Singing God save the Queen at a Polish wedding...

People might be getting a little bored of my endless tweets and posts about my trips to Poland but never have I actually written about them. So, after just getting back from the heaviest 'drinking' session of Poland as of yet, I thought it would be a good idea to share a story of my most recent trip to the land of builders and plumbers.

Vodka

Yup, the rumours are true. They drink bloody liters of the stuff and if were not for the national salary being low, I think it would be used instead of milk in cereal, water in coffee and probably be what fills the swimming pools.

An example of this can be seen when I went to a Polish wedding last Saturday.

An HOUR before the actual ceremony started we had made a 'gate' of balloons to stop the bride and groom from leaving their house. I thought it was all a bit funny until I realised that for them to get past they had to give us two bottles of vodka. They kindly obliged to the tradition and gave us the bottles. I then politely followed tradition and had two shots of the stuff.

After the ceremony, which was a bizarre experience with myself not understanding a word of it, we made our way to the reception in a nearby hotel.

It looked rather similar to an English wedding apart from the food and music being played and what occupied every table. To every three tables was a bucket of ice with two bottles of vodka in it. This most likely added up to 30 bottles(ish).

As we sat down and all necessary announcements were made we had our first shot. About 15 minutes later we then had our second. 20 minutes later we had our third, all of which being poured by myself, apparently its traditional for the youngest lad to pour but I have a suspicion they just wanted to stay seated.

*I should also add that when a bottle finished a new one was put in the bucket, free of course and NEVER did they run out.*

Soon after the first drink the first hot meal came out and we ate and drank, then drank again, then ate again then drank again...

This pattern carried on for at least an hour before the food was eaten and dancing was to begin.

Now dancing in Poland is quite specific in that they have a certain style. Luckily with it being so simple that Stephen Hawking could probably do it, I got up and got involved, my head awash with booze.

I danced with my girlfriend, my girlfriends mother and a few others who wanted some English loving then sat back down where more drinking endured.

I suspect that by this point I had swallowed half a litre of the liquid and was beginning to feel a little weary. However, opposite me was my father in-law who simply raised his shot glass and said 'drink', one of the ten words he knows in English, and whether it was out of pride or fear, I did.

The hours then rolled by, some dancing, some talking and some swallowing the firewater.

At around 12am though, something quite embarrassing happened.

The bride and groom sat down on some chairs in the middle of the dance floor and the DJ began rambling on about something. My girlfriend then whispered in my ear, 'take the bride's shoe and you can win vodka'. Usually I would say f-off! But with my head filled with dizziness and heart filled with dutch courage, I proceeded in taking off the bride's shoe.

It was all very simple and about five minutes later I went out again to receive my prize. The DJ then started talking to me in Polish. I simply replied with 'nie mowie po Polsko', which translates to 'I speak no Polish'. Everyone then started laughing as they realised the English boy could say something in their language. I smiled, mostly out of embarrassment and waited.

The DJ seemed to not realise that I still spoke no Polish and he carried on rambling in all that I could describe as gibberish.

My girlfriend then came out and translated.

Apparently the DJ had asked me if I wanted one or two bottles of vodka. I obviously said two and again awaited my prize, standing with the bride's shoe in my hand and EVERYONE staring at me in amazement.

What followed was something I did not expect.

It turned out that for me to get something I had to give something. This meaning sing something in English.

With myself being rather intoxicated I panicked not knowing what to sing and bless these people with my voice. I had no idea of any song I could sing and thus began singing the only thing I could remember the words to.

'HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!'

Yup, I sung happy birthday with a crimson face and stutter but luckily everyone else seemed to know it and joined in, making my red cheeks go back to their usual colour.

Once I finished I felt a sense of relief knowing that the nightmare ordeal was over.

It wasn't.

Weronika then told me that I had won one bottle of vodka but for me to win the second I had to sing a second song.

I contemplated taking the one bottle and leaving with my head held high but quickly thought 'fu#k it, I want two'.

Full of motivation and alcohol I begin to scream out 'God Save The Queen' hoping someone would join me again.

Turns out Polish people don't know this one and I sang alone, feeling like a right tit. However, when I finished I received a warm applause and cheer and finally the two bottles.

