As a keen footballer and athlete from the University football I often find myself lying face down in my room after a Wednesday night, various missed calls upon my mobile, wondering what exactly occurred to make my head feel ever so slightly disgusting. Generally, it's the toxic substance secreted from various pumps and dispensers in those wonderfully inviting (with their little flashy lights) bars and clubs, or it could be an occurrence from an even less likely knock on the head the night before, needless to say I do enjoy a drop of liquor after celebrating a win that afternoon; or if it be a loss then drowning my sorrows, or if it be a draw then simply celebrating life and the wondrous things upon this God given land.
Speaking of knocks on the head, at times it's clear I've had one too many. Presumably that's what others often think of me after a night out, after I exert my various moves in the amplified atmosphere of the discotheque I often frequent. Thus here is my story from one particularly 'sloshed' eve at such a place.
After proceeding to beverage a whole bottle of the finest Co-Operative Rose, and a few light beers the hops clearly took hold of me and I left my inhibitions at home. With my chums we then trotted to the students union bar, revelling in the beauty of the strobe lights and various bass lines offered, and to a certain degree the mixture of liquid substance that continued to pour down our gullets for the rest of the night. Two hours later and we could be described as 'on one', or to put it less street, intoxicated. After our merry night ended we eventually managed to find the brightly lit exit of the Union and decided it would be a clever idea to hop the large gate, under the assumption that obviously we were now some sort of ape-human being able to clamber large obstacles at any time we wished. How wrong I was.
One rip later I was over the fence. How simply lovely it was to raise the palm of my hand and discover that I had a large gash down the middle of it, apparently that's called your life line by some; if that's the case I was definitely a dead man. Que the bleeding, how exhilarating it was to watch this white open space upon my palm suddenly turn to a vibrant pool of crimson shining under the streetlights. Gladly, my fond friend Mr Carling had worked his magic long before and feeling anything on my body was no longer possible (until the next morn). Yes, three stitches later and a long drowsy sleep I awoke no longer able to slap a fellow man upon his face with the palm of my right hand, of course not that I'd want to...
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