The Negative Consequences of a Drunken Fool

I know I have been a bad blogger as of late, but the last few months of Uni have stretched me to my limits and finding the time to sit and write for leisure's sake rather than for the needs of my course was an impossibility unfortunately. However, Uni is now over and I am now off out into the world of work (I shall keep you posted on the job hunt over the following weeks) - but until the eagerly awaited day comes when a great company decides they simply cannot function without me and snaps me up as their latest recruit, I have the time to dedicate to my writing here on Twenty-one and Invincible.

So...I'm back and boy have I got a story for you! Having been invisibly tied to my computer for the last two months on an almost permanent basis I decided that my first week as an official ex-student should be spent catching up with my friends, who I have to admit I had neglected whilst in my darkest hours of facing many looming deadlines. So first stop was a drink in my local with the lads.

As it was a Sunday, I was hardly expecting it to be a mad one, but certain people had other ideas! On arrival I found one of my friends to be suffering the pitfalls of that old chestnut "one too many" - he was loud, lairy and somewhat out of control, so his car keys were confiscated and he was sent up to one of the B&B rooms to sleep it off. So that was one of us down and out already, and it had barely gone 9 o'clock!

As the night progressed, the drinks flowed and frivolity took over. The pub had the jukebox blaring and myself and some other pub-goers got up for a dance. There was lots of silliness and a fair bit of banter - even some impromptu pole dancing lessons of behalf of myself and a very fit and healthy 60 year-old - but it was all in good fun, and everyone was having a good time.

Little did we know that the devil "one too many" was about to rear it's ugly head again so soon. What follows next is still a little bit of blur, as it happened too fast for me to register, so you will have to bare with me. I was propped up on the bar, rooting around in my bag for my phone or lipgloss or something of the like, when I felt this heavy weight press down on my left shoulder. It was so heavy in fact that my knees gave way and I struggled not to fall off my 6-inch heels! I looked over my shoulder to tell whoever it was leaning on me to remove themselves, when I heard this almighty smash and was immediately showered with bits of broken glass and china.

At this point I think I was momentarily in shock as I tried to register what had happened. The pub had gone completely silent and all eyes were on me and the destruction that now surrounded me. I turned around to find a drunken fool grinning like a Cheshire cat at the antique lamp hanging above my head which he had just smashed into a million pieces. I did not see how this had happened of course, but was informed later that this gentleman had been attempting some Jackie Chan moves and had round-house kicked the lamp over my head, whilst using me as a prop to help propel himself off the floor!

Once the immediate shock of being showered in broken glass had worn off and I had checked I was not cut or bleeding, I suddenly realised how incredibly lucky I was not to have been seriously injured. If I had turned to look over my other shoulder at the exact moment that this fool had kicked the lamp this story might be a very different one, as my face would have been towards the barrage of broken china and glass and I could have been scarred for life or even blinded. Upon realising this I think it is fair to say I lost my temper quite a bit, and though I shall not detail the ins and outs of my torrent here, the gentleman it was aimed at got the very clear impression that I was not best pleased with his actions. He was, of course, escorted from the pub by several friends of mine, who were not too pleased with his sudden out burst of material arts either.

As silly as it may sound in hindsight, I could not get over how lucky I had been. If the glass had hit my face instead of the back of my head who knows the lasting damage it could of caused. For simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time I could be suffering from a serious injury now, and that really is just unthinkable.

Thankfully I wasn't seriously hurt, just a little shaken up by how reckless some people can be when they've been drinking. This man was well into his forties and may possibly have had children not far from my age, yet he had little to no concern for my well-being at all. He knew full well that I was right underneath the lamp he was about to smash to pieces and even held on to me whilst he did it, so there was never any chance that I wouldn't have ended up covered in broken glass. We all do stupid things under the influence of alcohol; many of us will have woken up and remembered sending an embarrassing text to an ex, mixing up your words as you try to talk or even falling over due to your inebriation - but the only person that is really affecting is yourself. I have never caused harm to another person because of what I have had to drink, and I would like to think I never will.

It is these little incidents that make you realise that "one too many" is not always just the cause of some rather outrageous banter; sometimes it can be the reason why someone ends up seriously hurt, and as a forty-something he should really have known better. I did receive a lovely big bunch of flowers the following day by way of an apology, but I still think that the gentleman in question needs to consider the fact that his drunken tom-foolery could have resulted in a very nasty situation, and it was not just himself that he could have ended up hurting. So much for a quiet drink in the pub ay!

The curse of the birthday bash

Sunday was an eventful night in my humble home-town, to say the very least. One of my good friends was turning 24, and had arranged to have a few drinks in a couple of pubs here in Coleshill. Nothing big, just a nice, cheerful evening out to celebrate his birthday. Well, that was the plan any way, and couldn't have been further from what we actually experienced that night!

I caught up with the Birthday Boy and our other friends about 9pm, by which time he was already on the Sambuca's and any chance of a quiet drink had long flown out the window! Although little did we realise that our slightly-too-merry with the drink mate was going to be the least of our worries, as less than five minutes later there was screams, shouts, shots and a whole heap of smashed glasses.

What started as a silly scrap between a teenage Blues fan and a teenage Arsenal fan, turned into a whole pub brawl, with men hitting women and women throwing glasses. It was like the mosh pit at a Slipknot gig all of a sudden, and people who didn't even know what was happening were just getting involved for the hell of it apparently! Your's truly was excluded from that of course, as I'd grabbed my bag and my drink and taken cover in the corner. Getting a smack in the face was certainly not on my list of to-do's for the night. Tables full of drinks were knocked over, there was smashed glass every where and more black eyes than I could count. The police were called in the end, and it all diffused, but not before the Birthday Boy's cousin was given a nice shiner for his troubles!

