Well I Never

In my somewhat long and illustrious career in drinking in public places I have never been denied entry into a bar. Care to guess what happened to me on Friday evening? That’s right boys and girls, I was denied entry to one of my regular watering holes because I was not wearing a collared shirt. It went down something like this:

Guy I Have Never Seen Before – “You have to have a collared shirt on to get in to Downing Street.”

Me – “Huh?’

GIHNSB – “You can’t go in without a collared shirt on.”

Me – “Really. Since when?”

GIHNSB – “It’s new.”

Me – “That sucks.”

GIHNSB – “Sorry.”

Me (In my head) – No you’re not you pretty-boy fuck.

For a moment I was stuck. I couldn’t decide what to do. For a moment I wanted to ask to speak to whichever manager was on duty that night betting that it would be John or one of the other managers that know me as one of Scott’s hangers on and they might let me slide as I was not egregiously sloppy. I had on a nice pair of jeans, my brown Sketchers that I wear to work with my khakis, and a dark v-neck t-shirt. On the other hand I didn’t want to cause a scene because I had a lady friend with me and I did not want to cause trouble for Scott. I asked one of the waitresses whether Scott had put in an appearance yet and since he had not I decided discretion was the better part of valor and headed to the car.

Initially I was pretty pissed about the whole thing, in fact pissed enough to forego drinking there with Scott once he put in an appearance and straightened things out. I think most of my anger around the issue comes from the fact that drinking at Downing on a Friday night is a chore. Parking is impossible to find because of the Taco Milagro crowd who are yuppies of the most disgusting sort; the not quite beautiful people who think that going to Taco Milagro and hanging out with other not quite beautiful people makes them scene-worthy. I have a special loathing for Taco Milagro and the people that eat and drink there.

Actually I was so pissed off about the whole episode that even after Scott went in, laid down his thing, and cleared the way for me to get in regardless of the collar situation I was not going to go back. I told Scott something to the effect of they had missed out on their chance to make money off of me that night. I’m sure it didn’t actually affect them in the least, but it is nice to take a semi-boneheaded stand once in a while.

Now, after a day or two of fighting off the Asian Bird Flu, I am okay with how things went down. I have always thought the place needed a dress code, or needed to enforce their existing dress code. Downing is a nice bar and I have seen people in there who take sloppy dressing in public to whole new levels. On more than one occasion I have been the person taking sloppy dressing in public to inappropriate levels, primarily thanks to Scott dragging me along and assuring me it is actually okay for me to be a slob. I think he does that because it makes him look better and everyone goes, “Oh, that Scott guy is so nice, hanging out with the fat sloppy dude who clearly needs help dressing himself.” Nothing gets the girls like a homegrown nerd outreach program. Hopefully this new/renewed dedication to a dress code will help keep Downing a nice and classy place to drink.

I support underage drinking.....

No, really.

I do.

I hear people all the time talk about how awful underage drinking is.

I’m sure you’ve heard it all before.

It’s a terrible thing. Causes the breakdown of society. Probably leads to teen sex and maybe even drugs. Shouldn’t be allowed. Underage drinkers should be taken into the streets and flogged for their sins….

But you know what?

It's rubbish.

I have no problem with under age drinking, in fact I think it’s a good thing.

And not just because I was an underage drinker, which I was.

And not because you were an under age drinker too – go on admit it, you know you were.

Start kids drinking early. Teach them a healthy respect of alcohol as soon as you can, preferably before you entrust them with the keys to a half ton pick up truck that they will insist on driving at 90 miles an hour in a 30 zone while trying to figure which of the three white lines they can see represent the middle of the road.

Because, there is, in my opinion nothing wrong with people giving alcohol to young people. The problem arises when those people stop respecting what they are drinking and drink too much.

And, as far as I am concerned, they do it for two reasons.

First, they think it is cool, probably because it is new. Whether this is because all young Billy’s friends are doing it or because little Emily think it makes her look older, the siren song of growing up before your time is hard to resist, so encourages newbies to drink. And once drinking, they drink as much as they can, because, lets face it, we all know that after we’ve had sixteen pints we are all much more attractive, funny and intelligent. And of course, the opposite sex can’t get enough of us when we are like that.

This reason does not wither with age, either. It is the only reason, beyond alcoholism, that I believe explains 55 year olds, who should know better by that age, getting drunk out their minds every week. You know who I'm talking about. The ones who still think that the look the cute 22 year old they've been hitting on for the last 15 minutes is giving them is one of lust, rather than disgust.

The other reason for excessive underage drinking, in my opinion, tends to be that suddenly little Jimmie can get his hands on it. He got himself a fake ID, and found someone gullible enough to give him booze regardless of the fact his is not, nor ever will be a 46 year old Jamaican woman. As a result he is going to buy as much as he can carry and drink it all in one sitting in case next time the shopkeeper has put his glasses on and the ID no longer works.

Either way, suddenly the underage kid is doing something they can brag about to their friends and thus start in on their 15 minutes of fame.

Without a drinking age, he wouldn’t be cool, he’d look no older than anyone else his age, and he’d not have to use dodgy ID’s to get booze. In fact he'd be just like every other kid who drank too much. Young, drunk and stupid.

Drinking to make themselves feel better is however not one of the reasons I agree with. It is one of the most stupid self-destructive reasons I can think of, and you only need to wake up one morning with a whisky hangover and Guinness guts to understand why I say this.

And if that doesn’t clear it up, take a look at the chow mein on the floor next to your bed. Now, take a moment, and try and figure out whether you’ve eaten it once already or not.

Anyway, despite the way that little rant sounded, the folks I have problems with are not generally people vastly under the age limit. They are the people on the cusp of the age limit. The folks who probably have friends who are over the limit so can go drink whenever they feel like it. The folks who feel left out, so feel it encumbent upon themselves to be just as drunk, I mean cool, as their friends

These people are second only to the people who have recently passed the age limit, so are out of the mind set of “I have to keep up with my cool friends”, and have now reached “Oh, look at me. I’m drinking. I’m so cool. Please sir, may I have another, so I can be more cool.”

Give a ten year old enough booze to make him throw up, he won’t do it again.

Ever.

Give a twenty year old enough booze to make him throw up, he’ll think it was a great night and wonder when he can do it next.

Weird.

It’s the folks on the cusp are the people who ruin drinking for everyone.

These are the guys TABC catch in bars. And they will catch them because they are the loud drunk ones.

And because TABC is in the bar, everyone else feels the pinch too.

They are the guys who drink 6 pitchers of beer then try to drive home – doubtless getting set upon by gangs or crazed mailboxes or lampposts while on route. And they are the ones who cause horrific accidents when they fall asleep at the wheel and suddenly cut through 4 lanes of traffic without warning. They are the ones I truly fear when going home late at night.

They are the girls who end up throwing up in the toilets and have to be carried home. And lets face it ladies, there’s nothing which says sexy and sophisticated more than being carried down the stairs by two of your friends with drool and mascara all over your face.

And lets not forget the folks who wake up the morning after, lying next to someone, blowing straight through trying to remember that person’s name, and moving into the more mind-numbing question of just HOW drunk were they to have gone home with that. Oh, and more importantly, can one gnaw through ones arm without waking the other person up and where the hell is that other shoe?

This is ever more apparent to me now that I am living in the USA.

In the UK, we chaffed against two drinking ages. One at 16 for wine and beer if you have a meal, one at 18 for whatever you want. Which meant we could legally drink at age 16, so long as we were sitting in, for instance, the local pizza hut, stuffing our faces while doing it. Which, be honest, makes a pretty good afternoon.

But of course, if drinking like that wasn’t good enough; if the food just got in the way; then there was always trying to convince the blind shopkeeper that you were, in fact, a 46 year old Jamaican woman, so that you could buy cans of cheap beer or bottles of whiskey, take them to the local graveyards and get drunk in the company of the dead.

By the time we were 18, we generally had gotten over the novelty factor of drinking, and so barring special occasions, or anything to do with first year of undergrad, it was unusual that we’d be out, night after night, getting absolutely plastered. Oh sure, it happened, it just was no longer the norm.

Now that I am over here, I frequently find groups of young folks (good lord, did I just say that? God, I sound old) going out for a nice, quiet, relaxing evening of power drinking. You can normally spot them pretty easily. They are young. Loud. And stupid.

I’m wondering if it is a cultural thing to behave in this way. I’m sure that not all the people doing this are jocks or frat boys…. Are they?

