Election Time!
WHAM! POW!
That's the earth shattering noise of two battle-hardened contestants locked in mortal combat, dashing between arenas in an overblown anime style to a sunset backdrop. The very fate of all humanity and everything that ever was or ever will be hangs in the balance between these two rivals. The stars have drawn the two warriors to fulfill their destiny and discover once and for all who is the anointed one: the one the elders foresaw would lead the world from chaos into order, the one who would defeat evil when the constellations of Lepus and Perseus cross beneath the crescent moon. For many years The Battle Of Ages has waged and now, on this most fateful of days, it is left to the two figureheads of each army to face one another.
As the dust settles and the adversaries regain their composure for the breathtaking climax utop the highest peak, they meet eye to eye for a fleeting second. Once friends, they believed in similar ideals: freedom, loyalty, equality. Somewhere along the line, however, their paths diverged and they would later become engrossed in a fiercely fought rivalry that would culminate in this very duel; for the winner, everything. Total undisputed power. For the vanquished foe; a premature death, and the indignity of losing at that hands of the superior competitor, forever being immortalised as the disgraced loser.
At least, so it is in cartoons. Subsequently, so it is in American politics.
The American elections are completely embellished affairs, soaked in vibrant colours and tickertape reception. They are precisely as absurd as the scenario detailed above, which could plausibly be a storyline from the often ridiculous Dragon Ball Z, whereby every episode entails two characters (usually stupidly outweighed) fighting through highs and lows for hours to seal the fate of the world- as you do. After a while, it wears thin: again, as it is with American politics.
Both candidates are walking caricatures, the very images of what it is to be a 'good American'- ideals that hold well in America but would be seen as deplorable in more stringent continents like Asia, where only the most intelligent statesmen are ever voted in charge. They charge from state to state bringing with them their entourage; a laughable group of media obsessed auxiliaries almost as keen as the candidate himself (note gender: never herself) to kiss ass and brown-nose their way to voter confidence. No photograph of candidate-hugging-stranger's-child can ever be too corny or overdone, especially at this the height of electoral activity less than a week before the polls open.
Judging by my tone you'd imagine this annoys me, but alas it doesn't- these are mere observations. In many ways it's good that the election process tunes into idiot America, for without it there would be less than a one percent voter turnout (ouch!). Bright lights, big audiences, loud voices... there is a distinct 'carnival' atmosphere to American politics that makes it more a spectacle than a genuine democratic process. The debates, of which there are three, are a world apart from dry, boring parliament. Every inflex at the end of a sentence illicits cheers from the supporting masses, somewhat like a pantomime, where the idiot rednecks boo the bad guy and cheer the hero. Without spelling it out, because you're not American, I'll leave the further parallels between the American presidency and the apt pantomime analogy alone, for the time being. The debates are an opportunity to attack personality and sling mud at the opposition, attempting to put dents into their popularity. And don't be confused, it is just a popularity contest: if you're black, you're doomed, no matter how effective a president you'll be or appealing your policies are. However, if you're the Terminator, well hell! You can be Governor of California!
Like the two fictitious characters I fabricated above, these two genuinely are battling out for the highest position of authority you can possibly have anywhere in this whole planet. The winner will hold untold power, and his name will be repeated by numerous and incalculable amounts of people throughout the globe. It beggars belief just how influential one of these two will be, yet the whole rights of passage is treated like a giant soap opera, dumbed down and packaged so that even the most inbred halfwit can see worth in heading down to the village hall to vote.
In any other country it would be insulting. But in America it's kind of a given that the majority of the electorate can relate to a gun-toting yank who loves sport (predominantly American football, baseball, basketball etc), large scale corporations (capitalism!), and family. The dutiful wives are almost ceremoniously hauled onto stage every debate or conference, usually with the wide-eyed, smiling kids and on some occasions pet dog too. "Look, I'm one of you!" the whole wretched act symbolises, and is almost compulsory for any would-be President.