I sat back down, whipped back another shot and stared at my two bottles, feeling as if I had never earnt a drink as much as this. It was a strange feeling but a good one, knowing that when I drunk the vodka, I would remember how I got it.

Now the two bottles sit on my windowsill, looking ready for when I return to uni, reflecting the experience I had. An experience that was most certainly different and daunting but one I loved and respected, even if I can't remember most of it.


Oh and the bride got her shoe back...

The difference between a student bar and a Spoons pub.

Being home from uni is great. Home cooked food, your own bed, seeing your family, no bills or rent to worry about, internet that works... the list is endless. But one thing that changes significantly is the social life.

Uni seems to be its own little world. It doesn't conform to the usual day-to-day rhythms of life. Sleeping patterns are disjointed and a complete myth. A healthy diet is restricted to those who have a budget that can afford a weekly intake of fresh fruit and vegetables. The uni household will very rarely have an internet speed above 2mbps, ours was actually recorded at 0.4 at one point. Alcohol seems to be cheaper than water and the student bar becomes a second home. Just a blurry pit of booze infused dreams and alcohol driven confessions of opinions or happenings in life which should never be brought to surface. I will admit to being the one guy of the group who is particularly partial to exclaiming a particular emotion towards another individual. This it not to say I regret it.

Back home, or in my case at least, the most common place for a piss up is the local Wetherspoons pub, 'The Oxted Inn'. It provides cheap beers, cheap food and a relatively comfortable setting. However, there are significant differences between getting pissed up at a student bar and getting trollied at a spoons.

The student bar is described in a previous blog but if you have not read it, and why wouldn't you have?!, here is a very brief outline. It is cheap and it is the only point of the week a student is actually content with life.

The Wetherspoons (or spoons as it is commonly referred as) is in itself a different level of pub. The theme of cheap booze still follows as with the student bar but with it comes 'non-students'. Most of them are fine. They are usual people with usual lives working usual jobs with a usual view on life. Some, however, are not.

For example...

You have the 'lone ranger'. This is the person who simply sits by himself with a pint and makes no act of humanly function. He (and it usually is a he) simply sits with one hand on his pint, his other resting on the bar and stares aimlessly into the abyss of the predictable furnishings of a spoons pub. He only moves to take a sip of alcohol or to purchase another. This is it. You don't pity the Lone Ranger because you know he is content with life. Not happy, not sad, just content.

There is the 'self-communicator'. This individual is similar to the Lone Ranger in that he or she (usually he) is sat by himself with an alcoholic beverage. Yet this remarkable being is able to give himself such wonderful company. He will stare at his pint muttering to himself before shouting a word or phrase out in a reply to his muttering. This goes on for hours and provides a humorous but slightly concerning watch. He will have no concern over anyone else in the pub but himself. He will firmly believe that his conversation is quite alright and that no others input is needed. I should add that this person is normally a raging alcoholic and doesn't begin his chattering until he is a few pints down the line.

Now the groups you get are normally pretty universal in any spoons pub. You have the work colleagues, self-explanatory.

You have the students who are either studying closely or back from studying having a catch-up with others whilst on uni break.

You have the teens.  The teens are those who have just turned the legal age for alcoholic consumption and think they are the kings of banter and booze and have all the knowledge into getting wavy; I absolutely detest this word by the way but some people think it is in fact an appropriate term for getting drunk.

You have the alcoholics. They are usually in at opening and long gone before the evenings comes about. Strength in numbers seems to be their motto as they are always in a group of 3-7.

There is the 'family'. This is normally an innocent family who have come in a little too late to get a bite to eat and the parents watch on in horror as the pub floods with people ready to get drunk ASAP. They try to continue normal conversation but it is usually hopeless. They just urge their innocent and perfect kids to eat up so they can leave the abomination they find themselves in before shaking their heads as they leave.

Perhaps the most irritating group is what I like to call 'The Wankers'. The wankers are those with a ridiculous haircut and a dress sense which consists of tight jeans, Nike Roshes and some fancy designer top that they have grossly overpaid for. They are often laughing at other groups so that they can inflict they superiority over the pub. They think they are god's gift to women and thus a complete wanker. They spend their nights either discussing how amazing a lads holiday was four years ago or what female they have recently had sexual relations with.