I know when I played rugby for UT, all the rugby players went and got hammered as often as they could. This could be and American thing. It could be a rugby thing. It could be a jock thing. I’m not sure. I know that it happened to a degree I had not seen since my first semester of my undergrad studies. And that was a seriously unhealthy time.

Whatever the reason, it’s just something they did. My problem with it was that they just weren’t very bright about it.

I remember when we went to New Orleans on a rugby tour. The other players were amazed by the fact that they never saw me without a glass in my hand, and yet I was never drunk. None of them took the time to realize that the glass rarely changed.

The point, for me, was to drink with my friends, not to get drunk near my friends.

If I got drunk, it was a miscalculation.

Now don’t get me wrong.

I drink.

I get drunk.

But it is a by-product of hanging out with my friends for several hours that makes me drunk, not trying to drain the bar’s entire supply of mescal in one sitting because you feel sorry for the worms at the bottom of the bottle.

And I never drive home when I can see three white lines in the middle of the road.

By the way, that’s another way you can spot underage drinkers. They are normally given away because their palates have not developed fully. They are frequently seen drinking peach schnapps, jello-shots, mescal, Jaegermeister, things with umbrellas in them or worse, alco-pops (also known as malt beverages – you know the ones – Zima, Bacardi Breezers and so on). Basically the things that no-one drinks unless too young or too drunk to know any better.

Back to my point.

Underage drinkers are not a problem.

Underage drinkers who can’t handle their drink are.

Because for me, underage is a relative term.

It’s not about a particular age.

It’s about mentality

You can tell the folks I am referring to because they have not matured enough to realize it is stupid to get yourself so ploughed that you cannot stand up straight, let alone be sensible enough to realize you should be ordering a taxi rather than driving. By my thinking, you should cut certain 50 year olds off just as fast as you cut off their 20 year old friends.

That stage is preferably five minutes before they leave their homes.

Or failing that, just let them go to the local graveyard so they can drink their Everclear jello-shots and Bacardi Breezers without disturbing the rest of us. So long as they didn’t take their car keys with them they should be safe there till tomorrow morning. At least they won’t bother the rest of us.

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As a nice little post script to this, a report form New York's Columbia University suggests that

"Underage drinking is worth nearly $23 billion a year to the alcohol industry, or 17.5 percent of all money spent on spirits in the US annually"

and further, that

"And abusive drinking by both underage people and adults may account for nearly half of all money spent on alcohol each year."

I'm sorry, but DAMN!!!!

That's a scary amount of money.

However, this bit I did not agree with.

"People who start drinking before age 21 are twice as likely to become addicted to alcohol, while the risk of becoming an alcoholic is four times greater among those who begin drinking before their 15th birthday"

I'm not sure it's that cut and dried. I would still offer the suggestion that, were you to start drinking at an early age, but have that drinking tempered by guidance and respect for what you are doing, binge drinking and alcoholism would far less of a problem.

Underage drinking is, to my mind, no more of a problem than drinking once one has achieved the legal age. The problem is not one resulting from age, but rather one of common sense, maturity, call it what you will.

It occurs when you abuse alcohol, by drinking too much, by drinking too fast, or by drinking too often.

Educate children when they are young so that alcohol is not a mystery or a taboo, and these problems are liable to be reduced in youngsters.

Then you get to work on the idiot older people.

Start by taking away their car keys.

Taste - It’s a funny thing.

How do you know the sky is blue?

The scientific answer probably involves discussion of wavelengths of light, angles of refraction, and, due to the particular wavelengths that is trapped, the resulting colour in the sky is what is termed “blue”. (My highschool physics teacher is probably shuddering at the gross inaccuracy of that statement, but never mind.)

While that is an answer, I reckon that the real answer to the question is probably something to do with the fact that way back when, someone coined an arbitrary word "blue", and used it to describe the sky. When you were a kid you also learned the word "Blue" and how it related to the colour of the sky.

Basically, "The sky is blue because you've been told that it is." And by extension, you learn that anything that is the colour of the sky is also blue.

You might want to ask "who determined "blue", and how do we know they were right?" That doesn't matter so long as we don't start messing with the minds of future generations, telling them that the sky is actually "Pink", and those fluffy things in it are "Orange".

What is more interesting to me, is how do you know that the blue I perceive is the same as you do? Sure it's the same term, but maybe the shades we see are different. In fact maybe so much so that our terminology may quickly diverge.

Scientists run experiments all the time to try and determine how people perceive colours. The ask people to put the appropriate adjective next to swathes of colour, sometimes with some surprising (and, I’m sure, funny) results.

Vintners and distillers do it too – asking folks to describe the flavours they taste when drinking their latest product.

The question is, how do we know that what reminds me of the taste of honey is the same thing as what reminds you of honey? Maybe you remember that flavour as Maple syrup.

There’s a scene in the Matrix, when Mouse is describing the food they are eating on the Nebuchadnezzar, saying that it reminds him of Tasty Wheat. Except he’s never had Tasty Wheat, it’s just his memory of what the Matrix told him it tasted like. But how did the Matrix know that was the correct taste for Tasty Wheat? Maybe it was just the best approximation. He also figured that when the Matrix didn’t know what something tasted like, it made it taste like chicken. Which is why so many things taste like chicken.

Science fiction aside, perhaps memory alone isn’t the best way forward.

One way is to have scents on hand to help out. Remember the scene from French Kiss where Kevin Kline asks Meg Ryan to describe the flavour of the wine she is drinking, using a box of smells to give her guidance?

That would work – but part of me wonders how much of the smell, especially the stronger ones, would linger when you took your next drink, thus affecting your perception of the flavours.

Regardless, throughout time people have tried to come up with ways of classifying taste – you see it in the tasting notes on the backs of bottles and in many different books you can buy on the subject.

As another tangent, I wish I could find a book on how wine (particular brands and bottles, not the more wholesale discussion of grape varieties) are “meant” to taste. You know, something that would help you choose between 2 or 3 equally priced bottles of wine without having to buy one of each, or come back at 10.00 am for a wine tasting?

Why is it that wine tastings always seem to be held early in the morning? Do you think it is some plan to stop you drinking too much because one’s body rebels from alcohol so early in the day?

Anyway, I know that such a book would probably be out of date as soon as the next years growth came in, but it would still be cheaper buying it each year than buying bottles of wine I didn’t enjoy. If anyone knows where I can buy one, please let me know.

And of course, after all that, I don’t know that I’d trust this kind of book since it’d be the author’s taste buds, not mine, and you wouldn’t know until it’s too late whether or not you’d agree with him.

Still.

In an effort to help people understand more about what they are drinking, more and more systems are produced to help explain tastes. An article in today’s Telegraph states that after eight years and 94 whisky distilleries, Dr. David Wishart has produced a new tasting guide for whiskey.

That’s got to be a tough life, doesn’t it? Spending 8 years visiting distilleries, tasting their products, and studying the notes of their master distillers? How do I get a job like that?

I can hear some of you non-whiskey lovers out there saying, “Why bother? Here’s the tasting note you need. It tastes like gasoline.”

Well, I’m not sure, outside of a few whiskeys that I’ve tried, I’d agree with. Neither did Dr. Wishart. After the strenuous labour of love that the last 8 years must have been for him, Dr. Wishart has produced a list of 12 "cardinal flavours" that can be used to describe any single malt produced in Scotland.

The tastes he uses are, “body, sweet, smoky, medicinal, tobacco, honey, spicy, wine, nutty, malty, fruity and floral.”

Not bad. Even though gasoline isn’t in there, you can see how that’d work. for most things.

You’ll also notice “Peaty” isn’t in there. Next time you describe Laphroaig, remember that it is not “peaty” anymore. It is “smoky” and “medicinal”.

Also missing are “sherry”, “oak” and all those other terms you’re used to using.

Well, all this helps you describe WHAT you are tasting. But I’m not sure that it will help us AGREE on what something tastes like.

It helps put one’s perception of the flavour into words, but still doesn’t change the fact that your perception may be different from mine. Who’s to say which of us correct?

I mean Ardbeg has been described as follows –

The Ardbeg 10yo 'TEN' (46%, OB, bottled +/- 1999, Non Chill-filtered, 70cl) was an early release.

Nose: Starts off rather light- especially at 46%. Sweet at first, followed by smoke and brine. Needs a few minutes. Salt & ammoniac. Still, there's a constant sweetness in the background. More iodine than peat, which gives it more of an 'extreme' Islay character than the 17yo.

Taste: A sweet burn picks some salt along the way before developing into a mild Ardbeg explosion. Very well balanced - the overall profile becomes more 'Islay' after a few minutes in the glass. Nice and sweet at first, with a long Ardbeg bang in the middle and a satisfying finish.