It's all so excessive and overkilled that any more grandeur and they would become those two characters I created above, and that really is about as absurd as you can. For a country that prides itself on its "big American values", the election is a perfect reflection on that mentality. You could realistically see yourself watching the vote count unfold with a box of popcorn and a chilled one, watching the head clowns entertain the masses, waving your "Vote BUSH/KERRY for PRESIDENT" flag that everyone seems to have, caught up in euphoric will no different to how you would be at a Yankies game. The election is followed devoutly by people in a manner no different to your average sports fan, and for this reason it becomes the spectacle I have outlined quite forcefully above. It's the sort of election that kids would enjoy watching, and call me fatuous, but that's never encouraging.
Quick Link
Gamespotting
[This link has replaced what would otherwise be a witty and informative piece of journalistic gold]
Craziest Web Author Ever
Eureka!
After many, many years of being an active member of the 'internet' (porn chat rooms only for the first few years admittedly) I can finally say with some degree of conviction that I have finally found most insane person on the internet, and it's not the AUBL no1 poster either!
No, no: There are many nutcases on the internet, more than you can possibly imagine. But the number one hallmark of the looniest, most crazy people who you'd hate to ever meet is their insatiable and incomprehendable level of persistence for even the most meagre of goals. No doubt you've all opened an email and gotten 'wacky' links to some dumbass who gets 1 million hits per day (who's ever seen The Ninja one? Or Maddox?) and thought 'man this guy has totally lost it'. Most of these are sell-outs, who started off small and have eaten off their own success. To wit, their persistence is a result and not an effect of their success. I firmly believe both of the above named websites would have ground to a halt many years ago if it wasn't for the word of mouth generated that have catapulted their sites into internet notoriety, and now financial gain.
However, the site I stumbled across today beggars belief simply because of the creater's unrivalled dedication to something so blatantly crap. Something so unlikeable and pointless that to dedicate even a mere fraction of the time it has taken to accomplish is something the average sane person wouldn't dream. There are thousands of ridiculous world records like the longest nails, or biggest ball of yarn but yet they all, on some level, have purpose. They are world records- they are globally acknowledged as being the best in the world. Again, there is notoriety- something that can spurr on half-way nutters and convince them that a life of pity is worthy of the accolade.
Without dragging this out unnecessarily, I firmly believe this guy is the most insane person I have ever met outside of the walls of Cornhill. There is no opportunity to earn money off his venture, there is very little site traffic: he really is doing this entirely for himself.
The website is actually a perverse dedication to a computer game released in 1994 by Squaresoft called "The Secret Of Mana" for the Super Nintendo. But rather than number crunch or any of your traditional nerd avenues for fanaticism, he has taken the creative approach by making- get this- 199 episodes (so far!) using Flash with sprites and locations found within the game.
What is so astonishing is how hard, and you have to appreciate this, it is to make a flash movie like this. And how utterly pointless. To underline his already well established craziness, the plotlines aren't related and they make no fucking sense even on their own merits. Go check out a few of the movies and see if you get any satisfaction out of watching it, other than the smirk you'll no doubt develop at how retarded the whole thing is.
It pains me to think of how long he's been doing this for. There's even... it sounds so stupid, I keep thinking this is some kind of stitch up... the opportunity to buy special episodes! Just in case you watch all 199 movies and have the desire to see more.
So there we have it- my candidate for craziest lunatic on the internet- The Secret Of Mana Theatre.
THE SECRET OF MANA THEATRE ARCHIVES
You will regret it.
The Fresher's Flu... And Then Some
This past week I have come face to face with my very own mortality and, accordingly, I have had to re-evaluate some of my priorities in life. For you see my discerning reader, I have been gripped by the "Fresher's Flu"- the modern day equivalency of the dastardly black plague, returned in a new guise to reclaim the descendants of the survivors of its plight nearly seven hundred years ago.
The "Fresher's Flu" may sound tame enough, but for the countless victims it is a daily torture and constant drain on the mind and wallet- a curse upon all who fall under its spell! From dawn to dusk the sufferers report mixed sensations of "feeling like shit" and "wishing they were dead", according to esteemed researchers in the field. To even lay eyes on one of the fresher's plague's victims is a grim sight, and not one for the fainthearted.
