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Yeah alright, I probably would have if I had had something to drink. But still!

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I didn’t understand. I was doing eveything I usually did. I looked at my fingers, most likely with drunked expression of befuddlement.

I was able to grip the guitar, make chord changes, and my strumming hand seemed to be working fine.

I just wasn’t hitting the strings properly.

I put the pick down, figuring being able to feel the strings would help.

I felt them all right, the nice fat E string beating into my index finger - I had a blood blister just above the nail the next morning!

The jam was not going to happen that night. I coudn’t believe it. I had fallen over, vomited, coma’d out many times due to alcohol, but never, ever had I not been able to play guitar. (Sure, many of those times I hadn’t attempted, but hey.)

It felt terrible. Like suddenly I couldn’t breathe or something.

Now I look back on it with understanding. I was raging drunk at that point, and it’s not really that surprising (still doesn’t change the hurt I felt though!). But I still want to know how on earth do the rock stars do it?

I mean, they get up, night after night, after drinking a bottle of gin and doing however much in drug slang means a shitload of whatever A class drugs they go for, and still manage to rock. And don’t people say they write better when drunk and stoned? Being able to write implies being able to play the instrument.

I get no amazing insightful inspirations. I end up making horrible noises and nearly injuring my hands.

Not fair.

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We stopped in at the supermarket to pick up a bottle of red. Most likely the worst move.

Dinner was a very boysy time. Apart from Richard’s girlfriend, and drinking wine, of course. We (well, they) talked cars. Watched Top Gear. Chilled out. Went through the wine.

Two bottles didn’t really last the distance. We went to get another.

Eventually it was just us three guys, watching TV and drinking.

Jordan uttered those fateful words.

“If I didn’t have a job interview in the morning, I could drink all night”.

So we did.

Drinking, laughing, farting, and eventually, watching porn.

A real guys night.

Sam went off to bed at some stage. We decided to raid his hard drive for more movies. He wasn’t impressed, but we were too drunk to really care.

We continued on drinking, and suddenly, it was 7am.

Next thing I knew, it was 8.30, Jordan was waking me up. I was completely out of it, didn’t even know what was happening. We needed to leave, and quick, to get to his interview on time. One and a half hours sleep, that was the worst thing that we could have done. Had we simply not slept, we would not have been nearly as fucked as we were that morning. Jordan managed to get himself in a semi-decent state, having a shower and breakfast, I just bundled myself into the car.

The drive into town was long. The various types of alcohol ingested during the night were not doing happy things in my stomach. I spent the entire time trying to not be sick.

I’m sure I must have been green.

Finally, we came into town. Jordan headed towards my place. We got to my street. I couldn’t take it any more. I tapped him on the shoulder, and gestured furiously until he pulled over. I lurched out of the car and let it rip.

I vomited until nothing but bile was coming up.

Jordan left for his interview, how he did it I have no idea. He’s a stronger man than I, that’s for sure.

I stumbled home, stopping a couple of times to retch and spit.

Finally, home, I fell into bed, praying that the world would stop spinning and hoping to sleep for the rest of the day.

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I ignored the calls for a floorsuck, that floor has not been washed in months.

We headed into town at about half-ten, really quite early. But surprisingly, the clubs were packed. We headed for Jet, and set about dancing. Jordan was at his ’silly’ stage, and was amusing himself by jumping as high as possible. Sam and I joined in, huge, idiotic grins on our faces.

Suddenly, I felt a crushing blow to my head. I could figure out what had happened. I was in serious pain. I looked around, and realised I had jumped up into a ledge of some kind. Fuck, that hurt.

Still, I realised no one else had noticed, so tried to ignore the pain and kept on dancing, trying to force myself to smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

I felt something running down the side of my face. What the fuck? I thought someone must have spilt their drink on me or something. I put my hand to my hair, and pulled it back, red.

Oh my god.

I put my other hand on my head, just to be sure. Holy shit.

I turned to Danny. He looked down at my hands. Dude, what? I know. Fuck, I gotta get to the bathroom.

I closed my hands, and quickly made my way through the crowds towards the bathroom, praying that no one would see the blood dripping down the side of my face. Luckily, it was hidden by my beard, and the club was dark.

I got the the toilets, and grabbed a bundle of paper-towels, holding them over my head. They came back covered in blood. I couldn’t believe it. I went through almost all of the paper towels in there. By this time, word had spread among my friends that I was in the toilets with a split-open head. They couldn’t believe it. Jordan, of course, thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

Finally, the bleeding slowed down a bit. I cleaned my hear up, hoping that the dark would hide the slight-reddish tinge. I washed the blood off my hands, and wiped it off the side of my face.

Sam, trained in St Johns as he is, inspected my head and said that it’d be ok, so I returned to the dancefloor. My head hurt like shit, but dance I would.

I periodically checked my hair for signs of fresh blood, there was some, but not much. About 20 minutes after coming back to the dancefloor, I realised that I had some caked blood in my beard. Lovely. So nice of everyone not to tell me.

Despite this obvious crap start to the night, it turned out to be quite fun. My head ached for the entire time, but we played a bit of pool, went to a karaoke bar (No, we didn’t sing) and finally returned to Jet for a few more drinks.

We grabbed a taxi back here just after 3am, myself fairly sober, so able to give directions.

My head was still hurting pretty bad, so I thought to be safe I’d put a towel on my pillow in case I was still bleeding.

I woke up in the middle of the night, to see all these red patches all over the towel. Fuck! I was bleeding more than I thought!

It wasn’t until the morning, when I turned the light on, that I realised that it was just the pattern on the towel I was seeing. Of course.

Still, I have a mother-fucking headache this morning. My hair is still slightly reddish, I’d rather not wash it, as the scab seems pretty tender still and I don’t feel like having it bleeding again.

Still, not a bad effort, I’d have to say.

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