The Battle to the Bar

The sun rises over the hill to the east. Goliath stands in front of you in the form of dozens of people just as eager to reach the same goal. Its such a great feeling to stare at an army so vast and know that you dont have to take them on, as it is not yet your round. But as all good things come to an end, you must soon find a passage that will allow you quick and easy access through the mob of people if you are to retrieve your liquid-gold. Normally I use my height (or lack there-of) to squeeze in and out of the tiniest gaps between people as I inch my way through the crowd but there is always an initial sticking point - the first of many stages where I am trapped in an awkward position between 5 people and not able to move my face out of the back of some unwitting girls hair. As she notices my nose hiding in her bun , I have spotted an opening 7 people away and bid her farewell by telling her that her hair smells lemony fresh and I ask her what shampoo she uses; she looks me up and down and completely ignores me (wrong chat-up approach?). By now you can hear high-adrenalin battle chanting choir music playing in the backround which reminds you of your objective; bending in and out; around and over; sideways and back-ways, you negotiate the hoardes of drunkards that stand between you and your destination. Now you reach sticking point number 2; where you are locked between a girlfriend and her boyfriend; you can hear absolutely everything they are saying including the anti-catholic filth that is pouring out of their mouths - maybe they're just on a first date?... You're completely fed up listening to them so you make a break for the 'empty-drinks' section of the bar; the place only staff are allowed to park, in the hope that you can swindle a sly order out of a weak bar-man (kind of like when you want to change lanes while driving your car, you pull up beside who you reckon looks generous or 'weak' enough to let you in). After giving up when the bouncer asks you to clear the space, you return to battling through the obsticle course of large and sometimes quite stubborn nacker wannabes whose hair-cuts dont completely fulfil their ambition to be 100% arsehole; you brush passed them deflecting their 'im going to fight you stare' with a gentle pat on the back or lower forearm as you 'thriller-move' your way on by; your body now in an 'im a little tea-pot' position. After you've Egyptian posed your way out of a solid beating from a berserker punter, you now find that you are behind someone at the bar. Now at this point, in my experience, I sometimes come across the 'are you having a laugh-ers'; these are generally quite attractive girls who for some bizarre reason ask if they can get in ahead of me...? Honestly now little lady, DO YOU THINK IVE JUST BATTLED THROUGH WHAT APPEARED TO BE AN OVERCROWDED HARRY POTTER BOOK SIGNING QUEUE JUST TO LET YOU IN FRONT OF ME? NO, SO PISS OFF! Whats more is they act really annoyed then when I say no? Oh Im sorry, did Daddy not tell you about something called the real world? Anyway, so you're standing at the bar (which in my case is usually up to my chest - What a pain in the rear hoop that is might I add) and you have to order your round of drinks at least 6 times because the nature of a nightclub is to make the music so bloody loud, that you cant hear anyone speak; usually come the 6th repitition of ordering your round you have confortably reached the point where you are using sign language to communicate your order (this comprises of you pointing to the brand of drink you want and holding up the proportionate number of fingers to the quantity required - I love when the bar-man/woman nods with such assuradness that you are convinced that they not only successfully deciphered what you order, but you now think they're sound; only to discover they got it all wrong - but you accept what you've been given because you're not arsed going through the motions again. Now comes the difficult part - getting back to your seat without spilling a drop... In my experience, I often take an unmanagable 5 glasses between two hands and slowly begin to navigate my way back through the hussle and bussle completely conscious of the fact that I can feel one of the glasses slowly slipping out of my grasp and if I dont make it back to the 'home-table' in the next 10 seconds, one of my friends are going to be drinking their beer off the ground. You just make it time to see that your friends are all sitting pretty with new fresh drinks because while you were fighting the war on constrictive body movement, they've just called the waitress to their table and had a round of drinks delivered with ease, purely because you took so bloody long to get to the bar and back.

Bottomline no 18; Spot the waitress, it will save you alot of grief.