This mixture of people is not usually seen in a student bar, everyone is there after a week at uni and just wants to get drunk. At a spoons the motives for drinking are completely varied. That is not to say either are better or worse. I love both the student bar and the Spoons. But the biggest difference is that I hope to be only in the spoons during my 20s. Any later and I might become the Lone Ranger or worse, the Self-communicator.

Project Cov

Ever since moving here in September, a house party was always expected to happen. Finally we got round to organising it as a last proper piss-up before exams start, not that I have any.

It was expected that around 30 people would come around 10pm (an hour after the official start time) with some +1s with them to fill out the house. What actually happened was that at 10:30pm the actual occupants of the house and a few close mates were sat twiddling their thumbs, drinking their alcohol and questioning whether the lights they had very specifically placed were OK. The first twinges of concern were starting to build into whether anyone would be there to appreciate the very specifically placed lights and enjoy our quality company. 

By 11:30 a considerable amount of people had arrived and the party was starting to become less of a little chatter between friends and an actual party. Shots were being shot, dance moves were being moved by those already quite drunk and the beer bong was in full use.

At midnight I went outside to do the bong and out of determination not to make a tit of myself, focused incredibly hard on it. It was only after my alcohol consumption that I heard 'ain't nobody f-ing with my clique' being chanted from the living room by a huge amount of people. It was on investigating this that I found that the house had become rammed with people, half of which I did not recognise let alone know. When I asked who they were they often replied with 'why do you want to know?'. I calmly explained how I was a tenant of this house for which they replied with 'ahh sorry, good party'. 

In the living area there was at least 30 people in it which is about 25 more than has ever been in it before. The playlist we had carefully put together was now off and black American rap was being screamed out by a huge group of lads. I had had no idea who they were apart from one individual. Ashley Powell, a person I had come to know quite well over the last few years, was jumping up and down in the middle of the group like an intoxicated kangaroo. We did make eye-contact for him to shout a Kanye West lyric at me, which seemed rather innapropriate with him being incredibly white. 

The rest of the night followed as described above with shots, beer bongs, dancing, singing/ rapping and drunk conversation eating the hours away. I had somehow begun talking to two Polish people in my incredibly inconsistent and over confident Polish. They said I was 'very good' but their faces told a different story. 

At around 3:30am many of the people had left and it became mine and the other hosts responsibility to finish off the remaining alcohol. This was a mixture of beer, cider, shots and a Polish beverage called bimber which at 70% was described by Liam Quinn (another accomplice from back home) as 'nuclear cat piss'. By this point everyone was incredibly drunk and drinking now was more of a challenge than a pleasure. Mr Powell had now made plenty of new friends and spent a good few hours rapping to all his favourite gangster tracks. I did have my 5 minutes of fame orchestrating Wonderwall by Oasis on my guitar standing on one of the sofas to about 15 people screaming 'AGAIN' as I gave myself an encore.

It is fair to say the clean up the following day was awful. There was a stickiness to every possible surface, still full cans on every table and chair and for some reason the kitchen wreaked of balsamic vinegar with cracked eggs and straws littering the floor. The hangover alongside this mess was equally as bad with my head feeling like it was about to implode and my mouth feeling as if I had been eating sand all night. There was obviously a full fry up the following morning but this only intensified the feeling of vomit beginning to rise in our bellies. 

However, regardless of the hangover, the state of the house after and the damage it had done to my student loan it was such an insane night. I witnessed awful rapping, a brilliant consumption of booze and someone so drunk they tried to switch off the light on the wall with their feet as they lay drooling in their own mess.

.

Party, police and pricks

Last Saturday our plans were to go to a university house party. I can't remember the last time I went to a house party and the rest of the group were excited for a cheap and sociable evening. We bought our booze a couple of days before and made sure we were sufficiently prepared with enough alcohol to last the evening.

On arrival we noticed that though the cab journey didn't seem to take so long, we were completely bewildered to our location in Coventry. The house looked nice enough and when we entered we found that though it looked relatively large on the outside, it was incredibly cosy on the inside. We lay our boxes of beer and cider outside so that they would remain cool and went inside to see what was what.

There was only around 20 people at the party at this point, 12 of which were us, so we decided to make our own entertainment by drinking and talking. Some individuals scouted the girls present and for those of us who were in a relationship, laughed at their disappointment that only 3 were actually present.

