Well, my tale is proof that drinking to cover up your embarrassment is not a good idea....
So, my first term at Uni hadn't gone too badly. My halls were nice and central, I was enjoying my course, I'd made some new friends, and I even got on pretty well with my room mate - which I wasn't expecting. I'd walked in the room to find camo gear and webbing on the bed, weights on the floor... and the arch-woolly liberal in me thought "oh, good grief, I'm sharing with an army nutter..."
Beneath Dave's 6'4" sizeable frame, however, lurked a warm and funny bloke. It was just a shame that the same could not be said for others on his War Studies course, who fell mostly into the beer-drinking rugger-bugger stereotype.
Anyhow, as I said, I had enjoyed term so much that I thought I'd stay on in Hall a second year - and to do that, I would need to curry favour with the Hall manager and get elected to the JCR. The fact that the person I needed to butter-up was an insipid mincing queen who walked his poodle round the square on a daily basis was going to be a small personal sacrifice to ensure I stayed in my cushy Halls...
To celebrate the end of our first term, there was a big black tie dinner in Hall. 200 or so people there - the Hall residents, the management, guests of honour etc. Students were invited - positively encouraged - to do little skits to usher in the Christmas spirit. So, a couple of nights before, over a few beers Dave, one of his fellow War Studies chums and I thought it would be "absolutely hilarious" to get up and sing the rude version of the twelve days of Christmas. Ah, drunken ideas always seem great at the time.
Of course, having announced this plan to those sitting in the Hall bar at the time, we were somewhat honour-bound to follow through with our evening entertainment. So, after a couple of pre-dinner beers and half a bottle of wine with the meal we had enough booze inside us to get up and announce to the assembled masses:
"Ladies & Gentlemen, we have a Christmas song for you..."
On the First day of Christmas my true love gave to me... a blowjob in an MG.
Well, most people know that one, so it got a good laugh. But of course, what we all forget about the Twelve Days is... that it really goes on, and on, and on... and on... and you can't stop until the end.
To cut a long and very painful story short... the hall manager really didn't like "8 Aching Arseholes" (I saw his face wince with pain and anger... that's blown my chances, I thought), although oddly, the female guest of honour thought "Twelve tw&ts a-twitching" was absolutely hilarious.
The run-down in full is, I believe:
Twelve tw&ts a-twitching
Eleven Licking Lesbians
Ten Tattered Tatties
Nine Gnawed-off Nipples
Eight Aching Arseholes
Seven Septic Scrotums
Six sluts a-laying
Five Choir boys (sung up the octave, of course...)
Four call girls
Three French whores
Two sh!t house doors
And a blow job in an MG
By the end, we did get a big cheer. However, by the end, I wanted the ground to swallow me up - I thought I'd blown my chances of staying in Halls the following year, and had generally made myself look like a bit of a knob in front of my friends.
It's one of the few times I have drunk with the sole and express purpose of putting myself into oblivion... booze to ease the pain and numb the embarrassment. And boy, I did it in style - bearing in mind I'd already had two pints before dinner and half a bottle of wine with the meal... I then had a whole bottle of port to myself after the meal, and chased that down with two pints (yes, pints) of Baileys.
Nasty.
Needless to say, the evening was one long black memory loss. The only times I came to were when my friend Ben got up and sang "Brown Sugar" with the band who were playing that evening - which I thought was really cool. I then slipped back into the pit of blackness, and next thing I knew I was pinned up against a wall with a tongue down my throat. Luckily, it belonged to a girl who I sort of fancied (well, she wasn't too bad looking, and she had large thrups).
I woke up the next morning in bed, alone - still absolutely sh*tfaced; and amazingly, with no memory of the fact that in the middle of the night, I'd wandered into the bathroom in my pants, filled one of the sinks with chunder, walked into the loo cubicle, locked the door behind me and passed out on the floor.
I didn't believe any of that had happened... until I saw the photos. Not nice.
Amazingly, they'd broken into the cubicle and carried me back to my room - which was why I was blissfully unaware of it all...
So, kids - drinking a whole bottle of port to yourself and chasing it down with two pints of Baileys really does make you ill... OK?!