Next Post: Leftover Spare Change

Slan Mo Chara

Deco

The Toilet people

There are many things I can never understand and things I never will. However, something that initially perplexed me but has now boomeranged all the way around confusion and landed right in my lap of resolution; is the concept of the people that work in the toilets in pubs and nightclubs. Or as I have come to call them; 'the toilet people'.
I recall the first time I walked into a toilet and was ambushed by a lucky lucky man spraying me in the eyes with a stinging mace of Jean Paul Gaultier and forcing me to wash my hands before I had even taken a piss and I must say; after my initial instinctive reaction of punching the poor guy in the face and following the realisation that I wasnt in fact under attack; I felt compelled to give the chap some money. The glory of it all; that was exactly what he wanted. From then on they became more plentiful, taking over more and more toilets across Dublin but it seemed their CEO had passed down a directive that employed customers of the bathroom voluntarily asking for some aftershave rather than a 'give first ask for money after' policy. I just couldnt get my head around it; I continued saying to myself, 'imagine working in a toilet during the messiest times of the night; Its confined, its not exactly the cleanest and you would have to deal with every drunken incarnation of Jar Jar binks there is'. But these guys are actually outrageously cunning business-men and they use every level of psychological strategy to fill up their black marble ashtrays. Example; I walk into the toilet after ballooning my liver out the lounge window following a barrage of hell-shots, I look to the urinals; they're completely occupied but to my luck someone is just coming out of a cubical - so in I go. While trying to write my name on the surface water with what can only be described as my uncontrollable jetspraying power washer, I begin to drunkenly text someone that Ive just seen upstairs in the nightclub who I havent bumped into in months, telling them they look like a radiant sunflower blossoming in the middle of a golden meadow; but suddenly someone begins to knock furiously on the cubical door and they are screaming at the tops of their lungs a mix of words that I simply cannot understand. I scramble my belt buckle closed while inadvertently saving that text to drafts (which I will discover in 'drunken text messages'), I walk out to find it was just the 'Toilet person' expiring my pissing time that was so clearly sign-posted in big flashing lights before I entered the lavatory. So I walk over to the sink and as I reach for the tap, the toilet person picks up his bottle of Palmolive (I raise my boxing guard to defend myself, thinking im about to be soaped to death) and he uses it to push down on the hot water tap. "Phew...". As I allow the water to wash over my hands, provocative spurts of coconut handwash land perfectly between my cupped hands as the 'Toilet person' cocks the bottle from afar like an early 18th century handgun. Ive cleaned my hands now and I need to dry them; Im one of these people who'd rather use toilet paper because unless its one of those new Dyson-super driers, im generally standing there until last orders waiting for my hands to dry under the gentle heat coming from the ordinary, wall mounted articulated truck exhaust pipe (that always harbors a message about saving trees). But the 'Toilet person' has of course thought of this and he hands me a blue hand towel that purely because of its colour, together with the stark white surroundings has now made me feel like im in a hospital. The problem here is that because its not the super absorbent Bounty hand-towel, it has crumbled in my hands and I need at least two more if im going to satisfyingly dry my mitts. With great hesitance I ask for two more towels and he looks at me like hes just about to giraffe kick me to the testicles. "Oh Im sorry Mr Toilet person, If you werent here id surely be thinning out the toilet paper in order to be more eco-friendly". So he cautiously gives me another two and directs me to put them in the blue bin, not the red one (what the hell?). Now, I havent indulged in any assortment of lollipops, chewing gum (usually 'Juicy Fruits') or aftershave yet I still feel I owe this guy for doing something as simple as washing my hands... Do I give him money? My arse - he can shag off if he thinks he's providing a service by removing my independence of pushing down on the pressure tap to relieve the repetitive strain injury I have from typing this post. But what I will say is that those minor actions are in fact a stroke of genius because it plays on the same psychological principal as the homeless person who starts washing your car in a traffic jam - you feel like you must give them something for their efforts. Not to mention that during your time in the 'Toilet persons' hospitality, they've been laughing with you, dancing with you, asking you how you are and how your night is going and generally just becoming your new best friend(albeit of course excluding the death stare he gave you earlier for contributing to the death of a sapling).However, in the instance when I do feel like giving a 'Toilet person' a few quid, I usually leave 2euro MAX; for it I get 2 under-arm sprays of the aptly present ‘Lynx Africa’, two sprays of after-shave and the friendliest thank-you-pat-on-the-back ever. Is this return on my investment even worth it? Of course not but the principal is that the condiments are there when you want it and because you dont want to smell like you've just ran up the 700 steps to the top of the Eiffel tower(ive done it although it was more like a brisk walk). I can only imagine the money that these people make; I know it always looks like their ashtray is empty but thats only because they pocket the 'big money'. On average a nightclub holds generally between 200-300 people; now imagine, between the ladies toilets and the gents toilets that 150 of those people left 1 euro even 3 out of the 6 times they might visit the toilet. That my friends is serious cash for a night in the Jon. Im in the wrong business; im going to start at home and expand - imagine that; my dad walks in at 3 in the morning, turns on the light and sees me standing in the corner with a serving of aftershaves, lollipops and some blue hand towel; he'd either go into cardiac arrest with fright or do the same thing I did initially when I thought I was being attacked; punch me right in the face and the 'zomble' back to bed (zomble - Decoism- to describe someone still in a state of sleepiness). The most likely of the two being the latter; I think ill stick to my day job, even though im not terribly good at that either...

Bottomline no 17; No matter how drunk you are, be sure you get something from the plethora other than clean hands

Next Post: The Battle to the Bar

Slan mo Chara

Deco

The Munchies

You're dancing away like a FRICKIN MANIAC and all of a sudden, the lights come on to reveal you standing there sweating like Gary Glitter at a 13 year olds birthday party. You're so drunk that you tumble out of the nightclub full well knowing that you've most likely forgotten something, but you couldnt care less because there is something far more important on your mind; Charlies, McDonalds, Burger King, Zaytoon or something downright Blanch-like such as Abrakebabra. You meander through the streets with your friends looking like a group of Zombies as your torso is so far in front of your legs, that it looks like you are walking at a perfect 40 degree angle. The times when you end up in one of these places on your own after a night of outrageous drunken bolloxery; is when you havent eaten all day and suddenly, one of your main purposes in going out at all, is because you know the heart stopping lard will taste all the better after 3 million 'brain hemorrhages'- and you dont even wait for your friends. So, you get to one of the above mentioned 'restaurants' and there is a queue the length of Tommy Lee's penis; fan-FRICKIN-tastic... So with a great sigh you join the one that appears to be moving the fastest, only to find that in fact, all of the other lines are moving at breakneak speed while you are still stood there like a rabbit caught between two headlights. Your so surprised at how slow the 'FUCKING QUEUE' (as it has now become known) is moving that you begin to curse the register clerk. "What kind of a ship are they running here" as you point out that one of the ladies behind the counter is not wearing a hair net. Then if thats not enough, you have to start dealing with rowdy drunken tosspots who are trying to hop-jump and skip you faster than Usain Bolt could slap you in the face just for the craic (yes I know hes not a hop-skip-jump althlete). Anyway, after you've had the balls to speak up and prevent the itinerant from skipping you (there are some of you who dont say a word isnt there? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES) you realise that you are nearing the top of the queue. AT LAST. But there is one more thing you must contend with before you reach the tipping point of receiving your slobber; and they are 'jump shippers'- people in the queue parallel to you who are waiting to jump from their queue across into your queue the second as the clerk yells 'NEXT'. They are cunning so you must always remain aware of their Ninja like stealth. So, you've managed to block them and you're at the top of the queue at last, your only real issue now is that you havent put any thought into what you feel like eating. A bigger issue however is that because you're polverised out of your face, your eyes are now too big for your belly (not a problem for that bird from the Apprentice) and you order a plethora of foul tasting frogshite that Marlon Brando couldnt finish let alone you in your drunken state. As you begin to get more and more full, you start chucking gurkens at the LCD screens hoping in a childishly fiendish way, that they will stick to the glass. I often wonder how the hell we can find our way both home and to a fast food restaurant when pissed out of our brains to the point where we cant even see straight? Especially when you're going to wake up the next day and not remember a thing. The additional pain in the bum is that because you've indulged in your little filthy food affair, you now have to wait until day break to get a taxi... Wonderful. Also, the amount of times I wake up to 3 boxes of half eaten Mizzonis chips, chicken and stale garlic bread, is disgraceful - I now associate that fucking green and white striped box with unmerciful hangovers. However, what happens when you have none of the above outlets available to you? Well that is clearly answered the next day when you find a packet of half eaten biscuits crumbled all over your bed. I find it truly hilarious that you realise you've tried to recreate the professionalism of O'Briens sandwich bar too, when you notice that an empty packet of King crips have clearly been emptied onto a plate where your ham sandwich was before its half eaten remains were mashed into the floor - another thing to clean; Great. Then your completely disgusting hangover comes full circle when you empty your jean pockets looking for your car keys to go buy a breakfast roll in Spar, but instead you find an illuminous pink ticket with the numbers 1543 written on it but you read it as; 'YOUR FUCKING JACKET YOU TITFACE', (it just so happens to be the lovely, overly expensive winter coat that your parents had bought for Christmas as you are now at the point in your life when you're content with clothes for gifts).... And so the intermittant flashbacks begin with you leaving the nightclub full well knowing that you've forgotten something, but you couldnt have cared less because there was something far more important on your mind; isnt that right?.... Shame you didnt realise that your car keys were in your jacket pocket, isnt it? You gobshite...