One individual of our group, John, had left to discuss his gym progress with an obvious stoner who was more interested in talking about how high he had been the night before. We again laughed as he looked at us from the other room quite confused into why we weren't going in to talk with them. The truth was we were quite happy with our own company. Furthermore, the guy in question loved singing My Chemical Romance whenever he had the chance and I can't be dealing with someone like that. .

Everything was going smoothly. We had started to make conversation with people we did not know and were getting involved with other groups. The party was starting to gain more people at this point and the alcohol consumed was starting to take effect. So as far as house party goes it was all going quite well. Until...

The doorbell rang and the host answered the door. Rico's (the host) face looked at those outside the house with a sort reluctant smile and welcome. Chris and I, who were sat in the other room watching, could tell that something wasn't quite right.

Four guys entered. Three of the four were incredibly round and the fourth looking like he hadn't eaten in a week. Two of the three round people were wearing polo tops which were clearly two sizes too small and the third fatty was wearing a coat, to our pleasing as two fabric stretchers was quite enough.

They came in and immediately we knew they weren't students. Not because of their appearance so much, though this did have some influence, but the very manner in which they waltzed in shouting and swearing with no regard for anyone else. Aaron, who had been school mates with the host had warned us that these people could come and stated they were 'massive knobs' and the only reason they were invited was because the host felt obliged to.We ignored the Jeremy Kyle contestants and left them to their own doing as we attempted to go on as we had done before.

About two hours later I was informed that a police van was outside and I decided to investigate. There was indeed a huge and full police van outside the front of the house. It turned out that one of the fabric stretchers had thrown a bottle outside, awoken a resident with children and racially abused them. On confronting the group I said 'why would you do that in a residential area?'. Their reply was 'it's a house party, got to have some fun'. I decided they were not worth the reply and left them to the host Rico.

It turned out that due to Rico's 'kindness' he could not tell them to leave. Chris and I insisted that if he wanted the party to be a success they would have to go otherwise the police would return after they politely warned us to not let it happen again.

Another hour later I got tapped on the shoulder by Abbie.

'The police are back again and one of the fat kids has just slammed the door in their face.'

Brilliant...

Next thing I know three police officers came round the back of the house into the garden. Two were in the house and around eight lined the entrance.

Not surprisingly they asked us to leave and that party was done. It was 1:30 am by this point but we had then planned to be there till the early hours of the morning. We picked up our existing drinks, most of mine had then been stolen, and headed through the house to leave. To my amazement the most stretchiest of fabric stretchers was trying to argue with police and questioning him on the law. The police officer looked at him with some amusement as we all did. The fat prick seriously thought he was better than the policeman!

I did ask why we had been asked to leave and the police officers were incredibly friendly and helpful in describing that they had two complaints and in a residential area that means two strikes and you're out. We completely understood and they knew who the culprits were but they apologised for having to end our night and gave us taxi phone numbers.

Once we returned home we were all quite annoyed that the pricks had gotten their way so we went and bought some greasy food and drunk the last of our beer. Chris was on full rage mode and ranted about how much he hated them for a good two hours. Even now if you bring the topic up his face goes a little pink and he goes 'argh', inhales and he's off again.

Having a party shut down by the police can show that the party was bouncing. This time it was not. It was just a few ignorant and thick skulled twats that believed that with size came confidence. It was a shame as everything was starting to get going and we were enjoying ourselves. But I think the biggest regret was that we hadn't even had the time to see one of the single lads make a complete tit of himself with one of the poor and unexpecting ladies.

A K cider type of night

Within my group of mates at uni we have a sort of tradition whereby if there is a special occasion we decide to buy a very specific pre-drink for a night out. This pre-drink is drunk with only one outcome possible; complete lack of any self-control and dignity. It tastes rancid, has a alcohol volume of 8.4% and goes by the name of K Cider.

The occasion for such a beverage was that a mate of mine was coming up to visit me in Coventry. He has come up twice before and one ended with myself being so horrifically drunk I cannot possibly say what happened. All I will say is that I was found with my trousers round my ankles and one shoe on in bed with a question being asked to whether I was still alive. This state was also caused by the joys of 'K'.