They lie in their beds like invalids, with neither the motivation nor means to move from their effective death beds. Faces green and bereft of any of the vestiges of life they sniffle and cough violently; the very image of biological self-degeneration. Words cannot hope to summarise the anguish they must feel as the disease renders the victims housebound, doomed to suffer in solitude like lepers to attempt to contaminate the illness.
Yet, despite our best efforts, the flu returns at precisely the same time the following year, as if it lies dormant eleven months of the year in the Union just waiting for an unassuming fresher to give the proverbial menace the lease of life it needs to infect thousands. The flu spreads like bacteria and can multiply and spread itself exponentially, but for all our scientific developments it is still time that forms the only defence against the flu, a harrowing truth I learned only recently during a visit to the doctor.
"Antibiotics don't work" she told me, like I'd somehow managed to miss the Government's multi-million pound advertising campaign. "So stop asking me."
Rather flummoxed by her ability to stand her ground for so long, I had to take plan B. Shiftily scanning the room for signs of surveillance, I probed the inside pocket in my jacket and produced a brown envelope.
"Here..." I said, coughing to try and mask my voice in case they had hidden microphones. "Now, I'm going to ask you again. Give me my antibiotics."
Looking somewhat embarrassed, or frustrated- I couldn't tell- she pushed back the envelope over the desk with a sigh. "Antibiotics don-"
I cut her off with a swift cutting motion using my right arm. I got the point. I left the office after ten minutes of highly charged haggling, muttering obscenities under my breath and kicking her tin bin over on my way out. I could make out a feint "hey! Come back here..." but this small act of deviance was my way of getting even for her reluctance to hand over my god damned antibiotics. She was lucky I wasn't asking for any large scale operation, because that would have meant having to bring my good friend Mr Bat into her office for a brief 'consultation.'
So all because some fucking fresher thought he'd come to the Union harbouring a cold and because the bitch at the GP office wouldn't give me my antibiotics, I sit here in my room typing with a noticeable sniffle and routine cough pattern, which has restricted me from training for over a week now and to a minor extent attending lectures also. To paraphrase my opening few paragraphs; it is not fun, in fact I find it decidedly inconvenient. In a word, it's frustrating: frustration arising from the blockage of goal-based actions (according to my social psychology lecturer, the goal being healthy well-being or ability to sit in my living room in only my boxers). And the best way to combat frustration is to do a cathartic activity, like beating the shit out of that fresher.
Now there are a lot of fresher's with the flu, so I'm going to single-handedly hunt down and destroy any fresher with a chronic case of the flu for burdening me with this fucking annoying illness. And then I'm going to rob him on a sliding scale for emotional damages, loss of earnings, expenditure on medicines and the taxi to arrive at his house so I could in turn mug him. And then I'm going to teabag him, just so who knows who not to mess with.
On a personal note, all this illness (can you use illness in this way? Seems logical, but doesn't sound right) has made me realise how fragile the human frame is. A few micro biotic particles and BAM, you hit the floor like Golliath, completely incapable of defence as they bring you down from the inside. It's a chilling thought. Cancer, as you're no doubt all aware, happens when your own body turns on itself through malignant cells. Kind of like a civil war, except no one knows why it started, and you're the occupied territory. So somewhere in my body there is a war going on and I'm spectator, throwing in liquid reinforcements of the Venos variety, and I'm taking all the hits from the opposition. It is a fruitless war, and one that I will pull through for the time being, at least until the superbugs come along and we're all screwed.
You can thank the NHS for the whole superbug epidemic, once again proving that the NHS kill off more people than they save. A bit like the American troops! Haha, I really should move into political satire.
Enough of this nonsense, it's time to get philosophical. They say that as soon as you're born you're dying, which is why the religious types negate the "living" stage and sacrifice it entirely for the "post-death" stage. If you live a good life, by their pre-defined standards, you will live in eternal bliss. So says a carpenter who lived two thousand years ago, as well as many other figureheads of various religions- most more credible than the messiah chosen by christianity.