Bottomline no 16; Never let hunger rule you - unless of course you're starving to death.

Next post; The Toilet people

Slan mo Chara

Deco

What happened last night?

You're lying there on your chest and your head is arced to one side with the duvet peeled back revealing only one leg that dangles off the outside of the mattress. The arrangement of your pillow has mashed your cheek upward, pudging your right eye closed and forcing your mouth open in a way that makes you look like Sylvester Stallone. In a womans instance her eyes are black and blue, not from the beating she should have gotten for committing that black and navy fashion crime, but because her runny eye-liner has mixed with her purple eye shadow to form a visual comparison to Edward Scissorhands and or the Joker. You remain perfectly still because you know if you move, your cheek will slide down into the drool that has now caramelised on your pillow below your chin. Your eyes follow the line of your forearm as it runs from underneath the pillow to your elbow when you notice that you are wearing something white. This confuses you because you normally dont wear anything other than boxers in bed but if you do; the colour of your pajamas are light blue. You heave yourself over onto your back and look down at the rest of your body and you realise that you are in the same clothes that you wore last night, shoes and all (there is something truly horrible about wearing jeans in bed). It is at this very moment when you ask yourself; 'What happened last night?'. As you try to piece together the puzzle, you constantly revert to the last memory you have of doing shots of blue and red aftershock at the bar, but there-after is a complete and utter blur. You cant remember how you got home, what time you fell in at, who was there or even which nightclub you were in. You reach to that standard place where you put your keys, wallet and phone before going to bed only to realise that your wallet isnt there. In a lady's case, she scrambles through her bag pushing aside all of her lip gloss, Mac make-up and mandatory bottle of bag-fume (Deco'ism - perfume that is small enough to fit in a hand-bag) trying to find her phone only to be struck with the realisation that she has lost her purse. You find your phone and you have 13 missed calls from 2 of your closest friends together with a string of text messages that start with 'Where are you?' (This indicates that you have disappeared and your friends couldnt find you in the night club). The next few messages say something along the lines of ; 'You really shouldnt drink vodka and red bull anymore' (this indicates that you've done something you should be ashamed of)and the freshest text in your inbox reads something like- 'let me know you got home ok' (they've given up looking and can only hope you have waltzed into a taxi and are on your way home)... Upon reading these you decide to call your friend to find out what on earth happened last night. Your friend answers the phone and you hear them laughing at you before they even say hello. This immediately confirms that you have done something ridiculous; then they begin to innumerate the things that you so stupidly indulged in such as: drunkenly telling the person you fancy that you think they are the best thing since sliced bread; had a blazing argument with your boy/girlfriend because it appears like they are flirting with someone taller, darker and generally more handsome/beautiful all night long (this is what Dutch wants you to think); Or when you do something as cringe-worthy as try it on with your best friend and get rejected. Another good one is when you're so drunk that the bouncers have just said enough is enough and they ask you to leave - you, in your drunken state completely refute what they are saying while demanding that you are perfectly sober. This develops into a display of rioting craziness as the bouncers begin to escort you out of the building while you are roaring in their face something completely out of character like; "IM GOING TO GET TO YOU SHOT!" or in the 'common' womans case shes screaming; "GET YOUR PERVERTED HANDS OFF ME!" - the completely hilarious part of the latter is when the bouncers have finally ejected her from the club and she is standing outside mouthing away when she suddenly has one of those everlasting falls due to the height of her heels; She stumbles at first with her legs wobbling all over the place as if shes a newborn baby calf, then she regains her balance but only for a split second before running backward into the ground and onto her nackerish arse. One of the more common reasons you make a complete arse of yourself is when you see the person you fancy, kissing someone else - you start by feeling sorry for yourself and then you move to being angry at the world all before walking outside and punching a brick wall in a display of 'manliness'. With ladies however they might just get compulsively upset, but her friends can normally cheer her up by inviting her to the bar for shots and by continually telling her that shes beautiful and amazing (they're lying to you, if the guy doesnt like you then IT IS because you look like something from middle-earth). The funny thing is that if you were sober, you probably wouldnt give a crap. I woke up in the above-type predicament one glorious Saturday morning. It had been my 19th birthday and my friends brought me to a run down old-mans bar in the middle of Parnell Square. I was on the budweiser buzz back then and I was sinking them to beat the band (When people say this, do they frantically ambush an orchestra with a baseball batt?). In any case, in our youth, the only shot we were able to drink was Zambucka. Immediate regret entered my head after ordering a round of Zambuckas when I saw the elder bar-man taking the bottle off the radiator. Even though you're meant to drink Zambucka aflame - there is something quite mouldy about drinking it fresh off the musk of a warm heater. We held our breaths for the rest of the night as many more went down the hatch. The rest as they say, was history. None of us remembered what the hell happened until about 2 months later when I received a summons in the post. I opened the envelope and continued to read: "The alleged was seen to pull down 3 hanging baskets on O'Connell street and then proceeded to kick the wheel off a push-bicycle before launching it into the air towards Cleary's shop front shutters. The alleged was then spotted by CCTV 7 minutes later crossing gratten bridge carrying 5 safety rings that he had untied from the Quay walls; one around his neck and two around each arm. When the alleged finished running around like a 4 year old marshmallow man, he decided to dispose of the rings by throwing them into the River liffey in what can only be assumed as an act of irony. When the alleged was approached by the An Garda Siochana and asked for his name and identification, he advised that was not carrying any. When the alleged was asked for his home telephone number so his parents could be contacted, he subsequently burst into tears begging for us not to call his father. With that he quickly produced his Age Card that clearly stated his name as being Declan Greene and not He-Man, The Master of the Universe" - Instantly I got on the phone to 3 other friends who I knew were with me that night who confirmed they too, had gotten similar notifications. Another occasion I dont recall is when I engaged in a debate with a friend over how 'sound' Ban Garda are - that sentiment being the last memory of that particular night; I woke up the next morning with indented lines on one side of my face and my jaw was quite sore; It transpired that in my efforts to prove just how 'cool' they are, I asked for a picture with one of them, to which she gladly obliged; the line however was apparently crossed when I tried to kiss her on the cheek as she wrestled me to the ground and pressed my face into the wooden ridges of the Liffey boardwalk and calmly told me, that I had drank enough and it was time to go home. Thankfully however she let me away with a warning. I often hear; "I dont remember a thing last night" - to which someone usually responds; "WEll it must have been a good night then"..... What does that even mean? Oh, a good night consists of completely forgetting everything? I dont know - its always nice though when you wake up and after having realised that you have lost your wallet or purse, that you were so drunk before you even left the house, that you completely forgot to bring it in the first place (its lying on the floor under your bed). SWEET - but how often are we that lucky?...