We bought our 4 cans for £6 and there was about 10 of us drinking it and all very excited to see what was to unfold throughout the night. The taste is so bad that it has to be drunk with some sort of blackcurrant squash just so it can even be durable. Yet still no matter how much you put in, it is always drunk with a grimace and an asking of 'why am I doing this?'

By about 2 cans in we all looked at each other with a sort of concerning expression as the effects of the liquid was already well underway. But even though we knew it was all to get much worse we bravely continued.

By about 10:30 my four cans were consumed and decided to have one Guinness just so I had something to drink for the remaining 30 mins. My head was a sea of a whatever brain I had left. It felt as if the drink had dismembered my brain so that just a pink mess was slopping around in my skull. I took a fuzzy look at everyone else and the expression seemed to be the same on everyone's face. A mixture of sheer delight at being at a state that now anything is acceptable and whether they will be sick or not. One poor lad who had never drunk K's before had brought with him 8 cans and had completed 6 by the time of leaving, a very rookie error. I turned to see if he was coming as we left and all I saw was him stroking the closed bathroom door like an affectionate mother would do to a child. I shouted 'Billy!'. He turned to me like an alert meerkat, looked at me with fear and ran to the stairs leading to downstairs and all that was heard was vomitting. We presumed he would be ok and no one really wanted to clean him up so we decided to leave.

We believed getting cabs we would be much more sensible instead of taking the 20 minute walk and proceeded to find two. However, one of the group had a better idea... Strictly under the influence of alcohol, Nathan, our resident old boy at the age of 23 decided to ride his unicycle to the club. He hadn't been drinking Ks but instead had been drinking some of my 65% home-brewed polish whiskey or commonly known as 'bimber'. He surprisingly looked quite capable of doing this and we watched him cycle, (is that right for a unicycle?) with a lock in one hand, down the road and round the corner. It is important to note we did not see him for the remainder of the night but he did return with his beloved unicycle a few hours later.

Being in the club is an incredibly blurry memory. We lost half the group almost immediately. We later found out that 5 had returned home and one had fallen downstairs naked with a full 2 pint stein of water. Apparently the hilarity of watching this was uncomparable. Moreover, after getting up he remained naked and wandered the house looking for friends. The remainder of us spent the rest of the night dancing and laughing at ourselves. I was later told that I spent most of the night on the floor as I kept falling over and making a tit of myself. There was some dancing but it was more of an attempt to stay stood up than rhythmic movement to the music.

Eventually I got to a point when even my mate who had come up said 'Matt, just go home'. I declared to him that I was not going to leave him like a soldier says dramatically in some Hollywood film. He insisted and I realised that the night for me was well and truly peaked and a burger and bed was needed. So I said my emotional goodbye and got a burger, a cab (for which I think I grossly overpaid) and got back.

Before going to bed I decided to go to the toilet to risk any further embarrassment. What I found was my bathroom, which only I use, covered in shaving foam and my shower door completely broken off. I was told that the 6 can guy who was sick was found by the early returning group and they proceeded in removing his eyebrows by shaving them. This was why there was shaving foam everywhere. The removed shower door was due to one of my friends pinning another in the shower and this resulting with the removal of a whole door. I am still curious into what might have actually been happening but of course they say it was 'just a bit of fun'.

The hangover the next day was absolutely awful. I think the headache was the result of my brain fusing back together and the very sore wrist being due to the high amount of falling overs the night before. A few videos were found on phones but nothing too revealing. One had Chris, our resident Mancunian, shouting to my mate from home Ash, 'Wherever you go I fucking go'. The point of this remark is still not understood. There was one clip of me drinking water in the club and my face looking like it was melting and all muscle function was gone apart from being able to do a ridiculous and exaggerated smile to the camera.

Overall it was a night that we all intended to happen and will be looked back on with success. Not just because it was a great night with a childhood mate but that the stories from it can be told for years to come.

A traditional uni birthday

Birthdays are usually the most anticipated day of the year for the majority. Yet as you get older you usually find that they lose the excitement that they originally had until you get to your 18th.

Birthdays from 0-12 usually consist of burgers and ice-cream with the occasional birthday party thrown in every couple of years. At 12-17 they lose a lot of what they originally had and the presents normally dominate the day more than they should. 18+ they become something completely different.

