Tag Archives: booze

Something, something, Temptation (the the Heaven 17 tune)

Temptation is an interesting thing. Especially how quickly I give in to it. Take every single time I’m in a pub, for example – I genuinely think I’ve managed to go for “one drink” a handful of times in my life, and I’ve been going to the pub since I was about 14*. Sometimes it’s been one or two extra, which is obviously understandable (and quite sexy). Then there are the other times. The Other Times. Where it turns into something quite special.

Most of those times I blame Ben. And they were definitely very sexy.

But temptation comes into so many other elements of life, not just my rampant alcoholism. There’s the much-documented gambling I did… do… won’t do anymore… will do again soon. There’s shit food. There’s talking to people you hate just because they amuse you somewhat. There’s that bit where you’re Jesus in the desert. There’s loads of temptation everywhere. There’s also Chris saying “one more?” Cock.

Is it so bad to give in to temptation? Surely the only reason we shy away from it is because the Bible told us to? And who gives a fuck about that claptrap? I mean, if it’s not killing you or really badly affecting how you cope in life or treat others, what does it matter that you’re giving in? Though I am just convincing myself to drink rum, eat a tub of ice cream and gamble a lot right now.

Probably shouldn’t listen to myself, then.

Also: CHICKENS DON’T CLAP.

*Yes, this means I’m well cool.

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TIREDNESS IS WEAKNESS

I feel quite pathetic right now. I am 27, as I seem to be mentioning a lot recently, and I am finding it hard to pluck up the motivation to go out tonight, solely because I went out last night. This is not the me I know and hate. This is a more hateful me to hate, as if he can’t even drag his sorry carcass outside to put alcohol in his face and dance to New Found Glory while everyone stares at him for daring to like something he’s not supposed to.

Then it’s decided – I am wearing my New Found Glory shirt this eve. Take that, cool kids! Pop punk’s not dead.

Anyway, back in t’day I – along with my partner in debauchery, Benjamin Judas Mozzaberg – would be seen out on the town regularly. Not one night a week, or two, three, the other numbers between. It was minimum six, usually seven. This is not boasting, this is acknowledgement of a few things: one, Preston was shit so we had to go and get pissed to have any fun at all. Two, we were stupid. Three, I used to be able to cope.

Seems I cannot cope anymore. Old. Past it. No point. May as well just end it all now. Either that or just get dressed quite quickly and go out.

Yeah, what’s one more night going to hurt?

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The grand tramp juice experiment

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.

Most regards.

Some 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.

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Drinking at work: better than not drinking at work

Mad Men is a bad influence on me, as I find myself wanting to do most of the things they do on the show. Namely, being sexist/racist, smoking a hell of a lot and – most importantly – drinking at work. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we were able to drink ourselves into a (working) stupor at a steady pace through the day?

One time, many years ago when I worked somewhere that will remain nameless (it’s not hard to figure out where), I visited the pub with a colleague in our dinner hour. As we were only realistically left with 40 minutes at the pub including time to get from and back to work, we drank quickly. Then we realised we had drank too quickly, so we had another. And another. And a double order. And a couple for the road.

Basically, in about 40 minutes – probably a bit more – we managed to get a suitable buzz on. I had ended up drunk at work by accident. And it was the best afternoon ever. Not because I was the most productive drunk, that I was friendly, outspoken and all in all the life of the party, but because I spent the entire afternoon on MySpace, in plain view of everyone.

Being drunk at work would be awesome not because it would make me better at my job in any way. Being drunk at work would be awesome because it would stop me from caring as much. Which is clearly the best way to be, right? Less care, less fret. Also: more booze.

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Drinking: a habit I seem to have lost

Booze is great, but I’ve found myself not drinking nearly as much as I used to. I’m saying this like it’s a bad thing when it’s clearly nothing but great and healthy and all that shite. Though it does mean I’m not as sociable as I once tried and failed to be.

Alright, so that’s a lie – I didn’t try.

I barely make orders on TheDrinkShop.com anymore, which must have them worried as I’m sure I was their best customer (who was on the dole at the same time) just the other year. But some things just aren’t the same.

I still love Zubrowka, but it just doesn’t have the magic anymore. And as for pressed apple juice (the only thing to drink with it)? That shit seems to get more expensive every sodding day. I’ll have to try some of Lidl’s finest in it one day.

Beer is still just as great as beer has always been, but I want an Oddbins nearby with a crate of 24 bottles of Quilmes for £16, like back in Leeds. The every-few-weekly trips to Headingly with Jack for a crate each were the stuff of LAD legend. Even though there’s a wider selection of beers and ales in Waitrose, it just doesn’t feel right. And beer is a bit too expensive from the aforementioned TheDrinkShop.com (seriously, I don’t work for them).

Wine? Pick it up on the day/night. £5 tops. Gone within an hour or two. Some shit never changes.

But the one thing I honestly think has put me off drinking as much – ordering from The Drink Shop (dot com) – is this: Sailor Jerry’s. They changed the recipe months ago, and it went from being a delicious beverage I was introduced to by Kat and Rich to an awful, bland, pointless stain on the boozing community. And I blame Kat and Rich.

The day they changed that recipe is the day my enthusiasm died, and it’s not yet managed to recover. I’ve been hunting for anyone with remaining stocks and asking advice on similar-tasting rums, but no dice as of yet. I have a quarter of a bottle of the old recipe sitting in the kitchen, and I doubt it’s going to get touched for at least a few years.

Maybe I can finally develop a taste for scotch…

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Newcastle: the definitive review (7/10)

Arriving for my second overnight stay in Newcastle (known locally as “New ass hole”) I was greeted by a familiar sight: a Burger King. This is because Burger King is an international chain of burger ‘restaurants’ that produce things like The Whopper (not a penis). Away from the place with its spray-on flame-grilled taste, there was actually a northern city there too. One I’ve been to before and one I attempted to convince my comrades in travel was actually pretty darn good.

Having the weather described as sunny, only to arrive to what can only be called “cold and grey” is always going to be a disappointment. But when I’ve described somewhere as ‘good’, I don’t expect us to be immediately driven through a hideous industrial estate, past some of the glummest-looking shops known to man and within striking distance of no less than three different chip vans. Still, it’s certainly a novelty – and who would honestly say no to a chipmobile being available on most streets? Only a moron, clearly. Or one of those anti-chip lobbyists who hate potato freedom so much.

But the nightlife was where the city of Brown Ale and Mauve Lager would get back up to speed and show people that it was indeed a Geordie force to be reckoned with. Or something. It wasn’t even 8pm and there were already trolleyed harpies hardly wearing dresses, squawking nonsensical aural hieroglyphics at our taxi driver through a look of complete, pissed-up glory. What a fine city. The night progressed pretty much as you would expect: food, nattering, wine, beer, ending up in a club when I’m tired and just not in the mood and standing around looking angry for a couple of hours before demanding to leave, hating all music ever, despairing at haircuts (especially mine)… wait, this has veered off a review of the city. Hmm. Newcastle: it meant we got to have dinner with the bloke who made Shadow of the Beast. That’s all you need to know.

Oh, and the shower at the hotel was verging on excellent, only being let down by certain mobility issues and poor drainage by the plug. So well done there, Jury Inn.

7/10

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