FACT: All religions are fear-based. There is an inherent fear that if you don't follow the practices laid out by religion, then there is a consequence to suffer in your 'next' life or even this present life. They are mental bullies. They have been using the latent fear of the afterlife to suppress civilisations for years, which is why I don't prescribe to any of it. If I died tomorrow, would I really be sent to live in an eternal pit of fire for my menial ill decisions during life? Ask any good christian and they will say no, of course not, they might even concede it a ridiculous notion. Without a 'hell' ideal, there is no christianity. The whole thing is a two-thousand year joke on the ignorant's behalf; a fairytale fabricated out of thin air to win over the unenlightened masses and generate revenue for those in power and also enforce restraint though guilt and fear of going to hell indefinitely as opposed to physical dominance.
I've been locked in this room for too long. If I die of the Fresher's Flu, please don't give me the last rights. Instead, just say "who's paranoid, now?" and move my jaw bone up and down, and perhaps flex my tongue a little just for fun. It'll be amusing, and it'll ease the sense of sadness somehow.
An obscure note to end a blog on I know, but contemplating religion does kind of fuck you up and make you paranoid about all sorts of things, which is why most religious types are anal wideboys who won't even talk to you or do anything that might ruin their chance at a happy afterlife like having sex before marriage (a big no no!). Shout "boo!" and see if they don't jump. I tell you, if religion were a science it would be the most discredited science since... well, introspection!*
*Psychologist joke.
Pub Golf
As if by fate or divine intervention by some god of drinking, my drinking game prayers were answered when I was cordially invited to partake in the bastion of student bingeing that is Pub Golf. To the uninitiated Pub Golf has a similar scoring system to its outdoor counterpart, where combatants are led from pub to pub every fifteen minutes where they have to drink or sup a drink of their own choosing, each drink having a different points value. For two under par you must down a pint of premium lager, one under you can drink it at your leisure over the fifteen minute allotted period, par I think was downing an alcopoof and so on until five over which you're given if you throw up (as everyone invariably does). The game began in earnest at Barraccuda, where the main protagonists drew first blood with a pint of Stella. I was wearing my Guns N Roses bandana, just to put me in the drinking game frame of mind. For once I got a compliment from Vandeberg himself on my outrageous OTT shirts! Last night was the classic tiger vanquishing a dragon shirt that screams lunatic and catches the eye, a personal favourite of mine. There was a fair congregation, about fifteen people I'd estimate, which made for a varied and interesting game. Of course all eyes would be on the Wild Boar himself, who travelled from Derby especially to regain his title he won last year. His main challenger would be Steve Marriott, with the rest all of a similar ability I'd say. The pint went down quite smoothly, although being so cold it was almost like downing melted ice with broken glass thrown in for good measure. I have to admit to hating downing pints in a drinking game, and had it been offered I'd have went for three straight shots just to avoid it. But I don't make the rules, so stuck with the format. At this rate, I'd probably even knock back double shots of Advocaat if everyone else was just to get back in the habit of a good drinking game. Next time, and this is an impassioned plea- make it a shots game. We all know that's why the humble shot was invented, and dishing out a raw shot of vodka or whiskey is an incomparable thrill. The next place was the Hobgoblin, a place I've walked past many a time but never considered to enter. There was a fantastic poster on the wall advertising Hobgoblin ale, with the caption below a drawing of an impish hobgoblin hiding behind a tree stump with a bottle of the ale in his hand saying "a drink of this magic potion and she'll be pretty!" It's a fucking mint poster, and if I'd remembered when we returned later I'd have surely nicked it. There will be other times, my friends, so don't think I've gone soft on the old escapades yet. The allotted drink, for a special three under par, was to down a concoction called a Paddy Shandy- quite simply a bottle of stella infused with a bottle of blue wicked by the time honoured method of "pouring." Please stop me if I'm going too fast or the pub jargon is forcing you to reconsider your place in this world. Truly a marvel of drinking sculpture, putting a beer with an alcopoof. Yet, contrary to all reasoning and straight thinking, it works- putting a bit of the amber nectar and exposing it to one of societies gravest ills, the alcopoof, isn't the recipe for disaster I would preach and warn you sincerely against ever attempting. A drink so unmistakably gay, the very thought of downing anything mixed with it had me backing up my arse to the wall, and visions of Will Young pounding my supple ass taunted