At uni, birthdays aren't always seen as a positive for the individual having the birthday but more of an opportunity. Presents are very rarely anything but a drink in the pub but this is not to mean that it is a kind gesture of buying them there favourite drink.

My birthday started with myself buying a pint and everyone sat together enjoying a simple beverage. Then out of nowhere there were two shots waiting for me on the table. One being black sambuca, a vile liquid thick with everything evil in the world. The second was chili sambuca, a bright green acid that when the disgusting taste has passed a burning goes about destroying your mouth and throat. Luckily the following two drinks were a pint of Carlsberg and my favourite, a pint of Guinness. A few shots of tequila followed and a couple more pints and then the pricks of the group had there say in buying me a drink. Joe, whose birthday drinking session is luckily tonight, bought me something called 'liquid cocaine'. This is a shot made of tequila, gin, vodka and baileys. Then a little bit is extracted so that when necking the shot, the extracted bit is then snorted through a shortened straw. The pain cannot be described in normal langauge but to simplify it, it is not a pleasant experience. The last drink was something called a 'gas chamber'. This is in essence flaming sambuca but the fumes are kept so that after drinking the shot the fumes are inhaled, this time luckily through the mouth. A few pints followed and the rest of the night was left for me to try and digest the foul drinks and for them to laugh at my drunk sayings and doings.

One of the main benefits of having a birthday at uni is that firstly you don't have to worry about coming home to your mum or dad waiting to judge you or see you embarrassing yourself. Another is that if you are living with the people who are giving you the drinks, it is their responsibility to get you home safely so you can get yourself to a proper screwed up state.

So to finish up, if you have a mate who has a birthday coming up don't just settle for buying them a drink. Buy them the strongest/ most repulsive drink that is available as if you're going to spend money on someone, make sure it is well spent. However, this is not to say you shouldn't look after them. As soon as they get that drunk they are your responsibility. So just make sure they get home and that when you are there then anything goes.

A drunken story

Last Friday (23rd) we found ourselves in the usual scenario of being in the pub, drinking and exchanging jokes at eachothers expense. I was drinking beer at a slow pace as I was hoping to be in the pub for a good few hours and didn't want to peak too early. However, some of the group were planning on going clubbing later in the evening. They tried to persuade me to come but after my first week back at uni I just wanted a chilled out drinking session.

Who was going and who was not was pretty much decided. All apart from one individual, Aaron. Now Aaron originally said no to this and was drinking his double-vodka lemonades at a comfortable pace for the same reasons as I was. But after an hour of chatting and contemplating, Aaron thus decided that clubbing would be a good idea and decided to go. However, there was a problem. When Aaron goes clubbing he can't just be tipsy or even drunk. He has to be absolutely obliterated, so that any hint of self-regard/ safety are long gone. He was though at this point in the night barely fuzzy from what he had consumed and with there being only an hour and a half left till departure, he had to speed up his intake of alcohol. What wasn't expected was the sheer rise in speed of consumption. Originally he was buying one drink to last about half an hour. Now he was buying two at a time to last for 15 minutes before getting another 2. So by the time it came to his leaving he was pretty much seeing double of everything and his eyes glazed over with what I can only imagine being vodka, as I doubt there was any room left for it to go within his body. But either way, he felt he had succeeded in getting him to the state he felt was acceptable to go clubbing and they departed.

3 hours later.

I returned from the pub with some grub and set about eating it whilst drinking some water so that the hangover the next day could be tamed a little. After this was finished I decided to head to bed at around 2am.

Then it all kicked off.

I heard what can only be described as a mixture of a heavy metal scream and the sound of a gag. Yet though this surprised me at first, I immediately knew who was the culprit and decided to investigate. I got to the bathroom on the first floor and found it locked so with a little pick locking, I opened it. What I saw was a hairy blob on the floor with its head buried in the toilet bowl vomiting furiously.

Aaron loves a good flirt

'Mate, you alright?'
The reply was just a desperate 'uh huh'.
So I tapped him on the back and left to go back to bed.
What followed was enormous banging coming from the same bathroom Aaron was in. I decided to just leave him to do what he wants but was told the following morning through another source what was actually happening.

