Somewhere In Kent: A Little More Maturity Was NeededSubmitted by Replen at 2006-10-06 08:52:23 EDT
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I considered myself to have matured over the last few years. I got a proper job, got a flat, started paying bills and all that grown up stuff. But all it took to blow this effort into outer space was the return of two old friends from University.
Location: The Imperial Arms Pub, Kent. Sunday.
It was with great trepidation that I accepted Pete and Jim's invite to watch the Spurs match down the pub. It had taken almost all of the two years that they had been away at University to remove the stigma I had earned with them and get myself off the "crazy fuckers not to be invited to any party" list with our other friends.
But there we sat, gulping down pints of Fosters at an absurd rate whilst offending half of the pub with our loud, witty, criticisms of the referee and various players of the other team.
Spurs won. And we celebrated this in traditional fashion by ordering in a famous five each. A famous five being an assortment of five girly alcopops which are shotgunned in alphabetical order in the vein of gladiators. (ARE YOOOOU READY??? 3, 2, 1.. GO!!!)
After the 5 girly-pops and half a bottle of Grolsch that wasn't going down easy, I was fast approaching "wrecked" status. But I was still sober enough to know that I had to leave at 9.45pm in order to get the last train home and get enough sleep in to make it to work in a reasonable state. I set the alarm on my phone to remind me.
At 9.45pm we were in the middle of a new game we had devised called Beer or No Beer. "Ask me the question, Pete". "Beer" I replied as I vowed that I would definitely leave at 10.25pm to get the last bus home.
10.45pm, and the landlord has just kicked us out. "What should we do now?" asked Jim. At no point over the next couple of minutes did "walk home", "call a cab" or any other sleep related activity enter into my mind. Maturity and rational thought were gone for me.
After a few minutes of silence, Pete, the voice of reason, the guy who always managed to stay a little less pissed than everyone else, thankfully suggested the only sensible thing three drunk geezers should do in that situation.
"Lets have a fucking curry"
We stayed traditional and went for a chicken Vindaloo with two plain naans and a manly pint of water each. Also in keeping tradition, almost immediately after we finished Pete vomited his vindaloo and most the evenings alcohol down the curry house bog.
Later outside the curry house, it's late. I didn't how late because I couldn't understand my watch. I tried the digital clock on my phone. But that was still no good as I could focus either. Meanwhile, Jim had followed Pete's example and was making a pavement pizza out of his own vindaloo. We let him finish and then found ourselves in the same situation as before.
"What shall we do now?" Even after the pints of water, a sensible thought failed to enter my mind or Jim's. Once again it was left to Pete, the man with his screwed on, to profer the nights next course of action.
"Lets drive to Tunbridge Wells and jump in the reservoir"
In hindsight there are so many things wrong with that idea. But as soon as Pete said it, that was the only thing that could round the night off.
So with Status Quo on CD player, Pete in the driving seat and myself and Jim tucking into the Millers we got from the pub, we set off to the reservoir. Save any drink-driving rants, because firstly I don't care, and secondly at that time of night the only people on the roads were us and hedgehogs. And we got two of the spiky little bastards.
We only got half way before Pete's clutch disintegrated on the motorway. And despite our drunken protests Pete pulled over into a lay-by in the middle of knowhere, and parked up in neutral. Twat. The car wasn't going anywhere.
Stranded and too drunk to figure out what to do, we finished the rest of Miller and went to sleep to the relaxing tone of Rocking All Over The World.
I awoke suddenly, felt a pain in my stomach and immediately paniced. Fuck... Vindaloo Shit! My guts were on fire. It felt like someone had detonated a nuclear warhead in my arse. Where the fuck was I supposed to go? We were in the middle of no-where. I'd have to hold it.
Five minutes of assorted yoga positions and breathing exercises in the front seat of the car did nothing to relieve the pain. This cunt of shit wanted out. I'd tried to wake up Pete for advice but he appeared to be dead. Jim's contribution when I woke him was to vomit on himself and go back to sleep.
My arse gurgled. The procedure had begun, this shit was coming out, now. With no time for planning I got out the car, whipped down my jeans and pointed my arse at the nearest bush. Fucking hell. I thought I'd eaten a vindaloo, not a plate of molten fucking lava. There were tears streaming down my cheeks. The loose consistency of this red hot shit also meant that it was dripping round and burning my scrotum. What a nice little bonus.
I was now at the second challenge of a road-side shit. I went for my socks. Shit. I wasn't wearing any. Okay it have to be the underwear. I removed it and put it to good use, but it just wasn't enough. I threw the shitty pants onto the bonnet of Pete's car. Unfortunately this took me off balance in my crouched position and I had to steady myself by putting my hand in my own turd.
In a state of panic and on auto-pilot I stood up, whipped off my t-shirt and wiped my hand and then my arse clean of the still warm shit. All the while cursing my situation. Disposing of t-shirt over the pile of shit with a handprint in and worrying about the fact that I now had nothing to wear on my top half I looked at my watch. 6am.
SHIT! Work. I can't call in sick. Not after those "Ryder Cup days" last week. I tried to wake Pete to see if I could borrow an article of clothing for my top half, but he refused to wake up. Jim had rolled in his own sick by then, so he was out as well. I couldn't have missed another day of work. They would have sacked me. I couldn't even afford to be late.
I sent Pete and Jim a text saying I had to go, and called a cab. The bloke at the other end explained that they couldn't pick me up if I didn't know where I was. Good point; well made, I thought.
I walked for 20 minutes until I found a McDonalds and called the cab with a location. Mercifully, some indian geezer turned up almost immediately and didn't say a single word about me being topless and smelling slightly of shit.
We pulled into my driveway at 8am. I paid the cab driver £40, got washed, put on my suit and legged it to the train station. I arrived at work bang on 9am. No one was wise to my exploits. But as I sat there at my desk with a terminal hangover, examining the vindaloo shit still left in my fingernails, I swore at myself under my breath. If I had just a little bit more mature I would have left that pub at 9.45pm.