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How Not To… Drink

Marty Mc.B



So far, many of my columns have revolved around the great Kiwi subject of binge drinking. So I’ve decided it’s time to stop skirting about, and just address the issue head on, much like Simon Dallow in his new hard hitting advertisements. Love your work Si.
We’ve all done it (with the exception of the Christian club, though I hear their cordial parties get pretty crazy), and call it a dangerous epidemic, call it a pleasure, binge drinking is a part of what it is to be young and Kiwi. At times it can make you more charming and open, and at times it can possess even the most together of souls and lead to one resembling Chucky and Tara Reid’s love child.
I remember in my first week of uni I offered a friend a glass of wine, to which she replied, “Oh, no thanks Marty, I’m not planning on getting slaughtered tonight, so there’s not much point.” For me, this pretty much sums up the average Kiwi’s attitude to drinking. Get wasted or go home.
Does it not concern us that our major pastime comes under such pseudonyms as getting cut, slaughtered, fucked-up, wasted, and annihilated, it all makes us sound like a pretty kinky nation of S&M followers if you ask me. But I’ll avoid getting too preachy on the subject, as whatever I would preach, I quite clearly don’t practice. Instead, I’ll just recount some stories of people getting too drunk that we’ll laugh at, and then probably one day replicate.
One of my favourite alcohol-induced gems comes from my friend Steve – unassuming, quiet, calm Steve. When you meet Steve he reeks of still waters run deep, however when you meet Steve with a bit too much bourbon in him – he consistently reeks of vomit and menace. One night I was walking down Courtenay Place after one of my bi-annual boogies at GoGo (I’m due one soon in fact, no better therapy than shaking yo ghetto ass), when I spied Steve, in a skirt, humping the bar at Sports Café.
I had been on my way home, however, when I saw this, I knew it would be too good to pass up, and popped into the bar to join Steve for a tequila or four. When I asked him why he was wearing a skirt he stared blankly at me and said, ‘skirt?’, and when I pointed at his cute fuchsia asymmetrical number he paused for about twenty seconds and then just cracked up, falling over in the process and spilling bourbon all over my satin top. I’ve never quite forgiven you for that Steve, but, to be fair, I was the boob for wearing satin in Sports Café. Two things that don’t mix well!
Turns out that Steve woke up the next day in a bus stop in Miramar with no underwear on, donning the infamous fuchsia number, a fake moustache, and a glow stick. He had managed to let go of his wallet, phone, and dignity that night. Steve, always glass half full, pointed out that at least he didn’t wake up with a sore ass.
Now, just to point out that boys aren’t the only ones who blow out OTP, and also because it is perhaps one of the most amusing stories ever, I must tell you the story of my friend Juliette. Juliette is one of the girls that gets along with parents really well, charming the pants off of anyone. Juliette is also the biggest booze hag I have ever come across.
I hold a theory that the best nights are often those that are unplanned – you know, when you’re heading home and happen to come across an old mate and decide to meet for a beer, then, before you know it, you’re in shooters pashing some guy from one of your tutorials while ‘Mysterious Girl’ by Peter Andre plays in the background. Well, that’s what happened to me that night, but her story is far better. But I’ll start from the top. When we came across each other entirely accidentally we decided to head to Murphy’s for a quick pint and a spot of pool – then, before we knew it, we were in Club K belting out Bright Eyes, with Juliette still in her trackies.
Somewhere around two am and too many CC drys, I lost Juliette. Perhaps because my vision was full with the man with whom I was stuffing face at Sports Café. But the next day I headed round to her place with a bucket of KFC in tow.
When she left me with Shane (ew – I think it was Shane, or was it Shaun?) in Sports Café, she swayed down to Kenny’s Café for a feed, and then into Kitty’s were she met up with some friends. After a few rounds of shots there Juliette’s memory is a blank slate. That is, until about dawn, when she woke up to birds chirping and rubbish men clearing the streets. She was a bit disorientated, but looked around to discover that she was lying on Tory St. near the back alley of Chow. However, she felt surprisingly warm considering she’d rushed home midevening to put on some skimpy clothes – and she smelt a rather distinct odour. She stood up to discover that her shelter for the night was none other than Blanket Man’s blanket – the rasta himself nowhere in sight. Needless to say – I gave her the whole bucket of KFC, as she deserved it, and forced her to take a mighty long shower before I went anywhere near her.
Now, those of you who are anti-drinking will think I’m making light of a serious epidemic in our country. Steve was lucky to wake up in a bustop with his hand down his skirt with no injuries other than a few grazes. Juliette was lucky to have Blanket Man, who kindly gave up his blanket to stop the poor girl from keeling over from hypothermia. I am not denying that we often have a serious problem on our hands, especially in light of recent events. But when my friends are blowing out, I am still inclined to make fun of them.