Now for my money, I’d say the “nose” remarks are about what I'd put down (if I was better versed in the lingo). But for me, the tasting notes would be “A pint of sea water mixed with a pint of diesel.”

Not too flattering, but even though it is described as “the worlds best tasting scotch”, I’m not a fan of the drink.

Obviously.

I guess what to do is to go visit a bar together with a pen and paper and try different scotches, and see what you get from them, (writers and tasters usually describe the colour, nose, palate and finish, in the order in which the whisky is enjoyed, which would be a good place to start). Take a drink, write some notes and repeat the process as long as you are still able to write in coherent sentences.

Eventually, we could compare notes with others, hoping that the result doesn’t cause arguments of Lilliputian standards.

After all, it doesn't matter whether you and I agree on HOW it tastes, so long as we agree that it's ok for me NOT to like something just because you think it is the best thing under the sun, and vice versa. If we all had to like the same thing, the world would be a very boring place.

The trick is to remember that just because I like something you think should only be used to strip paint from doors doesn't mean I'm crazy or wrong.

All it means is that I'll drink your share, so you don't have to.

It also means that you're not drinking any of what I like, leaving more for me.

Bearing that in mind, next time you find someone whose tastes differ from yours, don't look at them like they recently arrived from another planet.

Just thank them.

And maybe buy them a glass of that salt water and diesel mix that they think is so good.

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If you’re interested, a quick primer on tasting can be found here. And there is a bunch of interesting stuff, including access to unusual, and normally very good, blends at the Scotch Malt Whiskey Society.

Drinking Games (2)

My friend Bobfish put up a post on her blog today which reminded me of another drinking game for your pleasure.

This is a truly dumb game, and if it sounds like a good idea, you are too drunk to play it.

Roxanne.

This game is played in 4 teams, with as many players per team as you choose. The teams don't have to be balanced, it's not that kind of game.

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Equipment Needed.

Stereo
Copy of the song "Roxanne", by the Police
shot glasses - 7 for each player playing
Vodka (or some other spirit) in sufficient quantities to fill all the afore mentioned shot glasses

Set Up

Fill all the shot glasses with vodka, and give seven full shots to each individual playing.

Nominate which team is going to start the game.

Press play on the track "Roxanne".

How to Play

The first time "Roxanne" is said in the song, all members of the first team take a drink.

Then play shifts clockwise.

When "Roxanne" is said next, all members of the second team take a shot.

Then play shifts clockwise.

And so on.

It's a pretty easy game.

Result

By the end of the song, each player in each team will have had seven shots.

I told you this is not a good game to play.

Winning

I don't know. As I see it, there is really no way to "win" this game - like most drinking games, it is just there as a vehicle for getting drunk.

Which you will.

If you're that competitive, perhaps being able to finish, stand, or hold down dinner would all be good ways of determining a winner.

Nothing Sacred - Day Three

Subtitled:
How long can James blog about drinking without actually blogging about drinking?

Over the last two days I have blogged about the series of infiltrations performed by the highly specialized counter-drunkard forces of the Irving Police Department and the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Comission last Friday. First I leveled my amoral outrage at the fact that they would do something like this and yesterday I mocked the appropriatedly named Nameless Reuters Wire-Monkey (NRWM) and then pointed you guys to some useful information out there on the web. Sorry I couldn’t jazz it up with some boobies or something else, but every once in a great while I will stumble across something on the Internet that is neither geek nor porn. It was one of those days.

So now we are on day three of James blogging in minuscule outrage about TABC’s strategic plan to rid the state of drunk drivers 36 bars at a time. In this episode we learn that, yes my friends, the long arm of Johnny Law has been a bit busier than I first suspected. While discussing the events in Irving with a coworker I was pointed to this article in my very own Houston Chronicle (Viva la Post!):

Public intoxication stings catch 2,200 in Texas bars

More than 2,200 people have been arrested in Texas bars in the six months since the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission announced a crackdown on public intoxication, primarily targeting bars.

The arrests included people who were drunk in bars, who sold alcohol to a drunk person, or a drunk employee on the premises of a bar or restaurant with a license to sell alcohol, said Carolyn Beck, a spokeswoman for the TABC.

Sweet Monkey Jesus! 2,200 people?!?!? This is really the only new news the article has to offer. Well, that and the fact that this is called Operation Last Call. Excellent name choice! I can imagine some TABC bureaucrat giggling to himself as he came up with that whopper of a name in much the same way I giggle to myself when I come up with something Damn Funny. However, unlike the previous articles, this article had an actual person’s name attached to the article, with email address. This being the case I thought I would fire off an email to the author of the article and ask whether she knows if anyone has done any statistical analysis to see if this program is actually paying off or is the TABC just wasting people’s time. Here is the email:

Ms. XXXX,

I just read your March 23rd article titled “Public intoxication stings catch 2,200 in Texas bars.” While I have been aware of the TABC program since earlier in the week when a friend of mine pointed me to some coverage from the Dallas area, this is the first time I have read anything to indicate it is has been more widespread than just the thirty people arrested in Irving. Since the program is clearly fairly large and has been going on for just over six months I was wondering if the TABC or anyone else has taken a look at the DWI/DUI statistics from the areas where they have been active to see if there has been a decrease in the number of incidents since the program’s inception. While this program offends my inner drinker, if it is actually working and saving lives then I will come to a grumbling acceptance of it, however if not it seems that the officers involved in the program could be put to more productive use.

Sincerely yours,

James XXXX

Almost immediately I got the following response:

Thanks for your response. I am at a loss right now to answer your questions. I do know that in the Houston area, the TABC works closely with Houston police intracking DWI arrests, then working “backwards,” so to speak. For example, it is not uncommon for a Houston police officer to ask a person suspected of DWI where he/she had his/her “last” drink. In many cases, the same taverns/pubs come up, or are mentioned. TABC then tries to monitor that establishment, in an effort to prevent people from driving under the influence.

TABC does allow publicly intoxicated people to go home with a designated driver, if they really do know that person. For example, if you are in a bar with a friend or significant other, and that person is intoxicated, they might give you a ticket, but not arrest you. They want you to get home safely. The spokeswoman for the agency said it would be extremely rare to allow a person who was clearly intoxicated to simply call a cab, because that person might not make it home – they could easily ask the driver to pull into the next bar. Or, they could get out of the cab a few blocks away. In Houston, that would mean danger. Trust me on this. There’s either a dangerous person lurking around, a Metro bus, or one of our little trains to run you over.

Personally, I find it very interesting that people are surprised to learn that a bar is a public place.

First I would like to give some serious props to the author of the article for responding within twenty minutes of me sending the email. While there seems to be a bit of boilerplate in her response, it is a clear and well thought out response, although I do take umbrage with the implication that I do not know about the rough streets of Houston. Of course she then turns around and takes a piss out of Metro. That makes me happy.

It is clear to me that it is now time to go straight to the source on this. Through a little bit of digging I found out how to contact people directly at the TABC via email (sometimes websites are so helpful!) and I intend to email Carolyn Beck directly and ask if the agency is keeping records of the arrests and citations issued in connection with the sting operations and then comparing them to the DUI/DWI arrests in the area to see if the program is having a measurable effect. As soon as I get the email composed and sent I will post it here and of course post Ms. Beck’s response.

One last thing. Pete over at A Perfectly Cromulent Blog finally weighed in on this issue, expressing much the same sentiment but, as always, in a much more concise and funny manner. Additional blogging about this issue can be found here.

Hot Shots

It's kind of a miserable day outside (which I am enjoying thoroughly) and since we don't get many opportunities to drink cold weather drinks, I thought I would take advantage of it.

Hot Shots.

1 shot Galliano
1 shot hot espresso
Whipped cream

Take a large shot glass, pour in the shot of Galliano.

Carefully layer the hot coffee on top (pour it over the back of a spoon which is touching the side of the glass - it works best)

Top with whipped cream.

If you use very hot coffee, it will work best as it creates the best denisty differential between the coffee and cream and the coffee and Galliano.

Drink in one gulp.

International Rules

I was having a discussion on Sunday morning about drinking games. My friend and I were discussing some of the sillier games we’d played in the past, and it turned out she’d never heard of “International Rules”.

Given that my friend had lived in a Rugby House, I was a bit surprised by this, so I thought I’d share with the class.

“International Rules” is not a game in itself, but rather they are an addition to existing rules.

Let me explain.

Lets say you are playing “Three man”.

THREE MAN

Three Man is a dice game, involving 2 dice and as many players as you choose (Between 4 and 10 works best I find.)

