Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Full House (Part one of a fictional all-nighter.)

The names James and you're joining me at the brink, the start of the end at the edge of the world, it's 6.30 on a Friday night and we've been freed from the relentless shackles of employment to wreak havoc upon our surroundings, to walk the town high as kites to release the build up of five days hard work, and all in the name of alcohol consumption. Anything can happen in the next 72 hours and its likely to be messy, but first:


However much the myth of bingo makes it out to be the domain of old savage women and soft-core gamblers, it's a vital spot for those of us more experienced than the average pisshead. I mean, whoever expected to find oil in the driest place on earth? Same logic really.

The pack this evening is made up of Keith and Eric, both of whom work at the same place I do, not that I'll mention that. Its just not the time. The fourth item in the fantastic four is Ben, a bit of an outsider but a funny bloke, and the one who gets the first round in - such is the attractive nature of the bingo hall. The man who runs the bar seems to have no concept of an economy or profit, and hence sells cold pints for two quid, making Lady Lucks the ultimate place for pre-drinks, not to mention the chance to win a couple quid.

Three and a half rounds in we make the ever so diplomatic decision to leave, subsequent to being asked to leave, due to something in between the yelling 'bingo' three numbers in and flicking crisps at the ugliest people we can see.

And so we jumped into Eric's four-door saloon (Fiona) clocks-a-ticking, and tipsily made our way to the closest service station to get all the supplies we needed for the warm-up, a game learnt from Keith's american friend called 'Edward 40' Hands'. A fifteen pack of Carling and two rolls of duct tape was the order of the hour, and after receiving the goods from the frankly confused and slightly intimidated shop attendant we made our way to the Sports Centre car-park, a dingy flat of tarmac with three or four cars parked up.

Once there, we taped a can of Carling to each hand (Opening them first) and set about the task of drinking them both, unable to do anything apart from dance to the radio and continue the banter from the bingo hall.

Having finished the can taped to my left hand, I was halfway through my right when - somewhere between the macarena and drunkenly attempting to take a leak - I passed out for the first time that night.


  1. this is honestly the biggest load of shit ive ever heared. this is written in the style of a retard being taught how to write.

  2. Well, y'know, spelling is a start if you're aiming anywhere above hypocrisy.

  3. And as for style, I'm not sure whether you actually paid attention to what was happening whilst you were busy making up your insults, but this is from the perspective of a man whose life revolves around drinking and partying, so if you were looking for Shakespearean ballads of grammatical etiquette then you were pretty much off the ball entirely...

  4. Hmmm... Very nice. Wish I could read more.

  5. Talk about spelling, maybe you should take a look at your apostrophes? I counted two errors in the first paragraph.

  6. I never claimed to be good at this... My point is if someone is to 'critique' my work, the least they can do is show that they're in a knowledgeable position to actually criticize, otherwise it's just meaningless.

  7. Well there are actually three apostrophes missing in the first paragraph so I can now criticise you; criticize (with a 'z') is the US spelling. Leave off the spell checker.

  8. I hope you feel better about yourself. (I don't know how to turn it off). And congrats on being the only person who checks back and replies on comments. I get lonely.