me the whole time. On the one hand I enjoyed necking it, only so that the whole processing and digesting of such a drink that contravenes all my basic principles and moral boundaries could be done as quickly as possible. Alcopoofs in pubs must be banned people, its mere existence being evidence enough of why women shouldn't be allowed to make marketing decisions. If it had a shot of Baileys in it, I'd probably have just sacked off the whole challenge and went home to get drunk on my own, old-school style, lest I resembled the crack whores in Sex And The City. The main contenders were keeping pace, and it was off to the Unicorn- a five minute hole, I was told, which practically negated any chance of you getting to sup your beer and actually take time to enjoy it. Getting to the bar took about four minutes, so it was a swift down and onto the next pub. I actually downed half of mine, took a breath and then necked the rest. Everyone agreed this was a clear violation of "the rules", note to self- there are none- so I dropped a point on the back of my dislike for downing freezer cold pints as it cuts my throat like a well trained samurai. Everyone was done soon enough and it was away to the next hole. Or, so we thought. For added comedy value, Grandad chundered not once, but twice seconds after leaving the Unicorn! It was a world record by popular opinion, and would begin what was to be a long night of people throwing up. If you've read the rant below, you'll understand how happy this literally sick act makes me. It was almost like being back at home, and I stopped short of calling Grandad 'Tete' only because he resembles not the milkybar kid. Perhaps to ease the wallet somehow, the next pub was the esteemed Wetherspoons- the clear market leader in everyday cheap muckling prices. It was a watering hole, which means you can take a piss or shit and not feel guilty about it. Wrong again! After coming back from my shit I was immediately put under the microscope. Well, I say microscope, although to practically everyone there it wasn't a question of guilty or innocent, but that I'd certainly 100% without any question thrown up. This led to a rather embarrassing argument with the Wild Boar, where I protested my innocence and then laid down the challenge. So I downed my Stella there, and let them make up their own mind. Perhaps it made them feel secure, who knows, but next time I play a drinking game I'm going to shit with the door open. Indecent exposure my ass- literally. Next on the list was the Newshouse, no doubt a popular location for budding journalism students except for the fact that it neither has news in it nor is it a house (maybe a public house, I regress). Myself and Marriot necked our pints and watched as the Wild Boar and Parrsy, who had both been necking like champions thus far, followed suit. It was at this stage that I could feel the wheels coming off. You know when you get a little kick after necking and you think you're gonna spew? I got that, and it felt very real. I suppressed the need to vomit, and it was onto the next door Orange Tree- not to be confused with the Lemon Tree- to take the competition to the next level. By now many people had vomited, and to be fair the scorecard kind of went out the window as the guy directing the game just kind of got bored and stopped keeping count. Naturally, as soon as we meet some hot chicks (in the form of the Frost twins and friends), it's cue to make an arse of myself, as has become customary after heavy bouts of drinking. I necked the Stella fine, and then it happened. Every drinkers worst nightmare, I got "the reflex". I don't know its scientific name or how it works, but immediately after downing it part of it came back up. It was like when you're drinking something and someone says something unbelievable like "I just saw a dog mount a hairy cat!" and you spurt out what you're drinking. This, naturally, constituted vomiting so I had to go to the bathroom to clean my chin up. Vandenberg and Tommy were there, taking a chill out. I tried to force vomit with the patented "two-fingers" technique as I'd lost the hole and indeed the game but next to nothing came out. Seriously infuriating stuff, as such a little mistake that you can't control penalises you beyond repair. If I was making the rules, I'd say you're allowed throwing up so long as you neck the pint either before or after. As it transpired, everyone threw up at some point, but the sooner you throw up the sooner you are deemed out the game, regardless of what you do afterwards. Nevertheless, I still continued to neck pints at the following holes, even though the guy in charge had stopped taking count. Outside of Matt's bar we saw a hunched over Wild Boar chundering, which would have put us on level points if anyone was still counting. We went to another pub but can't remember its name, all I remember is Parrsy not being allowed in because of his Golfing attire. He later snuck in through the back, and necked a pint like the self-respecting drinker he is. We moved towards the Hobgoblin again to get to the Amber Rooms, but as you'd imagine the journey wasn't as simple as this. On the way some cunt in a car flipped me off, probably because I was wearing a bandana