Drunk
Drunk
So. You’re contemplating writing a story in which Arthur and Merlin get rat-arsed. Paralytic. Obliterated. Annihilated. Off their heads. But you’re not quite sure how to describe their state of inebriation. Have no fear, the Brits are here-to offer you advice on the subtle distinctions along the scale from being merely tipsy, through positively sozzled, to completely shit-faced.
So, let’s go out together, hit the town, paint it red. Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the unsavoury habits of the young, purposeful British public on an average Saturday Night at a town centre near you.
As one of them - for the sake of argument, let's assume it's Gwaine, not sure why - might bluntly put it, the aim of the game, the end of the road, is to get as high as a kite, drunk as a skunk, pissed as a fart. Annihilated. Fucked. Wankered. Trolleyed. Cunted.
But there’s a long way to go before we’re there yet.
First, take a small sip, or maybe two. Wet your whistle. Have a pint, or a short, or a mixer, or a breezer. There. How do you feel? It is a pleasant sensation, that the Brits may refer to as feeling *refreshed* or *tipsy*. Denis Thatcher himself described the first gin-and-tonic of the day as a *sharpener*. This is merely the first, sparkly-eyed step along the long, unsteady passage into intoxication.
Of course, if you’re an alky-a dipso, a piss-artist, a pisshead, or a beer monster-if you can hold your beer, if you’re not a jess, or a wimp, or a big girl’s blouse, if you’ve got a head for it, if you’ve been practising, this tiny step may fail to have the required impact.
You’ll need to take more drastic action, exercise your right arm, quaff some beers, down a jar or two, toss a few off, and follow up with a couple of chasers for good measure.
You might even need to do this before leaving the house. This sensible precaution is known as pre-loading, or getting “hopped up”.
Then, once you really get your drinking boots on, you can start in earnest to enjoy your inebriation. You’re pissed, you’re sozzled, you’re drunk. Your cheeks are rosy, you are inclined to break into song, and everyone is suddenly your best mate. You’ve become a superb dancer. Look at you!
Congratulations! You have managed to hit the zone of the happy drunk. You can snog, grope and fumble your favourite squeeze, swop spits with the bloke or bird you fancy, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get lucky.
What’ll you be having? It’s my round. Well, let’s see. There’s cider - ostensibly made from apples, fizzy and cold, sweet, a good entry-level lubricant for the underage drinker. Or scrumpy, a west-country “genuine” apple or pear product, likely to produce extreme intoxication and the headache from hell the next day.
There’s lager - otherwise known as amber nectar - fizzy, mass-produced, and cold. Or strong lager - imported, and guaranteed to get you there quicker, but not ideal if you're pacing yourself. Don't want Gwaine to drink you under the table, now do you?
Or the real stuff. British best bitter. Warm, surprisingly easy to drink. Girls drink pints, oh yes, but if they’re trying to look delicate they might have a half. Or a shandy. But we’re getting pissed tonight, so I’ll have a pint of Best. With a whiskey chaser. A blend like Famous Grouse is fine. I know Arthur only drinks single malts, but he’s a knob, and they cost a fortune. Plus I’m sure he can’t taste the difference when he’s already plastered, battered, well-oiled, lubricated.
Or, if we’re in Scotland, we might want a pint of eighty shilling, or “Heavy”.
Cheers. Bottoms up. In your eye. Knock it back, suck it down, down it in one.
Some of the girls are watching their weight. They’re on the vodka with slimline tonic and a dash of lime.
But look out. Over in the corner is the morose, lairy drunk, who’d take a swing at you and knock your block off for looking at him the wrong way. You don’t want to get glassed. Best give him a wide berth.
Hang out with your mates instead. Chew the fat. Have a chinwag. Put the world to rights. Tell some jokes, take the mickey, take the piss, extract the michael.
Of course, all that liquid has to go somewhere. Eventually, you'll need to go to the loo for a piss, take a slash, splash your boots, drain the hose, point percy at the porcelain, visit the little boys' room, and recycle the beer. Before you know it the landlord will be ringing the bell, calling "time". Better get a few lined up, because pretty soon he'll say something cheesy like "Time, ladies and gentlemen please. Let's be having your glasses. Come on you lot, this is a public house, not a boarding house." This is your signal either to find an off-license, and take some more booze home with you, or find another pub with a late license.
Or go for a traditional, English curry.
Don't forget to ask for an extra hot vindaloo to show how hard you are. And two pints of Cobra beer. And popadams and all the trimmings. And rip the piss out of anyone asking for a chicken tikka massalla.
Because it's traditional.
And rather than staggering home, as you’re unsteady on your pins, and liable to claim to any passing poleesh offisher that you’re “perfickly shober,” why not get a cab? After all, you don’t want to end up, stark bollock naked, singing football songs from the top of a nearby building. Or if you must, get a nightbus, you cheapskate.
*Hic*
Happy New Year, and safe journey home.