Bottomline no 15; There is a line, in most cases its rarely going to benefit you to cross it

Next post: The Munchies

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

A month in, the temptations of the Dark side

So, its been a month... No drink, not a sip. Nothing, nada. Wow Deco, your amazing and you're such a role model for the kids. Yeah yeah SHUT UP. I have spent my last 4 weekends living the exact same lifestyle; visiting the local-pub religiously only now everyone is watching me like a hawk to see if Im going to take a drink. Had I known people were going to walk up to me, snatch my glass of lemonade out of my hand just so they can sniff it to ensure there is no dilution of vodka; I probably wouldnt have publicised my objective. Why smell it anyway?; Ive been drinking for as long as the culture in Ireland has allowed me; I took my first drink at my cousins wedding (an orange bacardi breezer; wow, what a man) when I was 18 and have been a social drinker ever since; thats what? - a good 5, nearly 6 years of solid weekend-in, weekend-out of sheer lunacy. However im pretty sure I wouldnt be able to discern if there was alcohol present by merely smelling the lemonade for a split second as if im some kind of ambitious K9 bidding for a job in the local Garda narcotics department. Surely enough however, among the minority of wonderful people that may read this, there is going to be one cheeky little pisspot who is going to make a point of inhaling my drink through his nostrils solely as a nod to this rant; Trust me, if thats you then be sure to bring a spare pair of clothes, a hand towel and the local dentist. Another thing I keep hearing is; "Im so proud of you"...... WHAT? Im sorry, did I say I was a recovering alcoholic? Going to a place 'where everybody knows your name' is now like visiting an old folks home where im one big unappreciated, overpatronised punchline. The bar men seem genuinely hestitant to serve me when I ask for a 'dash of white'; Im hardly going to pay 3euro for a glass of 7up when I could pay 80cents for a cheaper rip off that tastes exactly the same. But I can see the venom in their eyes and I can feel that one of them is about to tell me to stick my dash up my attention seeking swiss because the purpose of a dash is to mix with a spirit, not for some boring gobshite who appears to be sponging off the pub. Im still paying for it arent I? All of this is surely bound to drive me to drink before I feel the urge to rip out my liver and pour pucheen all over it before I re-insert it back into my body for maximum alcohol poisoning. Not to mention that nobody has any faith in my random decision not to drink during the oncoming barrage of social events such as; the importance of Irish soccer approaching the world cup qualifiers; a 'session weekend' in Slovakia that I was initially going to break my chastity for, but have now decided not to go at all in lieu of the sanctity of my self promise; not to mention the customary piss-up at Hallo'ween - all things that require compulsary consumption of booze. Is my word not enough that my friends keep trying to include me in rounds that comprise solely of Alcolor? As I was saying, I have continued living the exact same lifestyle only without drink. I still go dancing (which by the way has drastically improved with the razor sharpness of my sobriety), I still sit in the pub with the lads only I drink water or lemonadra and I have the luxery of driving home safely in my Bev. 'Bev' is the name of my car by the way. But do I feel any different? Well if I didnt spend many of my midweek nights staying up so late to write this then I guess my energy levels would be higher and I wouldnt still be waking up at 1pm on the weekends. But have I been in a position yet where I have felt like I genuinely wanted a drink? Well of course; The night was busy, the bussling world frantically cascaded passed, to and fro massaging my personal space. There was no where to hide and no stretch long enough to run. I could feel the swelling within me as I yearned to become one of Alcolors footsoldiers. What was this feeling? Why was I waning under what appeared to be nothing? Alcolor had already taken most people in the pub - they had all joined him and seemed so happy about it. Did I feel out of place? - I didnt think so. I feel a soft push in the back and a silent hissing whisper in my ear; "Go on, you know you want it, look at everyone around you; they are free and in a place that you know you want to go to".I turn slowly and I am stilted and rigid with the horror of what I see. Alcolor is clearly more powerful than I expected. There, standing in front of me was the latest addition to his minions; Piers Presuur - A ruthless ex-Garda interrogator who was kicked out of the force when his colleagues discovered he was accepting bribes from dozens of establishments to allow them to distribute Alcolor after their designated closing times. The most hardened of Alcolors fans would call this time; 'A lock in'. Busted at a 'lock in' in his own home town, Piers had nowhere to go when his evil ploy was uncovered and so, he moved into the inner city where he became known to the underworld as 'the puncher'; as many high class citizens would hire him as an 'extraction' expert; using extreme methods, he knew exactly what buttons to push on a person in order to tip them over the edge and get the result he required; whether it was information or simply getting them to do what he wanted, he very rarely failed. Now, I stared him blankly in the face - it was clear by his presence that Alcolor had sent him and that my cards were now marked. I was hoping to pass on through the 3 months unnoticed but alas, I have been found out. Piers raised his hand, in it an ice cold pint of Heineken; everything turned to white and I momentarily felt like I was about to feel like the rest of them here; free. It was Glorious. BUT SUDDENLY I BEGAN TO THINK OF HANS AND WHAT HE HAD DONE TO MY BEST FRIEND JIMMY ; Awh Jimmy... I missed him tonight as he was not able to move today following the beating Hans gave him this morning. With that, a lone warrior axe kicks the pint from Piers' hand. He grabs Piers by the throat and delivers a blistering elbow to the face sending him crashing backward into the high rise stools at the bar. The Lone warrior turns to me; " The names Sense, Common Sense - Sobe Oar sent me; He wants to see you at the end of the night". Piers regains his composure and violently spears Common to the ground - what ensuea is an aerial display of acrobatic martial arts like nothing I have ever seen! Piers would be winning one minute and Common the next; nobody could tell the outcome. Piers now had Common pinned and was hitting him with an unrelenting hail of punches to the face. It looked like the fight had been won and a new pint of Heineken was already in the process of being pulled; everything slow motioned itself as Common took beating after beating; but something told him not to give in, never to surrender and with one final act of strength; he overpowers Piers, twisting him into an arm-bar - trapping his elbow joint and forcing it against its natural movement - sending Piers into an agonising submission. The Heineken now remains on the bar and I parry the glass to one side offering it to the customer behind me; "Can I have a dash of white lemonade please" - now content that I would finally meet the legendary 'Sobe Oar' before the end of the night... But the night, is still young...

