until I get you in”. I also remember redesigning Liverpudlian pavements with larger, SoCo, Pepsi and bile.
One thing of the night I definitely remember is falling over in a pub square-thingy, for some reason the name of the bar escapes me, I think it was Joe’s or something along those lines. Anyway, I went down like a sack of shit, in front of bouncers and taking a couple of drinks from the table next to me with me along the way to the floor. As my long-time friends pointed and laughed, I was aided up by a random Scouser. Of course my initial reaction wash to pat my pockets and make sure my wallet and BlackBerry were still there, which they were, clearly this friendly stranger was a rare breed of Scouser, either that or there’s not as many criminals in Liverpool as I suspect, guess we’ll never truly know. That’s my last clear memory of the night.
Although, I found this out later, on the way home we passed a garage. I in my drunken state decided to begin throwing my shoe at the massive sign in an attempt to hit the Tyre mascot on top of the sign. Joe managed to capture this on his camera phone (along with videos of me throwing up and walking around with my jeans around my ankles). The video’s quite good; it simply ends with me saying; “Fuck this shit, let’s go home!” or something to that effect.
When we got back to Dave’s we began drinking the rest of the beer we’d purchased earlier and played on the Wii. I attempted to put all my concentration into Wii Bowling, but alas I wasn’t good enough to win, yet at this point in time standing was becoming a bit of a task.
I woke up the next morning to Becky returning from Uni asking why there was blood on the door leading to their flat and blood along the walls. I looked at my hand and discovered a huge gash on it; I hadn’t had a gash that big on my hand since I fisted that prostitute. I had also broken my watch. Plus I had a fucking terrible hangover. Me and Frenchie later on made our way to the train station to make our way home, on the ride we decided to go out again that night; “2 nights, 2 cities” we thought, proof that you can’t keep a good alcoholic down.
3 comments:
broughton u are obviously struggling for inspiration atm if u are falling back on the fall safe sterotypes that all scousers are drugged up thieves, which considering u made it back with all ur belonging safe is pretty hypocritcial....
either that or u had nothing worth half inchin' ...
including ur gay boy blueberry.
I didn't use any steroetypes, the drugged up guy was real. and I never said the other guy was a theif, I was using the thief scouser stereotype to subvert it in an attempt at humour.
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