Vanilla Vodka and Sprite

Sam’s Birthday was finally here, a night which had been spoken about, planned, talked up for months.I had quite high expectations.

The plan was originally to go to the Shihad concert, but that was quickly scrapped as too antisocial, and replaced with a general ‘piss-up’.

I got a call from Sam around eight telling me to meet everyone in town at the Hotel Quest. Realising that the next bus didn’t leave for an hour, I fronted myself up to the forty minute walk into town. What a start to the night.

Exactly forty minutes later, as I entered town feeling rather impressed with myself, I was greeted by a lovely shower of water chucked from the window above me after just having had removed my jacket.

Expecting to be in the bar of a hotel, I was surprised to find that Sam had not just a room, but a goddam suite in the Hotel for our drinking pleasure. The window from which offered a brilliant aim at passing pedestrians, as I had earlier discovered. Some poor lady later got some garlic bread on her head.

Drinking slowly started, as more and more people arrived. Sam introduced me to the heaven that is Vanilla Vodka and Sprite. One of the most delicious drinks I’ve had in a long time.

Girls are loud. Damn loud. Fucking loud. It seems that they cannot possibly have a conversation at a normal volume, they must constantly speak louder than the person before, at least 40db louder than any guy there. Did I say speak? Replace that with screech. The absolute epiphany of pain. Just to say “try on my shoooooeeeesss”.

Us guys abandoned this horror for the solace of the hallway. Needless to say, the girls soon followed, screeching and tumbling out of the door. The poor person in the next room was not impressed asking us very firmly to keep it down. His endearment to us was not at all helped by the sight of drunken giggling girls on the floor, and was marked with a simple “Jesus Christ!”

Us guys quickly came to the conclusion that we needed to leave, we needed to get away from the screeching, the unceasing noise causing irreparable damage to our ears. We needed to go to town, and soon!

Thing was, we were not at all drunk enough yet. It was time to get drunk, and quick. The shots began, although Sam refused to have any. Unfortunately, it took us quite a while to finally leave, and due to the non-instant affect of shots, I ended up having far too many.

I was thoroughly, utterly, irrevocably gone, I was walking in large circles. I tried to sit down, but missed the bed and hit the floor. I couldn’t figure out how to open the bathroom door.

Of course, I also entered the “shouting stage” and put it to good use by yelling “Shut up!” at the still-screeching girls.

Finally, we were on our way. A trail of people making their way into town, me walking all over the place. In my drunken belligerence, and eagerness to get into town, I walked and walked and walked until I was quickly pulled out from in front of an oncoming car. At which point, realising just how drunk I was, I burst out laughing.

I had had far too much to drink. My walking was getting worse, my speech further and further impaired. And we hadn’t even gotten to town.

As it stands, I didn’t go into any clubs, not that I would ever have been let in by the bouncer in any case. At this stage, however, I thought I could pull off a sober look, but was prudent enough to give my ID to Jordan to look after. He still has it, actually. Still, it never got looked at. Jordan decided to get a Kebab, I followed him in.

The next thing I remember, I was bent over the toilet, my pants around my ankles, forcefully losing my dinner. Twice. My drunken mind was vaguely interested by the darkish colour of my vomit.

“Bro, you ok?” Jordan had once again come looking for me. “Yeah” (fucken right). He asked if I wanted to go, cos he was apparently tired. More like he knew that I needed to get home before I passed out. I agreed. Time to go.

I finished up in the toilets, and met him outside, and was once again sick in the gutter. He hailed a taxi, and the next thing I knew we were on our way back to my place. My eyes refused to focus and all I could see was blurry lights flashing by. I felt the remains of my dinner once again stirring in my stomach. My head lolled to the side, and in a moment of clear-thought I wound the window down to relish the fresh air on my face.

The car pulled over, I jumped out after fumbling for a few seconds with the seat belt, and was, again, sick. I felt in my pocket, found my keys, and thrust them to Jordan.

It was 1.30 in the morning.

I think that I have finally broken my love for vodka. My drink of preference, now serves only to make me feel physically sick at just the thought of it. Which is a pity, because that Vanilla Vodka and Sprite was so damn good!

My god, am I paying for it today…

July 10, 2005 | Filed Under Alcoholic, Classic 

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