Bottomline 14; If you dont want to, then dont.

Next post: 'What happened last night?'

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

House Parties

Now, as the country whirlwinds out of financial control, a more common theme among us ordinary folk is to have a house party in order to avoid a visit from Debitress. This usually results in us getting twice as drunk, three times as fast for a fourth of the price. Which is all feckin lovely BUT; there are a couple of things we tend to forget about; So, everyone has arrived and they've all brought some form of Alcolor with them. For some reason people seem to think this is a 'cheaper' option but I guess that depends on the type of house party you intend on putting together. Generally the first objection you encounter is the architecture of your freakin' fridge; lets face it, you're not meant to stack 43 bottles of Corona on top of your now squashed packet of Denny's ham and your pick and mix of coleslaw and egg salad from Superquinn - yet still, using the skill of a charity bag-packer, you've managed to carfully slot all of the bottles around every single dairy product in the fridge. Generally this results in the bottles sliding all over the place and banging off the iron crate which gives you the fright of your life as you think the whole shelf is going to avalanche to the ground. By the way, why the hell are we stupid enough to always pick a bottle that happens to be supporting the entire colony? Another great arrangement you have made is to your sitting room where-by you clearly dont have enough seats. The excess people are always slouching over the arm-rest of the chairs with their can or Vodka and 7up that has been poured into a plastic protein flask because you've overlooked the number of frickin' glasses you needed. Surely sitting there on the arm of the chair is bound to give you spina bifida faster that Quasimodo can ring the Cathedral bell in Notre Dame after having made sweet love to Esmeralda. Then, perhaps the most annoying element of having a group of wild hyenas over for a few bevies is that as they get more and more drunk, their hand-eye co-ordination becomes significantly less instinctive and they begin to spill drink everywhere which then gets people asking; 'So, Deco, why did you build your house on a sticky toffee bun?' (someone actually said that to me once - I didnt even know him so after I explained that we were human beings living on a place called planet Earth, I kicked him right in the groin and politely asked him to leave). But what if you put on a spread of food? Well, thats a rhetorical question Deco - yes it ends up on the windows. Not to mention your house transforms into a brothel so much so that you cant even sleep in your own bed because 'Edels friend', brought her mates twice removed second cousin to the party solely for a joyride in your oak-strong cradle. I'll never forget a house party I heard about when I was in school; This kid, who had trouble making friends thought it would be a great idea to throw a gargantuan house party the day his parents flew to Las Vegas for their annual holiay. Imagine him; he was shy, introverted, wore glasses and had the physique of a racoon; Clark Kent in his demeanor and an unquestionable gentleman. His only downfall was that his parents had clearly not taught him a thing about social interaction. Before Lunchtime the entire school had gotten wind of this party and I kid you not, come the agreed 8pm arrival time, his neighbours were in the middle of a hostile takeover. The estate may aswell have been one of the beaches at Normandy as shroves and crowds of kids trampled the streets wave after wave. Im not joking IT WAS SHEER PANDEMONIUM! The house was everything short of being burnt to the ground. I recall hearing that all of the frozen meat from the freezer had been super-glued to the floor; that the words 'I know what you did last summer' had been written across his parents bedroom ceiling in his mothers lipstick and that troop of prepubescent teenagers were spotted sprinting out of the house with the chaps older sisters knickers on their heads. Now this falls under the category of EXTREME however it leads me into my next point; the cleaning. Now unless you're that plonker from the Golden pages ad who just rings a cleaning agency to sort out the mess, you're unduely up shit creek without a paddle (by the way, why dont we actually use the golden pages anymore? Its free but hold on; let me ring directory enquires instead so I can remain on hold for 450.00Euro a minute while waiting for a non-national to find the number to the name of the customer they have asked me to spell 6 times, just because im too lazy to flick through the book myself - and we wonder why the country is in financial ruin?). No matter how mighty or minute the cleaning task is, it always seems 10 times worse when you've received a good beating from Han. You're pouring out ash-cans (Deco'sim - these are empty beer-cans that people have used as ashtrays) that have the remnant stagnancy of beer and cigarette butts that has now coagulated into a black tar that smells like rotten cheese; you're feet are sticking to the floor and more often then not, you find a bottle tipped over something valuable. Theres no doubt about it, its absolutely disgusting. What really pisses me off though is when I sit down the next day after cleaning the house top to toe; Ive already settled in to eat my dinner but now realise I cant find the BLOODY remote control - I then have to balance my plate of food on the even surface of my sofa, taking into account where my body weight is going to be distributed so I dont tip the food inward all over myself,while I search everywhere for the blasted thing that I only saw a second ago! When I eventually find it and ive turned on the television, I find that some smart arse has completely messed up my channel settings by fiddling with it all night trying to find the 'music stations'... I get so angry that I throw my food at my window, order Dominos and make a few phone calls; deciding to put my house through the same pain again; 'Shag it, its the weekend' - The comforting answer to everything.

Bottomline 13; Alcolor is more powerful then bricks and morter...