All players sit round a table. First player rolls the dice. Depending on the score, perform the action below. If you got a result, roll again. If no result occurs, the dice move clockwise.

Results

Total equals three – that person becomes “three man” and takes a drink.

A three is rolled – “three man” takes a drink (except for the first person who rolls a three, who is designated three man until it is removed)

Total equals seven – person to your left drinks.

Total equals nine – person to your right drinks

Total equals eleven – Social (everyone takes a drink)

Doubles

Roll a double and the person gets to take the dice and hand them to another player (or players). The victim(s) rolls the dice and drinks the number of fingers of liquid shown on the dice.
BUT if the victim or victims roll a double, it returns to the original player, who must roll and drink the fingers shown, plus the fingers not drunk by victim. BUT if he rolls a double, it goes back to the victim. And so on until a double is not rolled.

If player rolls three doubles in one turn (for game purposes, not forfeit purposes) he gets to make a rule.

There is no limit to rules that can be made, short of what the group will put up with.

Any other result, the dice pass to the next player.

Examples of Rules I have seen.

THUMBMASTER

Person designated “Thumbmaster” places his thumb on the table. Everyone else must place thumb on table. Last person to do so must finish what is left in his glass. Once the drink is finished, the person becomes “Thumbmaster”. Warning, if you put your thumb out before “Thumbmaster”, you have to drink, but you do not become “Thumbmaster”.

WATERFALL

When the player (usually the guy who calls it first, thereafter passes on the roll of a double 4) calls a waterfall, everyone must fill their glasses and take a drink. But there’s a catch. The person to your left cannot stop drinking until you have. So person 2 in line can’t finish drinking until the first person does so. The 6th in line can’t stop until the 5th does. The last guy in line is probably going to drink the entire glass.

These are all fairly easy to do.

International Rules are slightly more complex. And therefore you’ll get more drunk using them.

INTERNATIONAL RULES

First pick two people. These two are known as Mr. (or Ms.) Weights and Mr. (or Ms.) Measures.

Mr. Weights and Mr. Measures are the only two individuals allowed to dole out forfeits for drinking infringements. (This is why there are two of them – so if one infringes, the other can penalize him.)

Beware – International Rules is not tied to a game, it is tied to an evening. If you decide to change games, unless International Rules are specifically called off, it continues into the next game.

Penalties / Forfeits

When talking about penalties Imposed, I talk about “1 drink”. Penalties are normally one Gulp/swallow, although I have heard “finger’s depth”, or shot depending upon what you are drinking and how nasty you wish to be.

All penalties are cumulative.

Rules.

You can only drink with your left hand. Drinking with the right hand or not picking up the glass is a penalty.

You cannot say the word “Drink” as a noun or verb or any derivation thereof. Therefore you can’t say “Drink your drink” or “You should have drunk more than that, drink more.”. Both of these examples would lead to two penalties being imposed as the word has been used twice.

You cannot point at another player. One may gesture with one’s head, elbow, shoulder or other body part, but not with hand, glass or so on. It is at the discretion of Mr. Weights and Mr. Measures as to what constitutes pointing.

You cannot use another player’s name. You must come up with a drinking name, or description – ie “Little King”, or “the lovely young lady in the green across the table from me”.

If you spill a drink it is a penalty – although this is punishable as a party foul and you must finish the drink in front of you.

You cannot point out an infringement to the infringing player directly. You must bring it to the attention of Mr. Weights and Mr. Measures. Failing to do so leads to a penalty

You cannot impose a penalty unless you are Mr. Weights or Mr. Measures. Failure to abide by this leads to a penalty.

Calling fouls which are not fouls leads to a penalty.

Arguing with Mr. Weights or Mr. Measures results in a penalty.

Example.

International rules have been called. Fred drinks with her right hand. Bill notices and, while pointing at her, says “Ha ha !!! Gotcha Fred, you were drinking with your right hand. That’ll be two sips from you please my dear.” While returning his hand after pointing out her foul, he knocks over Jill's drink.

Fred then brings this behaviour to the attention of Mr. Weights and Mr. Measures.

What penalties are imposed?

Fred has to drink one finger for imbibing with her right hand.

Jill has no foul, but should be more than entitled to beat up Bill unless he buys her a new beverage.

Bill must consume what is left of his glass for committing a party foul. He must buy Jill a replacement refreshment of the liquid variety. When he has done so, and replaced his own, he must then take an additional five gulps.

Five.

They are cumulative, remember.

He pointed.

He used her name.

He said the “d-word”

He called the punishment direct, rather than bringing it to the attention of Mr. Weights and Mr. Measures.

He got the punishment wrong.

And if he argues, Mr. Weight and Mr. measures can punish him accordingly.

------------------------------------

Good luck.

Nothing Sacred - Another Theory

In the wake of James’ to segments about the TABC raids in Irvin, Texas (which incidentally have even been reported on in the UK) I thought I’d add one reason why arresting folks, just because they are drunk, may be a bad idea.

Before I do, I’d like to second James’ concern that the litmus test for the Public-Intoxication test is the arresting officer’s opinion. That seems terribly nebulous.

Now, I know that the theory is that officers have training, and have encountered so many drunks during their careers, that they can spot those who are intoxicated. Sort of an expert opinion as it were. But It’s open to a little abuse, don’t you think?

Take a minute and work it through.

They arrested 30 people out of 36 bars.

That were “intoxicated to the degree that the person may endanger the person or another”.

Seriously?

We’re not talking about folks who had been drinking and climbed in their cars. They were still sitting in the bars drinking. And yet they were a danger to themselves or others.

Their livers I can understand. Their brain cells, almost definitely. But to themselves or others?

Either the bars they went to really don’t understand when to cut people off (which I guess is always a possibility depending on where you drink), or the standard is way too wide.

Also note that two of the “tells” they use in diagnosing drunkeness are “talking loudly” or “exaggerated movements”.

Talking too loudly or making exaggerated movements in a bar or nightclub?

Uhh, OKAY!!!

I don’t know about you, but I suffer terribly from “White Men Can’t Dance” disease (although I have conquered the overbite, thank you very much, I’m still working on the rest). When I dance I look like I am having a seizure (unless it is Scottish Country Dancing – which, lets face it, is designed to be done while drunk), so I’m not sure exaggerated movements is necessarily a sure giveaway.

And as for talking loudly….

I’ve been in places where my ears were still ringing the next morning, never mind that night. So, so what if I’m walking proudly. What? Sorry the bells in my ears make it hard to hear you…..

I'm sure they probably caught a few, very drunk people, but 30 people out of 36 bars were dangers to themselves or others?

Tell me that’s not an effort to increase revenue…..

Anyway, back to what I was saying.

You want a reason why sometimes public intoxication should be encouraged?

My mate Harry, that’s why.

Harry was an interesting kid. (As always, this isn’t his name, but rather the one everyone knew him by.) He was one of those guys who proves the universe is all about checks and balances. When Harry had a good day, everyone around him had a bad day.

And I mean everyone.

I remember one particular day, Harry found out he got an internship he had applied for.

On the same day,

1.) One of our friend’s dog died.
2.) One of our friends parked his brand new mustang next to a tree and 5 minutes later the tree fell on it, writing it off.
3.) One of our friends had their house broken into
4.) And two of our friends, who were a couple, split up.

Coincidence? Perhaps, but do you want to take the chance? It’s kinda like Tunacan’s ability to bounce his hangover to others. You may not believe in it, but do you really want to be around to check if it’s true?

Anyway, as I said, Harry was an interesting kid.

To give you an example, when he moved into town, he, like the rest of us, rented an apartment.

Sight unseen, of course.

It was a good area – garage apartment, close to school, all the mod cons.

And fully carpeted.

Oh boy, was it fully carpeted.

The carpet started as you came in the door, went up the stairs and was throughout the entire apartment.

It was lime green.

It was a shag pile carpet, an inch thick if it was a millimeter.

Oh. And it went four feet up the walls.

Yes, dear readers, Harry had moved into a Pimp Palace.

You don’t think so?

OK, try this.

The whole place had recessed lighting.

It was set into the ceiling, and covered by a black glass. 2 strips, each a foot and a half wide, running the entire length of the apartment. Very cool looking. They worked well when they were turned on.

And as an added benefit, when he and his girlfriend were enjoying ‘quiet time” together, using side lights or candles to light the room, the black glass turned into a pretty good mirror.

Yeah, as I understand it they used the side lights or candles rather a lot.

So shag-pile carpet 4 feet up the wall and mirrors on the ceiling.