Camelittle
So. You’re contemplating writing a story in which Arthur and Merlin get rat-arsed. Paralytic. Obliterated. Annihilated. Off their heads. But you’re not quite sure how to describe their state of inebriation. Have no fear, the Brits are here-to offer you advice on the subtle distinctions along the scale from being merely tipsy, through positively sozzled, to completely shit-faced.
So, let’s go out together, hit the town, paint it red. Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the unsavoury habits of the young, purposeful British public on an average Saturday Night at a town centre near you.
As one of them - for the sake of argument, let's assume it's Gwaine, not sure why - might bluntly put it, the aim of the game, the end of the road, is to get as high as a kite, drunk as a skunk, pissed as a fart. Annihilated. Fucked. Wankered. Trolleyed. Cunted.
But there’s a long way to go before we’re there yet.
First, take a small sip, or maybe two. Wet your whistle. Have a pint, or a short, or a mixer, or a breezer. There. How do you feel? It is a pleasant sensation, that the Brits may refer to as feeling *refreshed* or *tipsy*. Denis Thatcher himself described the first gin-and-tonic of the day as a *sharpener*. This is merely the first, sparkly-eyed step along the long, unsteady passage into intoxication.
Of course, if you’re an alky-a dipso, a piss-artist, a pisshead, or a beer monster-if you can hold your beer, if you’re not a jess, or a wimp, or a big girl’s blouse, if you’ve got a head for it, if you’ve been practising, this tiny step may fail to have the required impact.
You’ll need to take more drastic action, exercise your right arm, quaff some beers, down a jar or two, toss a few off, and follow up with a couple of chasers for good measure.
You might even need to do this before leaving the house. This sensible precaution is known as pre-loading, or getting “hopped up”.
Then, once you really get your drinking boots on, you can start in earnest to enjoy your inebriation. You’re pissed, you’re sozzled, you’re drunk. Your cheeks are rosy, you are inclined to break into song, and everyone is suddenly your best mate. You’ve become a superb dancer. Look at you!
Congratulations! You have managed to hit the zone of the happy drunk. You can snog, grope and fumble your favourite squeeze, swop spits with the bloke or bird you fancy, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get lucky.
What’ll you be having? It’s my round. Well, let’s see. There’s cider - ostensibly made from apples, fizzy and cold, sweet, a good entry-level lubricant for the underage drinker. Or scrumpy, a west-country “genuine” apple or pear product, likely to produce extreme intoxication and the headache from hell the next day.
There’s lager - otherwise known as amber nectar - fizzy, mass-produced, and cold. Or strong lager - imported, and guaranteed to get you there quicker, but not ideal if you're pacing yourself. Don't want Gwaine to drink you under the table, now do you?
Or the real stuff. British best bitter. Warm, surprisingly easy to drink. Girls drink pints, oh yes, but if they’re trying to look delicate they might have a half. Or a shandy. But we’re getting pissed tonight, so I’ll have a pint of Best. With a whiskey chaser. A blend like Famous Grouse is fine. I know Arthur only drinks single malts, but he’s a knob, and they cost a fortune. Plus I’m sure he can’t taste the difference when he’s already plastered, battered, well-oiled, lubricated.
Or, if we’re in Scotland, we might want a pint of eighty shilling, or “Heavy”.
Cheers. Bottoms up. In your eye. Knock it back, suck it down, down it in one.
Some of the girls are watching their weight. They’re on the vodka with slimline tonic and a dash of lime.
But look out. Over in the corner is the morose, lairy drunk, who’d take a swing at you and knock your block off for looking at him the wrong way. You don’t want to get glassed. Best give him a wide berth.
Hang out with your mates instead. Chew the fat. Have a chinwag. Put the world to rights. Tell some jokes, take the mickey, take the piss, extract the michael.
Of course, all that liquid has to go somewhere. Eventually, you'll need to go to the loo for a piss, take a slash, splash your boots, drain the hose, point percy at the porcelain, visit the little boys' room, and recycle the beer. Before you know it the landlord will be ringing the bell, calling "time". Better get a few lined up, because pretty soon he'll say something cheesy like "Time, ladies and gentlemen please. Let's be having your glasses. Come on you lot, this is a public house, not a boarding house." This is your signal either to find an off-license, and take some more booze home with you, or find another pub with a late license.
Or go for a traditional, English curry.
Don't forget to ask for an extra hot vindaloo to show how hard you are. And two pints of Cobra beer. And popadams and all the trimmings. And rip the piss out of anyone asking for a chicken tikka massalla.
Because it's traditional.
And rather than staggering home, as you’re unsteady on your pins, and liable to claim to any passing poleesh offisher that you’re “perfickly shober,” why not get a cab? After all, you don’t want to end up, stark bollock naked, singing football songs from the top of a nearby building. Or if you must, get a nightbus, you cheapskate.
*Hic*
Happy New Year, and safe journey home.
Camelittle