Posts Tagged ‘drinking’

Hair of the dog... or some clever pun...leave me alone I'm hungover

So I gave up drinking on the 1st of January 2010 because I couldn’t think of any other decent new year’s resolutions and there was no way I was giving up any of my real vices. I immediately added the resolutive clause (go legal studies) that I would not drink until my Birthday, which only being the 6th of February (mark that down) didn’t seem like too much to ask…

And it wasn’t. The month of sobriety sped past like a rollerblading midget walking an energetic Great Dane. Then I didn’t have anything to drink for my Birthday, nothing for St Patrick’s Day, nor Easter (not even one of those Liqueur-filled Eggs alcoholic diabetics love so much). Next thing I knew an entire year had passed without me having a drink; it had it become a way of life.

There were obviously some distinct advantages. For one, I now new that there was such a thing as a Saturday morning (since I was 18 I thought they had  discontinued  Saturday mornings and that Saturday only started at around 2h30pm). I also found that I had lost about 10kg, which for those of you who know how skinny I am, is quite a mystery as to where exactly the weight came off – my earlobes I think.

I had more money, looked and felt healthier, was sharper on stage and best of all wasn’t finding out about stupid stuff I did the previous night based on pictures I was tagged in on facebook.

But it hasn’t been all Saturday morning breakfasts and care free breathalyser tests, there have been a few downsides and not just the obvious ones like being everyone’s designated driver.

Some of the disadvantages of being sober include the fact that now I remember everything that happened the night before even if I’d rather forget it. Girls will never look any more attractive than when I first meet them and you can’t exactly whip out the “good stuff” when it’s time to celebrate because no one wants to drink 100 year old orange juice.

There are a few things I miss about drinking. I miss being an incredible dancer or at least being able to enjoy dance music. I miss having an alibi for everything. When a drunk guy does something stupid, gross or inappropriate, it’s hilarious or “colourful”, but when a sober guy does the same he’s “being a dick”. I miss being able to eat things I couldn’t dream of stomaching sober. I miss being impervious to ridicule, judgment or pain – where the only memory of any pain was trying to recall the cause of unidentified drinking injuries in the shower the next day. Which is why I’m not surprised that my doctor recommended I actually started drinking again – not for my personal health, but for his financial health.

I’ve tried drinking non alcoholic beer so that at least I “look cool” but what’s the point of drinking non alcoholic beer that’s like getting a blow job while wearing a condom. I know its technically the same, but it’s not the same. You’d get more buzz by eating a handful of dead bees than drinking non alcoholic beer.

Regardless I remain sober but Alcohol: love it or hate it, I have to agree with Homer Simpson in saying it really is “the cause of and the solution to all life’s problems”.

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Yeah that's great, but can you just serve me a drink rather?

Oh the nightclub bartender; what wonderful hole do these creatures crawl out from? Yes, I get that you think you are the centre of attention since without you no one will be able to get the one substance that makes being in this psychedelic hellhole tolerable, but that doesn’t mean I have to tolerate you.

My interactions with bartenders although limited are more frequent than I would like as at least standing at the bar waiting for service is a damn side better than being on the dance floor (to be addressed in a future rant, sorry I mean “well researched blog article”). Either it’s because I’d use any excuse to get off the dance floor or because I’m usually the “boyfriend” and getting the drinks is part of the job description given my ancestral predilection towards hunting and gathering. Regardless I find myself having to negotiate the frenetic transaction of ordering drinks.

In my time I have developed a few techniques for getting service which I have perfected to the point that occasionally on the rare instance have actually been known to work, sometimes. One such technique which is unashamedly stolen from watching too many rap videos is the “make it rain bitches”-technique, which involves waving your money around  in the air, in a fashion that would indicate that you “just don’t care”. Please note that it doesn’t really work when the biggest note you have is a crumpled up R10 ($1 for my international readers – if you exist)

Another technique is to try make eye contact with the bartenders; unrelenting and unblinking eye contact as if to draw them in like some sort of tractor beam. The drawback of this method is it can result in your just looking like some sort of creepy weirdo who actually believes he has some sort of telekinetic tractor beam vision as you stare down lady bartenders while they prance around the bar. What can make matters worse is when one of the more effeminate male bartenders catches you staring and thinks you’re trying to hit on him.