BOW-chicka-BOW-WOW!!!!

Anywhere, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Harry.

Harry was a pretty big kid – about 5’10 and probably 250 lb. He was a great big teddy bear of a guy, and although a lot of the weight was actually muscle (which is kinda scary) he wouldn’t hurt a fly. A gentle giant if you will

But he couldn’t handle his booze. He never got sloppy drunk, but he got pretty interesting.

And this is why arresting folks for public intoxication may be a bad thing.

When Harry got drunk, he used to tie a towel round his neck and run into the streets of Concord to fight crime.

Yep, after six or seven beers, mild mannered Harry donned his cape and turned into his superhero alter-ego, Vigilante Man.

I’m not sure if he actually accosted any ne’er do wells, but I’d like to think the mere presence of Vigilante Man was enough to send them scurrying for cover in fear of his explosive wrath. Or perhaps just his explosive gas, who knows. Either way, I felt safer knowing that Harry was out there, lowering the crime rate.

I’ve lost touch with Harry, but I’d like to think he’s still out there somewhere.

Watching.

Waiting.

Fighting crime and injustice wherever he finds it…

Wearing his towel of invincibility.

Which, of course, he wouldn’t be able to do if some local beat cop, in a need to boost his weekly stats, locked him up for Public Intoxication before he got his drink on enough to make the transformation.

(Of course, that’s the problem that superheroes have always had. They are seen as vigilantes by the police, who seem to go to great lengths to try and stop them on their crusades against crime. Don't you listen to them Harry. You keep drinking, you're making a difference out there.)

Nothing Sacred Follow-Up Segment

Yesterday I posted about the proactive arrests of fellow imbibers made recently in Irving, Texas and Scott suggested I keep an eye on the story and see what else develops. While I am at a loss on how to go about doing this without spending too much time or money on this, I did do a little more looking into the background on this.

The first (I keep typing Frist instead of first, clearly I have politics on the mind too oft of late) thing I came across was this Reuters piece on MSNBC which I found through the Crime and Punishment section but the article itself seems to be in the peculiar postings section.

Texas arresting people in bars for being drunk
Undercover agents pursue inebriates in a pre-emptive strategy

SAN ANTONIO, Texas [which is nowhere near Irving, where the pre-emptive strategery took place, and is not Austin where the TABC, the nefarious commission behind the strategery, is based] – Texas has begun sending undercover agents into bars to arrest drinkers for being drunk, a spokeswoman for the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Comission said on Wednesday.

The first sting operation was conducted recently in a Dallas suburb where agents infiltrated 36 bars and arrested 30 people for public intoxication, said the comission’s Carolyn Beck.

Now here I would like to take a short break from transcribing the entire article (it is a short piece) to kick the writer of this article around. Read that sentence again paying particular attention to the “…where agents INFILTRATED 36 bars…” I don’t know about the rest of you, but the last time I had to infiltrate a bar was…no, wait, never in my life have I had to infiltrate a bar. I think it is clear that the nameless Reuters wire-monkey who wrote this piece has been watching a bit too much of the Mission Impossible lately. Seriously NRWM why must you make it sound so much more epic than a couple of guys who were probably in slightly better shape than 50% of the bar patrons walk into the bar and arrest some people for being drunk. That’s what happened. There was no Iron Curtain they had to piece, no great secret cabal to track down, and there were no secret police after them for they were the secret police. Using NRWM’s definition I have been infiltrating my underpants for years. Make of that what you will. Now back to the article.

Being in a bar does not exempt one from the state laws against public drunkenness, Beck said. [I find this somewhat ironic coming from a rocker-type…oh wait, they mean Carolyn.]

The goal, she said, was to detain drunks before they leave a bar and go do something dangerous like drive a car.

“We feel that the only way we’re going to get at the drunk driving problem and the problem of people hurting each other while drunk is by crackdowns like this,” she said.

“There are a lot of dangerous and stupid things people do when they’re intoxicated, other than get behind the wheel of a car [like let Scott order drinks for them],” Beck said. “People walk out into traffic and get run over, people jump off of balconies trying to reach a swimming pool and miss.”

She said the sting operations would continue throughout the state.

Another brief bit of invective for you before we move on. “…people jump off of balconies trying to reach a swimming pool and miss.” Ms. Beck people do that kind of crap stone cold sober. Stick to the drunk driving defense because if you’re going to spend your time trying to keep people from doing stupid things you, let’s just say you have a bit of an up-hill battle.

In all seriousness I liked this piece. It put a face on the sting operation and served notice to all us unrepentant drunkards that they will be infiltrating our local watering holes any day now. Also MSNBC had one of their intsa-polls in which they had received 38,270 responses. The question asked was “Does it make sense to arrest people for being drunk in bars?” 83% of the respondants chose the option that states, “No, people go to bars to drink, and if they get drunk but stay safe, it should be OK.”

After this I swung on by the TABC website to see if I could find the chapter and verse on public intoxication and related subjects. I was not able to find the legal definition of public intoxication on the TABC site, however I did find a PDF containing the TABC code, which some of you might find interesting, so I linked it here. I also stumbled across the TABC press release announcing this new strategy, or rather Sales to Intoxicated Persons stings. The following section appears in the press release:

Myths About Public Intoxication

• A person can’t be in a bar or nightclub for public intoxication. Yes they can.
• If a person is arrested for public intoxication, the officer has to offer them either a breath or blood test to determine their level of intoxication. No they do not. Agents may conduct routine field sobriety tests, but breath or blood samples are not required.
• Just because a person has a designated driver, it’s okay to become intoxicated. No it’s not. Being intoxicated to the point of presenting a danger to yourself or others is grounds for arrest.

Then we get down to the good stuff:

Some Facts About Public Intoxication And Nightclubs

Many people do not understand how they can be arrested when they are inside a bar or a private club. Chapter 49.02 of the Texas Penal Code states: "A person commits an offense if the person appears in a public place while intoxicated to the degree that the person may endanger the person or another." Any location permitted to sell or serve alcoholic beverages is a public place.

People also confuse public intoxication with having a blood alcohol content (BAC) of .08 or higher, which is the legal limit for driving in Texas. But an individual’s BAC is only half the story. Chapter 49.01(2)(a) of the Penal Code defines public intoxication as "not having the normal use of mental or physical faculties by reason of the introduction of alcohol, a controlled substance, a drug, a dangerous drug, a combination of two or more of those substances, or any other substance into the body; OR (b) having an alcohol concentration of .08 or more."

Alcohol affects different people in different ways. Just two or three drinks can cause some people to act in ways that they normally would not. Loud or slurred speech, exaggerated movements and unsteady balance are the most common symptoms exhibited. These are some of the things that law enforcement officials look for when dealing with individual suspected of being intoxicated. If an agent can articulate that a person does not have the normal use of mental or physical faculties, due to alcohol or drug consumption, then the agent can arrest that person for public intoxication.

Sales to Intoxicated Persons: Section 101.63 of the Alcoholic Beverage Code makes it a crime to sell alcoholic beverages to an intoxicated person. Bartenders and wait staff are legally obligated to look out for these signs of intoxication and to refuse to continue serving someone who appears to be intoxicated. People in the service industry are encouraged to attend a TABC-approved Seller Training Course and be trained in how to identify minors and intoxicated persons.

Consequences: Public intoxication is a class C misdemeanor punishable by a fine up to $500 for each occurrence. Not only that, most jails now require that a person arrested for public intoxication be held for at least 4 to 12 hours before being released. Selling alcohol to an intoxicated person is a misdemeanor punishable by a fine of not less than $100 nor more than $500 and/or up to a year in jail. Just having either of these offenses on a person’s criminal record could affect their ability to get a job for the rest of their lives.

Contact: Carolyn Beck, Public Information Officer, 512-206-3347

Now we’re getting somewhere. We have the chapter and verse on where the PI clause exists in the state penal code AND they gave us Carolyn Beck’s phone number. If I had more cojones I would call her and ask if they have bothered to do a study on the impact of the program. If I was even more daring I would call her, ask that question and then when I received the inevitable no, I would ask for arrest details on the program so I could analyze the data myself. I bet I would not get that either.

After reading this I swung by Google to try and track down an online copy of the Texas Penal Code so I could read the entry on PI myself. Here is what I found in Title 10. Offenses Against Public Health, Safety, and Morals. (Morals, nice touch.)