And so, when the dust had finally settled, myself and the other sensible fellows in the group hijacked the Birthday Boy and moved him on to another pub. It was a much nicer atmosphere over the road and I'd just settled down with an ice-cold beer to enjoy the rest of the night, when the next big drama occurred. Whilst outside smoking, one of the lads from our group had spotted a rather drunk regular from the pub trying to walk home. He had stopped him and asked if he was alright, but he insisted he was fine and headed off into a dark alleyway between two buildings. Seconds later, our friend watched opened mouthed as the drunk regular tripped and fell face-first into the pavement - before lying there, unconscious in a muddy puddle.

Naturally our friend went to check on him, and when he couldn't rouse him, he rushed back inside the pub to call for help. And so it was that myself and the Birthday Boy had to help carry our poor drunk regular back inside the pub, and up into the B&B to lie down. It was only then I noticed he had split his eye open and was bleeding quite badly. Obviously this meant one thing only: Nurse Louise to the rescue. So there I sat, on a night out, mopping up the forehead of one highly inebriated fellow, whilst he muttered drunken apologies for being an inconvenience. Shameful as this is to admit, although I was very worried for his safety, I couldn't help but think: "Don't you dare get blood on my nice top!". I mean, how would I have explained that to my parents?

After that the night finally calmed down a bit, with nothing more than a few tears and drunken ramblings on the behalf of the Birthday Boy, but it got me thinking about a few things. Firstly, to those who started the fight, I would just like to make one thing clear - football is only a game, and is certainly not a reason to start kicking seven shades out of each other. Secondly, for all those who joined in with the ridiculous fight, have you no shame? You were throwing punches at people you didn't even know, for a reason you didn't even understand. Are you cavemen and women, because I thought the rest of us had evolved beyond the need for senseless violence? Thirdly, for all those who like a bit too much of a drink, learn your limits. Our drunk regular could have woken up face down in a puddle, having been mugged or beaten or worse. He could've ended up in a hospital bed, being treated for concussion and alcohol poisoning. Sort it out!

It also got me thinking about the curse of the birthday bash, as Sunday - like many others I can remember - was the result of another overly-dramatic birthday night. It seems that every party I've been to in years has ended in tears for one reason or another. Either there's been an argument, or a fight, or a falling out. Or someone's been sick, or gone missing. My 20th was a nightmare, and my 21st nearly ended up heading down the same road. A fair few of the Women Folk's birthday's have fallen foul of the birthday bash curse, and I'm sure Ray would agree some of her's have been far from perfect. It just seems that any night out where you label it a Birthday Party is doomed to end in disaster - and it's all drama, drama, drama. And so, with a month of solid birthday parties heading my way this April, I'm asking for a little gift of my own - just one, great drama-free night. Fingers-crossed for me on that one ay!

Legal but under suspicion?

Picture this: It's a quiet Saturday night in my hometown of Coleshill. My best friend Ray has just driven me (for the first time) to Sutton for a scrummy meal, and we have retired home to a local pub to wile the last few hours of the night away, in a happy, friendly place.

Glass of wine in hand, me and my Boo chat away, when suddenly the door bangs open and a fierce looking police officer marches in and demands to see our IDs. He is ruthless; studying our driving licences as though I had just told him I was 85 and President of Geneva. Then he proceeds to scrutinise every aspect of our being - our hair colour, eye colour, height, chosen attire for the evening, and even enquires about my tattoo. And the whole time this farce is going on, the entire pub watches with bated breath. Atrocious, mortifying, simply humiliating...

Ok, so maybe it didn't happen exactly like that. The cop was actually only a few inches taller than me, and was more than friendly when asking about our ages, but still, you get the point.

I will say this again as I said it last night (27/11/10) : I have no problem being asked to prove my age. Hell, I'm not stupid, I'm aware I look 15 on a good day, and - having worked in the pub trade since I was 16 - I'm also aware that plenty of youngsters look far older than they actually are these days. I'd ID myself if I didn't know any better! But what I do object to is having my details taken - and in great detail at that - in front of a pub full of my friends and colleges, when I have already proved that I am twenty-one.

It really was a tad embarrassing, and everybody was looking and laughing - I genuinely did feel as though I was doing something wrong, and it certainly looked that way to everybody else. Silly as it sounds, I was a bit miffed at being treated like a criminal when I am legal to drink and have been for the last three years.

And what exactly does he need my details for anyway? Oh, why yes, they're going to go into a big database and will be stored for the rest of my life. God forbid that I should get a bit crazy in the January sales, and elbow a fellow shopper trying to reach for the last size 8 River Island dress that's down from £40 to £3. "Yes officer, it was her. Has she got purple hair and an anchor tattoo on her wrist? Yes then it's definately her." Two taps of a keyboard and I'll be sent down for assault!

I don't think the whole charade went down too well with the locals either. There was lots of overly-loud conversations about "Haven't the police got anything better to be doing on a Saturday night other than bothering two nice little girls?" and "Why aren't they out catching the real criminals?". One member of the pub club even threw a bag of pork scratchings at the officer in question and was hauled outside for being drunk and disorderly or something of the like!

I say, who would have thought a sleepy town like ours could be at the centre of such a dramatic police raid? And with little old me at the heart of all the drama? Oh, what an anecdote ay!