Posted by: Splosher | 04/01/2011

A dalliance with the demon drink… pt 1

“It’s probably the most embarrassed I’ve ever been in my life,” replied my brother – I’ll call him ‘G’ for the sake of this story – when I asked him to elaborate upon an infamous New Year’s Eve night many years before in his debauched past. “It took weeks to actually piece together exactly what had happened, with the fragments people told me they’d seen me doing during the night and then remembering little bits here and there,” he said as we sat having a brew together, “and even now, I’m still not sure of everything that happened.” Well, the story is a classic example of overindulgence in festive spirit, alcohol abuse and the resulting mindless cretin this can create, so allow me to share this tale of woe with you over two parts…

I remember hearing about my brother’s New Year escapade from a mate in our local pub and even with the scant details that person possessed at the time, the night certainly appeared to have been eventful to say the least. It happened way back in 2005 when he was seeing a particular girl of dubious morals (who shall remain nameless as she’s unfairly known as a whore locally, although I’d say in her defence she’s no more than a f**king slag really) and he was due to spend the night at her mother’s house, along with the rest of her family in the usual booze-soaked celebration of mediocrity. However, my brother remembered that he’d left his mobile ‘phone at his mate’s house the night before and so, with plenty of time to get ready for the night’s action, he set off walking in order to collect it.

When he finally reached the house in question, his mate tried to convince him to just pop and have a quick pint at the pub just across the road. “But I’ve got to be back to be at her mum’s house for 4.00ish this afternoon and with me walking up and having a pint with you, I might not get back in time with the buses’ not running,” said my brother to his pestering, pisshead of a friend.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, you can borrow my bike,” came his mate’s reply and with this, he wheeled out an old drop-handlebar racer, with razor-thin wheels and the most complicated gear levers ever devised. “You’re sorted now, no worries at all… so just a quick one, yeah?” his mate added, his intention for immediate libation now fully apparent.

“After humming and hawing, I told him okay but just the one and so, we went to the pub,” continued my brother as he told me the story anew. “Anyway, we settled in and before we knew what, we’d downed five or six Stella a piece and time’s flown to the point I had to be making a move. So feeling pretty wrecked already, I swung my leg over this f**king racing bike and set off on the three mile journey back down to her mother’s house,” he said, shaking his head as he recalled the fractured and what ultimately transpired to be painful details. “I’m well pissed and weighed around 16 stone at the time, yet I’m trying to balance on this lightweight, specialised racing bike, weaving all over as I try to change the f**king gears in icy, sub-zero temperatures!”

Now, I was told separately by another mate of mine – I’ll call him ‘P’ for the  sake of this story – who actually witnessed this next event with his own eyes; indeed, it may have actually been my mate who unknowingly instigated the decline of my brother’s whole night, just by saying ‘hello’ to him. “I was sat in a line of traffic at some lights and with it being New Year’s Eve, there were loads of people milling around, dressed in costumes on their way out for the night,” P had told me when he shared what he’d witnessed that late afternoon. “Suddenly, I can see this big bloke on a drop handlebar racer approaching at a fair lick in my wing mirror, wobbling along on the pavement as people moved out of his way and almost immediately I click it’s your G, so I shouted out to him and waved through my open window…”

P broke out in laughter, but managed to compose himself enough to continue with his story. “After blankly staring at me for a second or two, your G raised his hand off the handlebars and shouted ’WAAYYY YEH C*NT!!!’ just as the lights changed, so I’m moving away when all of a sudden there’s the sound of a massive f**king smash,” and once again, P is off giggling. “When I looked back in my wing mirror, I could see your G’s crashed full-pelt into the side of a glass bus shelter!” I left P at this point due to him being unable to continue speaking because of his laughter convulsions.

Now my brother G takes up the story once again: “All I remember properly is I saw P in his car, he waved at me and with me being pissed and not thinking, I waved back to him while cycling along doing about twenty miles an hour,” he said shaking his head. “Well, from what I can gather, I went straight into one of those thick, Tempered Glass panels on the side of a bus shelter and hit it with so much force, the thing’s shattered into a million pieces and I was tossed onto the pavement in a crumpled heap!”

Now laughing, my brother continued, “I came around on the floor, with an Angel and the Devil looking down at me, so for a split second, I thought I’d f**king died until I realised it was just some dickheads in fancy dress!” He shook his head once again through embarrassment, “They help me up and there were quite a few people there asking if I was okay, but my head was spinning and I was pretty confused, what with the Stella and the crash. Anyway, that’s when I realised I’d got blood running down my face from the impact, so I remember glancing at the smashed bike and all the pieces of glass and I just legged it… don’t ask me why, it just seemed the best thing to do at the time…”

I’m having problems with laughing myself now and once I’ve managed to cease, my brother carried on with what he could remember. “So I’m off stumbling down the street, drenched in blood and having left a tangled wreck of a drop handle racer wrapped around a shattered bus shelter, still convinced I’ve got to get to her mother’s house.” A quick bite of my lip was needed here as he finished his recollection. “After that, the night’s pretty much a blur to me, really…” my brother said as he rubbed the one-inch scar on the right-hand side of his forehead that was the result of his Tempered Glass interaction five years before.

It’s at this point where my brother’s story would have faltered and been lost to the ether of the unknown, but for the witnesses who saw the additional pain and suffering this particular New Year’s Eve heaped upon him. It’s tantamount to their recollections he’s been able to piece together the things that happened after his bus shelter-induced amnesia and believe me, these are things that belong locked away deep in a subconscious chest and a whole lifetime spent repressing them from resurfacing.

As for my role in this tale of utter drink-induced hopelessness? Well, it allows me to write this two-part story about the excessive stupidity that can arise when you’re completely and utterly paralytic and then receive a thunderous crack to your head, thus braining you even further!

(Look out for part two in the next blog entry, where things go from bad to f**king unbelievable.)

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