Sec. 49.02. PUBLIC INTOXICATION. (a) A person commits an offense if the person appears in a public place while intoxicated to the degree that the person may endanger the person or another.
(b) It is a defense to prosecution under this section that the alcohol or other substance was administered for therapeutic purposes and as a part of the person’s professional medical treatment by a licensed physician.
(c) Except as provided by Subsection (e), an offense under this section is a Class C misdemeanor.
(d) An offense under this section is not a lesser included offense under Section 49.04 [Driving While Intoxicated].
(e) An offense under this section committed by a person younger than 21 years of age is punishable in the same manner as if the minor committed an offense to which Section 106.071, Alcoholic Beverage Code, applies.

There you go loyal readers. I really don’t have any commentary on the law itself except to say that I do not like that it is left to the officer’s judgment. I promise to keep my eyes peeled for further developments on this case.

Nothing Sacred

Initially I was going to write about vodka and my not so recent adventures in drunkenness at a Russian New Years party, however today a friend brought the following articles to my attention which I felt warranted discussion here on the ‘Caust.

Officials Make Public Intoxication Arrests Inside Bars

IRVING, Texas – The Texas Alcoholic Beverage Comission has taken its fight against druken driving to a new level. TABC agents, along with Irving police, targeted 36 bars and clubs Friday, arresting some allegedly intoxicated patrons before they departed the businesses.

This did not immediately get my dander up as I, like Scott, am bothered by people that are sloppy drunk in bars. I am sure most of this comes from the fact that when I am drinking in a bar it is more about spending time with friends than the actual drinking, but that is really a discussion for another time. As long as they were dragging the sloppy drunks and clearly debilitated people out of the bars, I was okay with it. Then I got to this paragraph:

The report also said that some agents shared tables with suspected drunken patrons. Some patrons were subjected to field sobriety tests inside bars.

So clearly they were not just getting the broken drunks but just regular patrons who might have imbibed a bit too much, or, like me, not able to pass a field sobriety test stone cold sober. This has also moved from that nebulous region that is somewhere between police overstepping their bounds and the desire to protect the public. This is the sort of thing that police states do and, though we may be headed that way, the last time I checked the good old U. S. of A. was not quite there yet.

Mr. TunaCan launched a fairly vitriolic screed against this practice via email claiming that the police were arresting people who were likely to commit a crime before any crime had actually been committed. Does this sound anything like a slightly more focused version of the racial profiling that police departments do not engage in, no sir, not at all. (Please note that the last nine words of the previous sentence are so dripping with sarcasm that you may not actually be able to make out the letters. Sorry about that. Of course if the police really wanted to practice their racial profiling on drunks they should just arrest all the Irish. Of course I think that’s just good public policy, but then sometimes I am not a good person on the inside.) The follow up article shared even more disturbing details about the pogrom staged for the public safety:

Bar Sweep Sparks Controversy

At one location, for example, agents and police arrested patrons of a hotel bar. Some of the suspects said they were registered at the hotel and had no intention of driving. Arresting authorities said the patrons were a danger to themselves and others.

"Going to a bar is not an opportunity to go get drunk," TABC Capt. David Alexander said. "It's to have a good time but not to get drunk."

Woah. Now hold up there Captain Sparky. Of course going to a bar is an opportunity to get drunk. I know more than a few people who view it as our national duty to get drunk when we go to a bar. Seriously you brown-shirt wearing git! Bartendees predilection for getting drunk is what keeps you in a job and by extension pays your mortgage, kid’s tuition, and wife’s cabana boy bills, if you know what I mean, so sit down and shut your trap.

As it turns out Deputy Dog was within the guidelines set up by Texas law:

Texas law states that inebriated individuals could be subjected to arrest anywhere for public intoxication.

Now I do not have the mad research skills to track down the chapter and verse so I am going to take the journalist’s word on this one. (Of course this is a journalist who decided to write an article and uses a comedian as the counterpoint to the TABC’s actions, so his/her journalistic instincts might be a bit suspect.) This leads me into the story of Ben, one of Mr. TunaCan’s college roommates.

Ben was, lets just say that Ben had issues, tons and tons of issues. I didn’t know him real well, but Mr. TunaCan seemed to like him well enough and I suppose he liked Mr. TunaCan as he gave him the moniker The Aardvark Captain of the Guard. Anyways, one day Ben disappears. For a couple of days. Initially no one was worried as Ben was a bit of a strange cat and unusual behavior was the norm, but after a while (I cannot remember the exact amount of time this took it may have only been hours or it may have been almost a whole day) people really started to get worried. We contacted the campus police in the attempt to file a missing persons report and learned that we had not exceeded the time limit for an adult. Eventually Ben turned up again after having been arrested between the U of H campus and downtown and eventually released. The charge? Public Intoxication. As I said at the beginning, Ben had issues, and he was taking medication for these issues, however Ben would not have known a cocktail if it grabbed him, smacked him around, and screamed, “SAY MY NAME!” at him. And he was in the pokey for PI.

When used judiciously the generic charge of public intoxication serves a good purpose. It allows officers to pick people up who are behaving in an erratic and/or dangerous manner and put them somewhere to cool their heels. From my limited knowledge, in Houston the charge of PI carries a fine that the judges’ bust down to time served after you spend a night in jail. In Ben’s case I feel the officers probably made the right decision, even though he was not drunk. He did not have any identification on him, was out of it (he had not taken his meds), and was a lonely white boy in, what back then, was a very dangerous neighborhood.

Clearly this recent action by the City of Irving and TABC steps FAR beyond the realm of judicious application. This maneuver has the stench of a couple of different things:

1. Somebody needed to justify their existence.
2. The City of Irving needed a little cash influx from the state and what better way to get this than incarcerating some drunks for the night.

The first one is pretty self-explanatory, however the second point may need some illumination. As I understand the criminal justice system here in Texas (which comes from a prison guard) when a person is taken to a city or county jail, the state gives the imprisoning entity money (let’s say $700) per day or partial day that the person is imprisoned. This little money train re-ups at midnight, therefore if you are arrested by HPD 4pm on Sunday, Houston then gets allocated $700 from the state. If you are still incarcerated at 12:01am on Monday, Houston gets allocated another $700 from the state. This is why when I was in the pokey for unpaid traffic tickets (I am so lame) I saw the judge sometime in the afternoon, however I was not processed out until about 3am. In addition to this the Irving police may have been on a little fishing expedition in an effort to get more money by catching people with outstanding warrants. They only arrested 30 people, but I would be interested to know how many people they questioned/tested/ran through the computers.

The justification for this entire exercise:

Agents and officers said the operation represented an effort to reduce drunken driving.

Sgt. Chris Hamilton, of the TABC, said some inebriated bar patrons "end up killing themselves or someone else" after departing the businesses.

Ah yes, the spectre of public safety rears its ugly, fascist head. I know I have heard public safety as a justification for the abrogation of American rights before. Where was that? Oh yeah, there was this little episode in American history. Not recent enough for you? Well, you’re all bright kids. I bet if you think about it long enough you can come up with something you have heard on the news recently. Something about the FISA Court and wire-tapping.

This post ended up wandering a bit farther afield than I intended, however I felt it important that you guys know this kind of crap is going on. As for me? They can have my beer glass when they pry it from my cold, dead hand. Or pick it up off the floor. If that’s the case please make sure I am on my face or side. Thanks for your consideration.

.... and Coke.

I was talking with one of my friends the other night. She is, by her own admission, not a huge drinker, and was looking for ideas of new things to drink. I’m probably one of the more dangerous folks to ask that question to, but I was nice to her.

I promise.

However, mid way through the conversation, she said a couple of things that made me pause for a moment.

The first was that one of her favorite drinks was Courvoisier and Coke.

The second was that when she had asked her friendly local bartender, he had been unable to tell her what VSOP means.

Yes, Ladies and Gents. You guessed it.

It’s rant time.

Courvoisier and Coke?

Now don’t get me wrong. I believe in mixers.

No, really.

I do.

And not just because they go a long way to masking the taste of lousy booze, I actually like some drinks with mixers in them.

Jack and Coke for instance.

I loves me some Jack and Coke. Partly because it brings back memories of my childhood, but also because it tastes good. The smokiness of the Jack offsets the sweetness of the Coke. I also find it is a very good pre-dinner drink if I need to be on my best behavior around people who like to drink large amounts – I’m drinking, but it’s not a straight shot, so I am Compos Mentis for longer.

Similarly, Screwdrivers (Orange juice and Vodka), Vodka and Coke, Cuba Libres (Rum and Coke with a splash of Lime) and many other mixed drinks are both very tasty and very intelligent choices for mixed drinks.

Now, I’m going to clarify that choice of words here.

The “tasty” is obvious.

