I went through a period where I drank alcohol a lot of the time, as a social thing, with friends, to have fun, whatever. It was called “university” and then “the few years after uni when I had no idea what the fucking hell I was supposed to do with myself”. They were good days, but I don’t find myself drinking anywhere near as much as I used to. This is, obviously, a good thing, as booze is generally shit in all regards.
Well, sometimes it gives you a shitty hangover, but otherwise it’s awesome. Clearly.
Anyway, partway through this whole university thing I, along with a couple of friends in the shape of then-housemates Ben and Damo, decided to try something a bit harsher. A bit more trampy. So, armed with our new purchases we went to one of the most well-known vagrant hang-out spots in Preston, sat on the piss-stained bench and began the experiment.
I could not drink more than a quarter of a can of Special Brew.
I have quaffed near-entire bottles of vodka straight, I have tried the foulest and most fiery of spirits (though I never would go near that shit with the cobra in it that Rhyds had) and I have always had room for a bit more, even if I hated them. But this was something different. Something special, I suppose. Or at least just a special kind of horrible.
Safe to say, I got a massive headache from my quarter-can and had to go home to have a lie down. The other two schmucks had to go to work for the evening, which must have been fun for them*. But hey, at least I know I could never really be a tramp.
*I think it was. They probably carried on drinking. Bastards.