and he has a perverse fear of all headwear after his father would beat him with his old miners cap when he was young. So when the car stopped I started kicking it and trying to open the door, and the other door opened as the four guys got out. Ali was holding me back along with a few others to try and diffuse the situation, as Vandenberg and the rest asked them what they thought there were gonna do, as there's like fifteen of us and four of them. I was dragged into the Hobgoblin as the car left to calm down a bit, I think I made a pratt of myself but no one cared because they were all similarly mauled out their faces. It's great having a like minded group who are all willing to get drunk because you don't feel like so much of a knob when you wake up the next day. There is a certain reassurance about the whole situation, and when I did my obligatory and now common apology phone-round no one seemed that bothered or even remembered it, which was cool and something I've never encountered before. Usually I get the cliched and now tiresome "you were being a dick last night blah blah mortal peril blah blah idiot delinquent blah blah" self-righteous rant I've come to expect from the usual Soberlites, who are appaulled at the very notion of getting absolutely fucked out your face and showing any social deviance. As the tension calmed down I was escorted to the Amber Rooms, and this is where the old memory becomes hazy. I remember standing outside with a pint in my hand, I don't know why, and seeing my flatmates who were also out. Then my next memory is waking up at 5am with serious cuts up the length of my arm and on my knees, and a stolen object (I won't say what because it's kind of rough on whoever I got it from) in my very bed. There's a lot of blood on my pillow, but the wounds have closed now so I won't need to put plasters on them, although they are fairly unsightly. It's pretty obvious that I ran and slipped on concrete and put my arms out to break my fall, and in some respects I'm glad I don't remember it because they do look like they'd have hurt considerably at the time. I'm worried though because the two just below my wrist look like a serious suicide attempt, although on the plus side if I wear black and start writing poems about death and meaningless existence I could yet be accepted as a goth. Wait, I'd rather die than hang around with those miserable cunts or be mistaken for one. Which leaves me no other option but to kill myself. I think I'll do it tomorrow, diary permitting. I also dread the prospect of showering, as these wide cuts look like they'd have a high stingage rating, and not just because I have a morbid fear of clenliness and seeing myself naked. Editor's note, in case Feesh is reading- just kidding. From what I've heard it was a pretty similar story from the rest of the guys, who went to a club soon after the Amber Rooms but most went home almost as soon as they'd entered to go home and pass out. I really don't know the final standings or care much, once I threw up in the Orange Tree I was generally considered out of the game and from then on it was a solo venture. I also lost big points for missing the last hole, but to reiterate- at this point the points system had pretty much broken down and I didn't fancy walking all the way up to Towers Bar just to neck an inconsequential pint. The whole night out oozed class, and is a serious contender for best Uni night out so far. I would crown Parrsy Pub Golf champion for his manly display of gutsy drinking. He did chunder, as did everyone else, but if his drinking merit is even in question then it has to come down to his fantastic golf outfit! These scars, I suspect, will be a lasting, and painful, reminder of this awesome night out. UPDATE: Just went to the Official Hobgoblin Merchandise website and put in an order for the magic potion poster. Get stuck in!
Drinking Games
What time is it? It's 12:37, and I'm moderately inebriated. I say moderately, although without the need to boast or brag, I've had my fair share. And with this newfound intoxication comes the need for reflection- who knows why getting drunk makes you feel like sharing, but it does. The key difference being that I can't post this until the morning, which negates the need for feeling stupid for posting yet another drunken rant.
The subject is drinking.
Now I don't consider myself an alcoholic, but I am heading that way. This wise head on my shoulders realises this, but rather than try to avoid the inevitable, I have been coming to terms with it. I don't drink to escape anything, but because I enjoy it. And I don't go to excesses every night, only on the occasional tipple here and there, usually alone or in the company of a very select few who I feel comfortable with getting exceedingly drunk with.
Since coming to Loughborough I have polished off a 24 pack of Carlsberg Export in less than a week, and this represents only a very small percentage of my overall drinking habit. Nights out (hey, it's freshers) and nights in have become regular binge fests, although- again, hopefully without sounding arrogant but such a subject makes it very hard- I haven't exactly felt "drunk." I blame this entirely on Dabby, and to a lesser extent Tete.