The “intelligent” may need defining.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t drink martinis. My love of them is well documented. I’m not saying you shouldn’t drink cocktails. There are many cocktails ranging from the tasty to the insane that I thoroughly enjoy when offered the chance. These are all intelligent choices given the right circumstance.

My choice of the word “intelligent” springs from the liquor that many people choose to put in mixed drinks.

Please note the list I wrote above.

Orange juice and Vodka, Vodka and Coke, Rum and Coke with a splash of Lime.

I didn’t say “Orange juice and Grey Goose”, “Belvedere and Coke”, or “Appleton XO and Coke with a splash of Lime”.

And there’s method in my madness.

Each of those liquors is a great choice of booze to drink, and I’m sure it would be very pleasant to drink if mixed with coke, OJ or whatever.

But I’m not sure that any of their taste, smoothness or other particular characteristics would dignify the price tag associated with taking such a premium spirit and drowning it with coke.

What do I mean?

Let me illustrate my point with the Courvoisier and Coke from above.

When one asks for Courvoisier in a bar, I assume, having not done any research at all, one would normally get the Courvoisier VS. This is a brandy aged at least 2 years, and while it doesn’t quite hit premium spirit prices, it’s not a speed rail drink.

You are “calling” your liquor, and so will be charged above well prices.

Now, I don’t drink a whole lot of brandy, but I can tell the difference between Metaxa Spanish brandy (actually a brandy and wine mix) and Remy Martin from France - both of which I had on my home bar for a while. I can tell this because, although both are grape based, and go through a similar distilling process, the Remy has, to my mind, a better taste. Similarly, I have been able to tell the difference between Hennessey VS and their XO. While the taste of both is recognizably still Hennessey, the XO is much, much smoother, having been aged longer.

“You just said one brand is better than the other, and within a brand, one drink can be better than the other? So what’s your point? Why shouldn’t I order the best booze I can?” I hear you ask.

You can, I guess.

What I’m saying is that even though I have drunk them before, and know the difference between the tastes of each level, I am pretty sure I would not be able to tell the difference between them if they are covered in three times that much Coke, OJ, or whatever.

Would you?

Do you really think that the difference you can taste between “Macallan 50 and Coke” and the “Macallan 10 and coke” is noticeable? And on the same line of logic, is the taste of the “Macallan 10 and Coke” recognizably better than a standard “whisky and coke”?

I concede that perhaps it is.

But is your answer still the same when I tell you that the “Mac 50 and Coke” cost you $350, the “Mac 10 and Coke” cost you $10, and the “well and coke” came in at a measly $5?

Or rather, is the difference still significant enough to you to affect your choice of which drink to buy. Sure, the $350 Mac and Coke may better suit your palate compared to the $5 well and coke. Buy is it 70 times better?

Which would you prefer? 70 drinks of “well and Coke” or 1 “Mac 50 and Coke”. Perhaps the one “Mac 50 and coke” to be able to say you did, but in my opinion, if you tell anyone who knows anything about scotch that you had a Macallan 50 and Coke, they will not be impressed by that fact.

Horrified, quite possibly.

But not impressed.

So, the question becomes, “Why shouldn’t I drink the best liquor I can afford even though I’m killing it with soda? It’s my drink, so why shouldn’t I have what I want?”

I guess the answer is that there is no reason at all.

From my point of view, and that is one of an ex-bartender, your drink is entirely up to you.

But.

But you’re probably killing your wallet and killing very good booze by drowning it with mixers.

But hey, if you think you can tell the difference to a point where it matters, you’re a better man than me.

And if you think the difference is worth the cost, you’re also probably much richer too.

All I’m saying is order your liquor and mixer by all means. If you find yourself a brand of a drink that you like, by all means order that as a “call” portion of your mixed drink. This is especially true if the bar you frequent uses McCormack’s as it’s call Vodka and Gin (although not necessary if they use Absolut and Gordons, or the Tanqueray equivalents.)

But for the love of God, don’t order the super-premium version of the liquor. You’ll be hard pushed to get me to agree that the difference is so noticeable as to be worth the money. And even if it is noticeable, in my opinion the point of buying the super-premium grade of these spirits is to appreciate the liquid in its natural state. To be able to fully taste the different levels of complexity and character that the drink possesses, and to savor all the nuances that several decades of work have produced. And not to hide them with some sweet mixer, that more likely than not has come out of a gun.

But by all means, buy me the super-premium liquor and mixer and try to convince me.

This, by the way, is the route my friend took. She liked brandy more than rum or whiskey. And she liked Courvoisier more than other types of brandy. And she didn’t order the premium version of the drink.

It’s also the route I take ordering Jack and Coke. I prefer "Jack and Coke" to "Jim and Coke", or to "well and coke", but won’t even think of adulterating the single barrel Jack with anything other than ice. Sometimes, not even that.

As far as I am concerned, any lack of smoothness in the basic grade spirit will be more than taken care of by the mixer. Thus you’ll be left with the taste of the spirit (and of your brand if you have gone that far), and none of the harshness of the cheaper grade. However if you use the expensive grade, the nuances and the character developed in that product will be lost when mixed. Feel free to come convince me otherwise.

If you’re ordering the super-premium grade spirit and covering it with a mixer, I can only put it down to one of three things.

1) You have more money than sense. Might I suggest you stop throwing you money away and instead please feel free to send me some. I’ll make sure it makes its way to the “Keep Scott Drunk Foundation”.

2) You want to be seen to drink super-premium drinks, but are too dumb to drink them how they are intended – that is in their pure form. That is, after all, why their creators spent anywhere between 12 and 50 years making sure the product exists in the balanced form it does. If you fall into this category, can I suggest you learn a little about what you’re drinking before ordering it?

or

3) You think it is cool to drink the booze you heard about on TV, films or music, and want to emulate your heroes. If this is the case, go back to drinking your peach schnapps until you are able to play with the big boys. Go out, develop tastes of your own and come back when you either don’t mix your drinks, or you fall into one of the other two categories.

That’s my ill-formed opinion of the moment.

Unless it’s your round.

In which case, you are a gentleman and a scholar, and mine’s a double.

Oh, and if I EVER see anyone pouring coke into 50 year old Macallan, I’m not sure whether I’ll sit down and cry for a while, or smack them over the back of the head with a wet bar towel, but be sure it’ll be one of them.

I’m just saying.

-----------------------------

By the way, the other thing that bothered me was the bartender not knowing what VSOP meant.

Very Superior Old Pale. A brandy in which the the youngest eau-de vie in the blend has been aged in a cask for a minimum of 4 years.

Just thought you’d like to know.

Flaming Lamborghini

Ok. This has all the elements you'd expect to find in a shot recipe posted here.

It is very large.

It's very alcoholic.

You set on fire before you drink it.

--------------------------

Ingredients

1 oz Kahlua
1 oz Amaretto
1 oz Vodka
1/2 oz Bacardi 151 Rum
1 oz Blue Curacao
1 oz Baileys

1 Martini Glass
2 Shot glasses
1 straw
1 cigarette lighter or other source of fire

--------------------------

This requires two people to do safely (and even then, that's a relative term).

Mix the Kahlua, Amaretto and Vodka over ice in a shaker, and pour into the Martini glass.

Top with a float of 151 (Slowly pour the 151 over the back of a spoon onto the edge of the glass so that it slowly runs onto the top of the drink. The different weights of the alcohol will seperate them into nice layers if it is slow enough)

Pour the other two shots into seperate shot glasses.

Tell the drinker to take a deep breath. (He will need this because he is about to drink 5 1/2 shots of liquor through a straw.)

Light the 151 and tell the drinker to plunge the straw into the glass and start drinking.

As he starts to near the end of the vodka/amaretto/kahlua mix, pour in the shots of blue curacao and baileys (They go into the glass at the same time, one from each side).

The drinker has to be very quick or the straw will melt - Probably not a good thing.

Make sure he sits down afterwards, and don't let hm drive anywhere for several hours.

PS - This is another of the drinks which, if it sounds like a good idea, you're probably too drunk already.

Woman's Revenge....

Also known as "The Cement Mixer"

This is one for the ladies. By that, I mean it's a drink for ladies to buy to give to unsuspecting men. It's not strong, and it doesn't taste bad, but you'll get the picture if you keep reading.

------------------------

Ingredients

1 Shot Roses Lime Cordial
1 Shot Bailey's Irish Cream Liquer

1 Unsuspecting male

----------------------------

Buy the two shots and find the unsuspecting male. Instruct him to take the drink in the following order.