Next Post: A month in, the tempations of the Dark side

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

Alcolor and his minions

Alcolors lair; 'Crate-pit'; a dark and brooding four-wall cave of columns buried deep in the mountains of several crate-clones, designed to act as a decoy to the authentic base of Alcolor. There are many like him, but none as cunning or ruthless. His minions cower around him as if afraid to even speak - they snivel at his feet as if he is their ruler, their master; Undivided devotion and unquestioned loyalty that spawns from fear, not respect. "Phase two of my plan is now in full effect, soon 'Sobe' will be destroyed and all of the human race will be under my command... THINK OF IT! THINK OF THE POWER WE WILL HAVE 'DUTCH'!". Enter 'Dutch Courage' (pronouced Cour-ah-zhay), Alcolor's right hand man; a French pyshologist whose parents were famous stage coaches who pushed him too far. 'Sobe' had enrolled in his parents class when they were kids and when Dutch became reliant on alcohol to perform; his parents kicked him out of their academy. This made it easy for 'Sobe' to become the lead in their biggest production to date. Dutch became so jealous that he went out one night and drank so much; that he came home and chatted his parents to death. He woke up the next day and realised what he had done and swore vengence on Sobe for as long as he lived... He fled France and became homeless until one day, Alcolor found him shivering on the streets of Wine Country in Northern California while recruiting new strength enhanced grapes for his new, nuclear blossom hill (a wine so powerful it would kill any person who drank it). Alcolor recognised him from his younger famous days and took him in. Ever since, Alcolor has been helping Dutch to hone his chatting skills; removing all of his fear and making him the most extroverted, elite warrior on his team. "Yes master" Dutch replies... "I cannot believe the fruit community have joined us at last". Alcolor smugly responds: "AT LAST? We only have 3 of the leading fruits so far Dutch, lets not get ahead of ourselves... The apple has been corrupt since The Beginning; then came the grapes and now we have the pear. Soon we will harvest all of the fruit communities into our formula and the humans will no longer have a refreshment that is without alcohol.." From the dark corner another voice is heard: "Yes master, a glorious plan, the humans will be ours forever!". "NO!, they will be mine..... Do not make that mistake again Munchies".... "Yes, sorry master...". Munchies: A witless addition to Alcolors band that lives only to compulsively eat. When he was younger he battled an eating disorder that left him stick thin, dying. With the compassion that Alcolor showed him, Munchies finally felt he had something to live for; the more time he spent with Alcolor, the more he became in awe of him. The rush of life that Alcolor offered was addictive and thrilling but whenever he is separated from Alcolor, Munchies would overindulge in fast food - making him thick and obese with high cholesterol. "And What do you think of this new merger with the pear fraternity my beautiful Debitress?" -Alcolor asks of his concubine that sits at his knees. Debit-ress is a highly skilled con artist; Like a black widow spider, she lures her victims in with the promise of sexual reprieve only to strike at their pockets as the black widow does her victims' blood; to drain them of every cent until they are on their knees. She grew up in the Southside of Dublin city where her parents became millionaires by simply not tipping in high class restaurants. But when Debi took a waitressing job to get her through college; she discovered just how difficult it was to get by without the 'tips' and so, developed a sharp con that involved over-pricing the table and pocketing the difference. She began to resent non-tippers and soon spiralled out of control wreaking her evil plan on tipping clients; She lost control and eventually scammed her own family out their entire fortune, casting them out onto the streets. (they now sit on the Halfpenny bridge on a flattened cornflake box shaking a bio-degradable McDonalds cup begging for spare change - ironic?) She met Alcolor and they fell deeply in love - he literally cannot survive without her. She responds: "Its yet another victory on the global chess board that is falling into our lap my love, soon we will crush the humans for once and for all"..... From another of the corners comes a droning voice ; "I.LOVE.CRUSH.HUMANS!".... Alcolor turns; "Easy Han....you'll get your chance". Enter Han Gover - the muscle of Alcolors troops. Made from all of the leftover alcohol and fast food on any given night out - Han is the disgusting result of a lab experiment that went horribly wrong while Alcolor was trying to fuse human blood with pure alcohol. Alcolor was so impressed with the raw damage that Han did to the human body, that he decided to keep him alive in a 'torturer' role. What Han doesnt know is that he was in fact he human that Alcolor experimented on; He used to have a family in Germany who are still alive today and who mourn what they believe to be his death in a horrible freak accident that involved an un-labelled bottle of Blossom Hill (if only they knew). Which leaves only the Tyrant, the ruler, the master and the commander; Alcolor; Unlike his followers, Alcolor has always been evil. Born baring the 666 birth mark across as bumcheeks he was genius in his youth; he became a brilliant Chemical engineer and pharmaceutical scientist who had uncovered the formula to immortality but kept it to himself in a bid to use it one day to hold the world to ransom. He was also believed to be clairvoyant and a master of trickery - he has trained masters such as Derren Brown and Keith Barry who both sport hairstyles that are in themselves, symbols of pure evil. One day, Alcolor decided to test his vile on himself but his concoction lacked a vital ingredient; water. The side affects were horrific and it drove him to insanity; now he uses his formula to poison the people... He is the glue that holds his troops together - without him, they are nothing and without them; his plans for human annihilation would be dashed.... But as powerful as he and his quartet seem to be, there is but one who stands their way and his name.................. is 'Sobe Oar'

Bottomline no 12; dont mess with Alcolor or you'll have to deal with Dutch Courage, The Munchies, Debi-tress and Han gover...