Aaron had decided to take a shower but somehow was struggling to close the shower door, even though there is no lock of any kind and just needs to be pulled towards him to close it. So all
I can imagine is that he was pulling it so furiously that it was bouncing back out the hinge, making him think something was wrong. A very surprised Abbie was then the unfortunate person to open the bathroom door to see him now naked and very confused to why the shower door wasn't closing and wasn't even switching on. He hadn't switched on the correct switch and just stood there in bewilderment. Abbie then helped him switch on the shower and left him. She returned 20 minutes later to find him naked and sleeping on the floor of the bathroom in the pitch black.

Adding to supplies

Next morning.

Myself and Billy first met him on the sofa looking pretty awful and asked him what happened and what time he got back. He didn't know and had no recollection of what had happened the night before and that someone apart from his mother had now seen him naked. So Billy and I decided to see what state his room was in.

Firstly there was sick on his bed and his bin had a lovely puddle of the previous nights dinner and vodka. However the most shocking element was walking into his room. I was wearing slippers, Billy was not and he quickly commented on how the majority of the carpet was soaking wet.
'Maybe its water?' Billy asked in hoping that I would agree.
'Maybe it's not?' I replied starting to giggle. Billy on the other hand, did not find it very amusing.
So to clarify we asked Aaron what the substance on his floor was and it was indeed urine. However, the smell, according to Aaron did not occur until the Monday after and he has informed me that it still lingers.

He did attempt to clean up mind you. He used Billy's flannel which he claims, 'no one used'. He has now promised to purchase a new one for Billy who is distraught that one of his Christmas presents has been used to soak up urine.

This story is pretty tame in comparison to others but I thought I better start light and build up to the really ridiculous events that have happened.

Back to the student bar!

Tonight returns the most enjoyable time of the week, the Friday night student bar drinking session.

Uni students usually come in three forms. The clubbers, the pubbers and the non-drinkers.

Non-drinkers are a rare breed but do exist in the bowels of the library or eating some fancy meal with the money they have that wasted on booze.

The clubbers usually just like pre-drinking themselves into oblivion, clubbing and hoping for themselves to wake up next to a new friend, this applying mostly to guys, girls are far more sensible.

The pubbers, like myself, enjoy going to a pub, drinking their body weight in alcohol, grabbing some food and somehow finding their home. It seems to be that no matter how drunk I have got in the past, I might not know my name or where I was 5 minutes prior, I WILL find my home. Sometimes with an injury from falling over en route or some sign or traffic cone that asked to come along with me. If you aren't the one who does do this, you will have a friend who does. Mine being a lad called Aaron, or 'Sat-nav', this being due to his ability to find anywhere after alcohol is administered. His collection within his room at the end of the first year of uni would be enough to compete with any builders supplies.

Our 'local' is a student bar called ''Quids', which sounds promising from the title which is due to 99% of shots being a pound each.

The usual will be a £2 pint of Carlsberg for myself and the others a £2.50 pint of Strongbow for the cider drinkers.

The night will usually start with keen and polite conversation with the pints going down at a surprisingly quick pace, maybe the odd shot now and then. This is then followed by the odd submission in the juke box. Oasis being a cliche but common choice.

After the 5/6th pint, the pace of consumption will slow a little bit and the banter to turn sour.

Every group has 'that' guy who always seems to get the piss taken out of.

We luckily have about 3/4 which means the nights are never dull, the group being of about 8-15, depending on work load etc.

At pint 7/8 some will go to a club, some might have 'hit the wall' and others just carry on with the banter flowing. The banter can vary from someone doing something ridiculous during the week, or anytime really, or if you are like our friend Chris, have a Dad called Brian who likes cooking and so happens to be bald, and have this escalate into him being Brian the bumder. Might not be funny to you but for us it could lift the mood on any situation. (Nothing homosexual in cooking or being bald by the way)    

At pint 9/10 it is usually time to leave. However this is not before getting a tower-burger meal. Now you might ask what this is? It is simply a chicken burger with a hash brown inserted. Might sound simple but it is hands down the only thing you want at that stage of the night.

The next part I'm not entirely sure about but we seem to find our way home and into bed. I can't really elaborate anymore on that.

The next morning is usually a hangover, a cup of coffee, a bacon sandwich and a good laugh at the clubbers who 'were so close to pulling' the night before but in essence walked a girl home for her to say, goodnight and close the door.

This happens every weekend without fail. Tonight is my first since being home for Christmas and I can't wait!