The one technique that works without fail… have huge breasts, which is a problem for me as I’m sure you can imagine. However, I have learnt to use this observation to my advantage. I normally just ask one of the more well-enchested ladies to buy my drinks for me, which has some rather awkward repercussions. First of all I’m normally ordering chick drinks for my girlfriend and her mates, and it is pretty damn hard to act smooth and debonair when you’re ordering a cosmo, three strawberry daiquiris and a screaming orgasm, worse still is one is invariably seen by your girlfriend talking to other women – big breasted women – who you then proceed to give money to.

So Mr or Miss Bartender… you may try to avoid me, you may get my order wrong, overcharge me for my order or spill most of my drink on the floor in an inane attempt at “flaring”. You may serve the attractive girl next to me who just arrived at the bar even though I’ve been there for 20 minutes and you can even “forget” to bring me my change, but I have to tell you it gives me great satisfaction paying for my drinks from money you so kindly left me in your tip jar.

Next up… let’s see… how about promo girls!

Doesn't look too bouncy to me

What a terribly misleading name: “Bouncer”. It brings images of a rotund and jolly individual known for his boisterous laughter as much as his philanthropy. Instead in my experience most bouncers are steroid fuelled shaved head rage-aholics who can’t go five minutes without a glass of rage-ahol and would sooner stab you in the face with bottle than smile.

There they are; the first person you have to interact with on your magical evening if you don’t count all the freaks in the line. Squeezed into a suit and looking like a shaved gorilla they slowly assess everyone’s suitability for the fine establishment – meaning guys, you better all be wearing a collared shirt and leather shoes or you won’t be classy enough for the place which smells of sweat, vomit and broken dreams and looks like it was decorated by a gay robot (one which was programmed by a 70’s mafia boss with a penchant for animal print).

It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing expensive sneakers or an exclusive designer T-shirt, if you’re not dressed in the douche bag uniform you’re not getting in (this point has be well noted in my “secret ways to not have to go the nightclub” guide to be published soon). I even saw someone try argue with the bouncer saying he’s Vegan and doesn’t believe in killing animals for leather to which the bouncer elegantly retorted: “I don’t care what your f**king name is Kegan, you can’t come in if your shoes aren’t leather” and then something along the lines of “Are you looking at me or are you chewing bricks, cos either way you’re losing teeth?”

Wow the lines these guys use. There are some absolute literary pearls out there and I do suggest you try hear as many as possible hopefully not directed at you as it can often be the last thing one hears. Personally one of my favourites must be “The call me the VET, cos I’m looking after some sick puppies” (at which point they will kiss their biceps referring to them as puppies).

Where do they get these beef busses from? Are they genetically bred for the single purpose of making the night club experience less enjoyable (as if that were possible)? After getting past the “clipboard bouncer” who looks like he could snap my spine with the 5 mm of plywood clipboard and then the ever so surly cashier/stamp troll, I then have to get patted down by another frisky shaven gorilla before showing them my stamp.

Why am I showing you my stamp? You are standing less than a metre from the stampy cashier troll lady. You saw me pay! You saw me get stamped! What did you think somehow an alternate reality version of me switched places with me between payment, stamping and the 1 and half seconds it takes me to get to you? Oh! That is the reason? Okay then, suppose you can never be too careful.

At least at that stage you are in the club. Yay! (Sarcasm font required) and the adventure can begin and that is the last you will see of the bouncer unless he decides to kick your ass for breathing funny because he sure as hell doesn’t get involved in stopping any fights that may break out (usually because they’re the ones that started it in the first place).

One freak down many to go… next up: The Bartender.