Next Post: House Parties

Slan mo Chara

Deco

Holiday Drinking

Its 5.30 am, the airport is silent. You wander aimlessly around the deserted expanse of the quiet hollowness that has not yet awoken to the freshness of the dawn. Its almost like the world has become still and the grand halls are not alive as the empty que-barriers remain un-moved. You see a Green & white travel tag littered on the marble-tile and you begin to get a sense of the person to whom it belonged; Yes it was a 'he', you sense he was angry, very angry. Upon inspecting the now-rubbish bag-identifier you imagine him tearing it from his case in pure rage because customs wouldnt let him keep the 14 kilo's of un-declared horse tranquilizer that was stuffed up his rectum encased in ping pong balls... Suddenly you see a ghost of this man in front of you that neither the camera nor any other person watching the program can see (how convenient). Anyway, you're all set for your sun holiday to Greece. Yourself and your wingman are trying to kill some time until the airport bar opens at 6am so by now you've bought stale breakfast for 26EURO, a pre-packed chicken and stuffing sandwich that tastes like a bridgestone tyre and bought a book with the intention of reading on the plane that you know, you are never going to open. But not to worry because your patience has served you well as you see the waiter unlocking the doors. As if being chased by Kathy Bates from the film adaptation of Stephen Kings 'Misery', you both hurtle towards the pub with such velocity that you run straight through the glass and trample the poor guy to death ( he never stood a chance wearing that baseball cap and apron to be fair). Next thing you know, its 6.47am and you're having so much fun on your pre-holiday buzz that you just barely hear your third and final boarding call. Why does that happen? Is it just because we are Irish? I mean, I would have been glad to sit there and miss my plane - I hadnt laughed that much in months. Anyway, you're on the plane and you continue to drink like maniacs. Why o why is it that when we go on foreign holidays that the only thing on our minds is alcohol!? More and more drink is consumed on the plane and because our friend Dutch courage has set in, the common worry of the plane crashing is no longer an issue and you've reserved yourself to the fact that if the plane should in fact crash; 'your time has come, if your time has come'. Furthermore you have no quams in doing something like screaming 'THERES A BOMB ON THE PLANE!' - trust me its not worth it. You land, drop your suitcase off at the apartment block and BOOM!... LETS GET PISSSSSSED!!!! You're straight over to the pool bar for a nice 9am cocktail. After a dozen or so of these together with a multitude of free shots you decide its time to eat. Off to sample the Greek cuisine. After dinner you have a nap and you wake up in a cold sweat worrying about the valuable 'drinking time' you have eaten into. 'Drinking time' - the time portionate to the point where last orders can be made - but you calm yourself knowing that there is no such thing in places like this - its 24 hours all day every day. But the real damage occurs when you hit 'the strip'. Once darkness falls every living creature on the Island undertakes a metamorphosis that is as insane as the time Bjork attacked a reporter in Thailand for just saying hello to her. But of course not in an angry way; EVERYONE JUST GOES BERSERK! To make matters worse there are people out on the streets trying to recruit you into their pub by goading you in with free alcohol; heavenly at the time but hellish when you wake up the next morning in a 50 degree heat hangover. By the way, whats the deal with the super-human drinking powers you get when on a foreign holiday? If I drank a quarter of the alcohol on a night out at home, as I do on a night out while on vacation; I would most likely be arrested before midnight for something outrageous like pushing someone into the river liffey purely 'for the craic'. Yet on holidays I can drink a rainbow of shots and cocktails and not only feel great, but actually recognise and consciously decide not to mount the rhino in the mini-skirt that has been trying to charge me all evening. Dont get me started on the energy levels, sweet mother of LORD! I have so much energy on holidays that I feel like I have just decapitated a Highlander and I've subsequently been electrocuted by forked lightning all before I have screamed; 'THERE CAN BE ONLY ONNNNNNNNNNE!'. Is it just the knowing that we dont have work for 2 weeks that breathes the life back into our labour drained bodies? I mean a holiday is meant to cleanse the body and mind - I suppose the definition would refer to a relaxing period of time however in most foreign holiday situations, especially with younger people; a second holiday is required to recover from the first one. By God there is something outworldly about sitting on a balcony with the sun on your face, supping on an ice cold beer - not a worry in the world or a cloud in the sky.... A shame really that you will later find out that you have gotten skin cancer from exposing the mole on your neck to such blazing ultraviolet rays and you only have 6months to live... Not to worry though because you know you're going to be drinking out of a fishbowl later that evening and more than likely laughing at someones misfortune; usually some girl who thinks shes hotter than Megan Fox while shes physically on fire, fits that bill as she dances on the bar as if rehearsing for the sequel to 'Coyote Ugly' entitled 'Coyote Ugly 2; This time, we mean it'- I mean are some people (men especially) just born with the preconceived idea that they are Gods gift? Im telling you, if Gods perogative was to give everyone gifts then he wouldnt have given me the perfect 20/20 vision I have to stare at such dillusional arsiths. (Arsiths - Deco'sim - it is a mix between arsehole and bitch. This allows me to cover both male and female in one word while avoiding any prejudice). Another thing; why do we act like everyones best friend on holidays? Is it just the buzz? Or is it the buzz mixed with the alcohol? Mixing the emotions that go through your mind while sending drunk texts with the strong cocktail of your holiday can only result in you, standing at some bar that is made out of wicker, telling a stranger that they are the soundest person you've ever met - and the funny thing is, your ship will sink with that fond memory; but why can't we do this at home? ALCOLOR shall be the villianous name that I will give to alcohol! Sorry that was random BUT SO WHAT, it just stuck me... I suppose the plus side to losing yourself in drink while on holiday is that you are more than likely consistently drunk and you will never have a full hangover before you begin to drink again the next day. But beg yourself this question, could you go on 2 week sun holiday with a group of the lads or girls and NOT drink? Put it this way, its a good thing I dont have any sun holidays planned between now and Christmas Eve 2009!

Bottomline 11: Ask yourself 'Is this just one giant 3K hangover, or do I want more out of it?'

Next Post: Alcolor and his minions

Slan mo Chara,

Deco

Drunk Sex

So you and your date have tumbled out of the taxi following a successful night in a lovely restaurant. You're all over eachother like a nappy rash as you barge through the garden gate, waking up all of the neighbours as the pair of you are now at the stage in the date where you're giddy as hell and loud and random wailing is the funniest thing in the world. You're swinging out of eachother as if on some kind of wild mushroom trip while stopping at every possible opportunity to slam oneanother up against the wall for another sloppy kiss that ends up all over your nose. What is it about the alcohol that suddenly turns us into ravenous love-making widebeests? Is there an underlying edge to alcohol that is meant to contribute to re-population? Lets see, Vatican city has the smallest population density in the world and we all know the only thing the Italians drink are shots of espresso to keep them from falling asleep after listening to eachother talk about food for so long. So is this down to the fact that they arent a drinking culture? I doubt it but hey, its worth thinking about. What is the trigger that suddenly turns us into roger-requiring rampant rabbits? (un-intentional analogy). Does the primative urge to pro-create bubble deep within our souls and is alcohol the tectonic shift that awakens it into an explosive volcano, erupting violently into a blasting fountain of hot sizzling .......lava? (un-intentional metaphor, I promise) I honestly dont know; all I know is that when we're drunk, we transform into little randy energiser bunnies. Take the young couple I saw having sex in the middle of the nightclub last year - do you think for a second that if they were sober, they would have gone at it like two little chiwawa's in heat? Probably not, but the alcohol made them completely forget that they were in the middle of a nightclub, surrounded by people chanting as if they were part of an underground swingers party. If you compare it to when you are sober... Everything is generally so unspoken and 'nice'. Awwwh, isnt that just lovely? NO! ITS NOT 'LOVELY' ITS COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS! DONT YOU WANT TO HAVE THAT RAW CONFIDENCE WHEN YOU'RE SOBER TOO!? Dont get me wrong im sure there are people out there who are complete maniacs between the sheets, with or without alcohol. (AHEM..*COUGH*..ME.*COUGH*) But is it just a case that the alcohol releases us from our insecurities and purges any self esteem issues from our paranoid minds? Lets face it, most people have a complex about something whether its internal or external, but dutch courage changes us dramatically. What is it that makes us fearless when we are drunk? I know it makes me fearless; my mother found me out in the back-yard battling spiders with a bread knife when I was 18; im pretty sure she didnt accept my cover story when I told her I was possessed by the devil and just put it down to ill-seasoned drinking. The term 'Dutch courage' has many different origin stories but the one I like the most is that many years ago the Dutch navy were so fearless in battle that their enemies (Especially the English navy) believed that the only way they could be so courageous was by being drunk. But what actually happens in the brain once we drink? Well the alcohol in our blood is pumped to our brain, this inadvertantly begins to affect our cognition (thought process) which is the general term for areas in the brain where our reasoning, intelligence, perception and learning flows from. You begin to feel at ease, more relaxed but whats actually happening is the foreign substance (alcohol) that has mixed with your blood, is actually slowing your cognition and so, the more you drink the more affected your brain becomes. FASCINATING STUFF DECO but how does that relate to why we think we are pornstars when we're drunk? Well, I dont know - you can take my half arsed scientific explanation any way you want, but bare in mind that by now you and your date have smashed every vase in the house including the ern to your dead grandmothers ashes and have fallen on the stairs more then once trying to fumble over oneanother to get to the bedroom. You battle your way across the landing and eventually, you reach the bedroom door and as the momentum is with you, you swing your date around like a limp rag doll and smash her face into the light switch completely knocking her out; the light flicks on just in time to see her skirt fold up and over her own face revealing that she was in fact, a man all along.