Even without them the liquor cabinet consists of 4/5ths my spirits, but it was those titanic drinking game battles that have made my resilience to alcohol almost ludicrous for a distance runner, notoriously weak drinkers by my own admission. The stigma has long followed me, but I only think Dabby can truly understand how wrongly placed this is. Once again I excuse my arrogance, which you are no doubt thinking, but this is how I feel. And this is my blog, so I'll speak what I like.
I've tried to tell my Loughborough cohorts about the epic 10 hour drinking game myself, Tete and Dabby played but it, naturally, fell on deaf ears. I care not. That memory, of lying face up on Dabby's lawn, the final victor (although I am ready to admit I'd have cracked if that last shot had turned my way), is the enduring image of the summer. Of all the drinking games, that one was the defining moment. I remember Tete being forced to quit around 4-5am after I told Dabby to sit aside so I could put holes in his resilience. I ended up taking five shots in a row, then Tete took two and he broke.
As always, the reward was myself and Dabby gleefully giggling at Tete's fountain of vomit hitting the side of the porcelian target. Quips like "awwwwwww!!!" and "jesus christ!!!" were always fond favourites, as we laughed hard at Tete vomiting. Even then Tete had the joy of being wonderfully drunk, and could bask in the battle that would ensure with myself and Dabby, all the while bantering amongst us three. For a drinking game is more than just testing your drinking limits; it's like being in a pub, but without the noise and pub prices. We talked all through those ten hours, and due to our exceeding inebriation, could talk about very private issues that are not spoken of under any other circumstances. It's almost a male bonding ritual, but always accompanied with a very, very sore head in the morning. If it wasn't for drinking games, I doubt I'd know half of what I do about my friends.
There is always pride at stake, that's what makes it so fun. It's an endurance event, and you strive to better your opponent, no matter who they are. No one wants to lose to a skinny athlete who never shaves, which is why I think I always get caught up in the most hardfought drinking games. No one respects me, I suspect, besides Dabby, and that's why I am often targetted and the subject of many excuses ("whiskey's not as hard to drink as vodka!"). I've heard them all.
For some reason I've been caught up with a keen rivalry with Dabby. If you look on paper, Dabby would win by a landslide. His family heritage, and his outstanding performance on his 19th, are almost testimonies to his undisputed drinking prowess. Yet, as the game progresses, the weak are picked off one by one and just us two remain. Pa Wales is a very hardocore drinker, dare I say, like Dabby's, and I think this is a gentic bonus. The game can last hours after this point. I can't let him win, and nor can he let I win- so the game can reach ridiculous levels before it is resolved. Perhaps we are both stubborn, I don't know, but even at Tete's house two years ago we were duelling like sworn rivals, intent on knocking each other out first. It's got to the point where I tread carefully about nominating Dabby, because I know it will entail multiple retaliations "just to get even." I hate his cunt logic. But then again I have to confess to getting mildly tunnel-visioned over whoever nominates me, seeing it as an act of war rather than a drinking game necessity.
Now I haven't blogged about this before. The reason being that drinking games, to me, tend to be private affairs. I don't think you should gloat if you beat someone, namely because they might have had more to drink than you and you only win because you sneaked under the radar. Most people don't care either, it's like trying to write about a night in the pub. It's also much better to enter a game with an air of anonymity- if people know you are good, they will target you. And the last thing you need, as Tommy will attest at my 19th pre-birthday party, is for people to gang up on you. You need breaks, and you can't do this if you make enemies.
Drinking games require both a good handling of alcohol and a game savvy to make it though- if you have neither, you will lose. Take it from me. If you play a vengeful voe, best steer clear from them until later on. This you will learn quick. Harcore drinkers play very quick games like shot pontoon, but for parties it is better to play games like the "Ultimate Drinking Game", where it might even take a full five minutes between shots depending again on group size and drinking game savvy. This game is just a disguised drinking game, as no one gets hung up on shots taken and no one really quits, the game just falls apart after time. there is never a decisive victor.