Bottomline no 10; Usually when you're 'caught up in the moment' something gets broken. Wouldnt you rather it was 'nice' and unspoken....? I know I wouldnt so WILL SOMEONE GET ME A GOD FORSAKEN DRINK AND A REPLACEMENT TRANNY STAT!

Lets go abroad for my next post: Holiday drinking


Slan mo Chara,

Deco

Alcohol & A First Date

First dates can often be absolutely terrifying for anyone, not to mention the act of actually asking someone to go on a date in the first place. I often find myself caught in a violent crossfire of mixed emotions when I meet someone I want to take on a date (who the hell calls it a 'date' anyway - next im going to refer to my runners as 'trainers', the path as a 'sidewalk' and since im not drinking, ill be asking for a 'soda' instead of a white lemonade). You dont know whether you should ask because you're wondering to yourself, is this person flirting with me or are they just being nice? You decide to go for it and BOOM!... You take your shot. What should take only a millisecond takes an eternity but the answer is yes; Sweet as the cherry taken from the Virgin Mary herself. I wouldnt mind but when Im sober and I dont feel like taking the full risk of being shot down, instead of asking for her number I ask her something that displays true gobshitery like, "are you on facebook?" (ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK?? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?) What a parting gesture; "Oh great I'll add you"... Fan-bloody-tastic Deco, its not enough for her to think you dont have the testicular fortitude to ask her out, but after such a nerdish comment, she probably thinks your one of those Geeks who sits in their boxers all day long masturbating to the lightsaber duel in The Empire Strikes Back. Or another moment of sheer embarressment is when your talking to someone you really like and JUST before you feel ready to ask them out, that uncontrollable jet spray of spit squirts out of your mouth and lands on their eye-lashes or worse again, into their mouth; you're left standing there wondering whether or not to say anything or to continue like nothing happened. Alcohol involved however, you brazenly take his/her phone-number and off you go, content with the merry-drunken banter that you know your going to have through texts in which you will sign-off using smiley faces and ridiculous little kisses. I knew a bloke who once sent a single 'X' in a text to the girl whose number he had JUST gotten; after she charged him for poisoning her with pure cheese, he never heard from her again(by the way why doesn't anyone call anymore?). So, you decide to go on your first date, usually the hyper-intelligent bloke decides to bring the girl somewhere utterly stupid like the cinema - oh yes, great idea buddy, bring the girl to a place that requires you both to remain completely silent for 2 hours. If you are one of those goons; Grow a pair and bring her for dinner or to a stand up gig - something that at least appears like you're not petrified of speaking to her. The biggest apprehension that comes out of a first date stems from the fact that you are sober. I once tried to combat this nervousness by drinking a nagan of vodka before collecting my date; the first 40 seconds of the evening went well until I got into an argument with the taxi-man over which of Whitney Houstans albums was better; 'The Bodyguard' or 'My love is your love'... when she agreed with him that 'My love is your love' had a more modern twist, I instinctively turned to her and told her to 'SHUT HER FLITHY DEVIL-TONGUED MOUTH'. Needless to say she was shocked and appauled. But I ask you this, imagine someone attacks you from behind? You're not going to just let them mug you are ya?? She couldnt see this justification in my ourburst and so, I pushed out of the moving vehicle. But lets say you're date is more tactful than mine and you actually make it to the restaurant. You're both sitting there stone cold sober making conversation about idle things like 'how its getting colder and how the nights are getting longer' - of course only after you've discussed the obligatory family, work and hobby topics and find that you have absolutely fuck all in common. By now you have both sunk a bottle of wine and you are both a little more at ease. But when the food arrives you seem to sober up. You only half load your fork because you dont want to look like you're golluming the steak and vegetables like a homeless animal on the streets of Dublin city. But somehow, on one of the journey's from the plate to your mouth, you've overshot the trajectory of the fork and the food ends up all over your face - highly attractive. Another thing I dont recommend is going on a date when you have a cold or a flu; more than likely one of you will crack a joke and you'll inadvertantly blow snots down to your chin, trap-jawing your mouth in the process. Trust me, no amount of charm will remove that image from your dates' head - or the notion that some of it may have landed in her food. Even if it shoots down but quickly gets sucked back up in the same breath, (think of a bullfrog trying to snap-catch a fire-fly with its tongue) you're still a goner. So lets assume the date has gone well; you're both merry with the wine and full from the food. Whats the next hurdle? Of course; its the kiss. There are two types of finishing kisses; 1 - when the date has gone terribly wrong and you're utterly ashamed to even attempt to kiss her/him but, you timidly lean in under the illusion that the date would just be a TOTAL waste of time if you didnt at least get a kiss; but you find that it does when she pushes you back with the gesture of a handshake (sweet jesus how degrading would that be? Its been a pleasure doing business with you). 2- when you've clicked with that person and there is an instant attraction; you lean in and because both of you have been drinking, you literally eat eachothers faces with some farva beans and a nice kiante; a slobbery raw, wine tasting passionate kiss that more often than not ends with a singular string of saliva bridging the gap between both of your bottom lips'. The only problem with this is that you are now caught in a deadly dilemma; you know you have to break that saliva-string and you pray to God that it doesnt break on your side sending it Tarzan swinging onto her chin - but at the same time, you're not keen on getting a cumshot of spit to the face either. What to do? For situations like these I pull away really quickly and scream in the girls face as if ive gotten a terrible fright; This allows me to raise my hand covering my mouth in 'horror' giving me vital time to wipe her sudds off my face. I then say "oh sorry, I thought I saw a giant spider, they're horrible things arent they?...Eight legs"; she agrees and PHEW, ive managed to escape unscathed. So you spend the taxi ride back to his/her's uncontrollably rollocking around in the back seat, over-indulging in what I like to call, 'pre-sex-heavy-breathing-kissing'; when your tugging on eachother collars and and yanking them in close to you. And Im left thinking, if she rips this shirt, its not going to matter which Whitney Houstan album she prefers; she'll hit the sidewalk quicker than Linford Christy could order a soda while sprinting in his trainers.

Which leads me nicely into my next post; 'Drunk Sex'.

Bottomline no 9: Try to be yourself even when drunk but more importantly, bring a face-wipe...

Slan mo Chara,

Deco