Since coming back to England I've been reminded of how little people drink here. The slightest mention of a drinking game and people will cry "I hardly want to throw up!" or "what's the point in that?" To them, I shrug. Although all the while inside I'm remembering the intense satisfaction in vanquishing an opponent- to watch them throw up, maybe twice- and you in turn to throw up. It doesn't sound like much fun to an outsider, but believe me, it's infinitely more rewarding than drinking small, insignificant amounts to the sounds of ned beats in a club. In many ways it's a sport, and one that is very fun to practice.
If you have a like-minded clique, drinking games are unparralled fun, and one that I've found myself partaking in again and again because if it's Tetris-like addictiveness. You wake up feeling like shit, but so does everyone else. Unless you do it regularly, you won't understand, and I'm not even going to bother explaining it to you. It is in every sense a minority activity, and one that I've only just discovered is limited to the very few, Not one of my flatmates is up for the challenge, something completely unheard of when I was in Bonnie Scotland. They are, like Dabby said, "simpering pussies." If they'd been at Udny Station, or any one of my gatherings, they'd have witnessed true relentless drinking in a fashion only a Scotsman could admire. The unmatched feeling of heroism as you knock back endless shots just to gain victory over even the most uncaring of opponents. Like I said, unless you do this regularily, you cannot hope to understand the immense satisfaction a great drinking game can bring.
If you have a low drinking threshold you can still hope to outstay more hardened rivals. That's what gives it a universal Mario Kart like appeal, because if you think with your head, or the cards fall right for you, you can eliminate even the most respected of opponents. And if you're like me, who is the eternal underdog, you can make big wins regularly if you play your cards right.
One point: If you don't get satisfaction from seeing other people suffer, you need not apply. If your competitive instinct has been reduced to Christian levels then you're better off watching Coronation Street with your bible class than playing a serious drinking game. The only thing that drives me, admittedly, is watching Dabby neck another shot of whiskey. I don't know what it is, and I can't explain it, but watching him take a shot of something I know he loaths so much makes my night. I could spend, and have spent, many nights risking taking shots just to make him suffer. Call me a sadistic bastard, but nothing else comes close. Anyone can neck shots, but unless it's Dabby on the receiving end, I really don't care all that much.
So it has been for years before, and so it will be after. There isn't the appetitie for drinking games here, the will to see your opponent squirm before yet another shot, their face contort as another 40% shot is gleefully poured by the challeger, usually beyond full way as an extra kick in the teeth. To finally witness their vomoting is harsh but we all must endure it, not only the glory, but the anticipation as they return to the game, ready to exact revenge. Only in the most hardened of circumstances will they ever give up for good; and then, and only then, can you claim victory. And not to anyone; it is a private victory, and one that you know can be re-written as soon as it is written. You cannot decline a drinking game, you have to meet your match with no qualms. This is the path to respect. Only a very few will agree to this, and they will be your sworn enemies. Losing to them is an absolute affront, and you may find yourself playing until 8 in the morning just to maintain your record.
If you do, then you are one of us. You are one of <1% who still take pride in a long hard-fought drinking game. Reputations mean nothing, but if you play a regular opponent, you may fear them. And as much respect that I have for Dabby and his incomparable drinking skills, I will meet him any time, any place, just because reputations are there to be broken. I will play to the bitter end, through numerous bouts of vomiting, just to beat him. And this is what our country needs to uphold. Because without us, the drinking game is reserved only for the semi-drunks; people who drink two shots of Peach Schnapps and a Blue Wicked and feel maulled, playing to get potential girlfriends drunk. The men must stand up, and play privately, to keep a long held generation-wide tradition running. Unless you're part of it you won't understand. For those who are, PM me, and let's get the hardcore games back up and running. Satisfaction comes from both winning and losing, as any dedicated drinking game player will agree. One time, Dabby and I had to play online because the competition was nowhere else. Until the next real drinking game, I'll reminise with rose-tinted glasses about the good old days, when players would play not just for pride but for the sheer enjoyment a great drinking game brings. Nothing comes close, so people; if you're going to partake in a drinking game soon, make damned sure you don't fall untill you really can't stand any longer. Anything less and you're belittling and robbing yourself of one of the greatest pastimes a friend, or potential rival, can have.
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