1. Tell him he's not allowed to swallow until you tell him.
2. Tell him to put the shot of lime cordial in his mouth, and swirl it round until you tell him to stop.
3. MAKE SURE HE UNDERSTANDS HE IS NOT ALLOWED TO SWALLOW UNITL YOU TELL HIM
4. Wait for about 15 seconds.
5. Tell him to put the shot of Baileys in his mouth along with the lime cordial. HE IS STILL NOT ALLOWED TO SWALLOW UNTIL YOU TELL HIM.
6. Tell him to swirl both shots round until you tell him to stop.

Start looking for his expression to change.

After about 15 seconds, the acidity of the lime cordial will curdle the bailey's into something with a texture resembling wallpaper paste. Then you can tell him to stop.

Oh. And you can now tell him he can swallow if he is able.

By the way, this is a low alcohol drink (one shot of non-alcoholic drink, one of 28% alcohol). It tastes like lime flavored chocolate, which is not bad. The only unpleasant thing is the texture. And that is truly unpleasant - but that's why it is woman's revenge.

World's Best Hangover Cure....

As a seasoned drinker, which I am sure you are if you are reading this site with any regularity, I am sure that you have come up with several different hangover cures to help you make it through the morning after the night before.

We’ve all had those mornings.

You know what I’m talking about.

You wake up approximately five seconds after you closed your eyes. Your mouth feels like a kangaroo's jockstrap. Your head feel like it is either full of cotton wool or that someone is trying to escape from inside it with the aid of a small jackhammer.

Lying in bed (or on your couch, the floor of your bathroom / living room, or some park bench or gutter depending on how successfully you managed to negotiate your way home) is bad enough, but God help you when you stand up. Your vision blurs, you see spots, and your stomach scores a 9.8 from the German judge as it does a double somersault with half pike.

If and when you do manage to get to the stage where you can face the day, you can’t put any food in yourself for fear of seeing it again. You break out in cold sweats at the mere thought of another drink. You avoid naked flames because the smell of the raw alcohol seeping through your pores makes you think that you are a serious fire risk at the moment. And of course, everyone who comes anywhere near you does so either with a look of amused sympathy or horror on their face.

There are of course certain steps one can take the night before to alleviate problems you may face the next morning. These include, but are not limited to the taking of large quantities of water prior to passing out, some form of pain killer if that is your thing, tactical puking (an all time favorite of students and bulimics everywhere). And of course, there is the time honored tradition of taking hair of the dog the next morning - but if you are able to even think of drinking the next morning, let alone being able to smell alcohol after the kinds of nights that I have sometimes, you’re a better man than me.

In this particular entry, regardless of what steps you prefer to take the night before, I am going to take you through my top three ways of surviving the morning after, without having to resort to drinking more of what made you feel like that in the first place.

And, by way of a nod to the up-coming Oscar's, we'll do it in reverse order.

Remedy One ( Second Runner Up)

This is something of a cheat, but it works really well if you are able to devote enough time to doing it properly.

First find a dark, cool room, preferably with little or no noise and a bed inside it.

Crawl into the bed, pull a pillow over your head and remain there until the room stops spinning, your stomach doesn’t feel like John Hurt’s in Alien, and your head feels like it is once more part of your body. I would recommend sleep for at least 5 hours after you first wake up.

Remedy Two (First Runner Up)

This is a very effective remedy, but it does rely upon obtaining some very hard to get cures.

Buy yourself several cans of Irn Bru, a bacon roll, preferably smothered in Tomato Ketchup, and a milky way (that’s a mars bar for those of you in the UK).

Irn Bru, for those who don’t know, is a Scottish soft drink, bright orange in color, which tastes like cream of soda mixed with orange fanta (or that’s how some American described it to me. I prefer to think that it tastes like that cheap shitty chewing gum that you get with baseball cards, but that’s just me.) Either way, it is very sweet, it has a fairly decent amount of caffeine in it without it being an energy drink, and being made by Scots, you know it cures hangovers incredibly well.

The bacon roll and the milky way are there purely to cushion the blow and to give you some sugar to keep you alive until normalcy returns.

This sounds like it is a terrible idea, but trust me, it works like a dream – it got me through undergrad, and I didn’t drink so much as swim my way through that.

If you can't face this, or can't lay your hands on either of the required ingredients, I found that Sprite and Ritz crackers works really well as an alternative.

Remedy Three (All time best hang over cure)

It took me about a decade of drinking to find this cure, but I have to say it is hands down my favorite. That’s not to say it works the best, but it’s certainly the most enjoyable.

Before I tell you what it is, I will set the scene of how I discovered this particular remedy.

December 23rd, 2002, in Edinburgh, Scotland.

It was a dark and cold night.

Well.

It would be. It’s Scotland.

Some friends of mine and I got together for a pre-Christmas soiree. A nice gentle evening of dinner followed by a few drinks. Nothing out of the ordinary.

About 7.30, we ordered a curry from a little place we knew delivered, and had a few glasses of wine with the meal. By that, I mean we each had two bottles before we left the house. Just to get us warmed up you understand.

After dinner, we threw the excess curry – of which there was a fairly large amount into the trash and left the flat, stopping by a few different bars (about 4, if memory serves correctly – which is unlikely given the state we were all in by the time we left). After spending several hours drinking a multitude of different drinks, we finally hit our final destination for the evening, Po-nah-nah’s. Sounds like a funny name, but it’s a very cool place – a Morroccan tented theme going on inside, with very laid back dance music.

Anyway, licensing hours in Scotland around the holidays are pretty relaxed, and I seem to remember closing the place down – which means we hit the street again at about 4.30 in the morning.

At that point we got it into our heads we needed to find some strippers.

Yeah. Right. Strippers at 4.30 in the morning on Christmas Eve?

Let me tell you, not going to happen boys and girls.

Well, anyway, it was about 12 degrees Fahrenheit, so we got bored of that little game pretty fast. Thankfully, Directory Inquiries has only so many numbers for strippers, so after about a dozen phone calls, we decided to quit while only marginally behind and try to stumble our way home. After several false starts, a couple of wrong turns and an incident with a traffic cone which is best left undisclosed at this time, we found a cabbie who was dumb enough to agree to take us home.

By now, the munchies had set in, so we did try to get him to stop at an all night grocery store, kebab van, or some other place that could give us something more substantial than the chewing gum under the cab's seat, but we couldn’t find one on our route home.

But don’t think that that slowed us down.

Oh no. Not at all.

Remember the curry?

No?

Well, we did.

In what can only be described as a moment of inspiration one of my mates remembered that we hadn’t in fact finished all the curry we were eating earlier that night. Given our state of mind, the only thing for it was to pull the remaining goodies out of the trash and chow down as if our lives depended on it.

Did I mention we were drunk?

Well, it still tasted marvelous, trust me.

Shortly after this culinary interlude, we decided it was in our best interests to pass out fairly soon. In some cases it was a conscious decision. In others, not so much. Personally, I managed to land the couch that was in the kitchen.

Ah, bliss. A couch all to myself.

Sounds comfortable, right?

Well, I’m about 5’ 11”. The couch was a two seater, which meant that I had my head on one arm rest and the other caught me in the back of the knees. That's fine for about 5 minutes until your feet start wondering where all the blood went.

Oh. And the window was open, letting all that lovely, fresh Scottish air in. And all the lovely Scottish heat out into the 12-degree weather outside.

Regardless of these small problems, I slept like a baby.

Well, perhaps more accurate would be that I slept like a baby gorrilla. But anyway.

I woke up about 3 hours later without a hangover. (Actually, I woke up before it arrived – it turned up about 30 minutes later, necessitating the remedy I shall now describe.)

It took a little while to get the five of us moving that morning, but when we did, we quickly derived a plan by which we could avoid the impending doom that was our hangover.

This is what we came up with.

We walked down to a pub on the docks. These are great establishments - they open for the fishermen coming in off the water, which basically means if you time it right, you can fall out a bar at closing time, walk to to the docks (or get a cab if you're lucky enough) and get to the pubs as they open in the morning, effectively being able to drink 24-7.

Well, we all decided on the full Scottish breakfast and a couple of cans of Irn bru. For those of you who don’t know, the full Scottish breakfast is heart food at it’s finest. It consists of a huge amount of sausage links, bacon (the proper stuff, not the stringy crap you call bacon in the US), 3 eggs, toast, black pudding, baked beans, fried mushrooms, fried bread, fried tomatoes, and a couple of other things depending on where you get it.

Yes. I said heart food. It walks straight down your throat saying “come on boys, we’re heading for the heart!”

Anway, the sheer quantity of unadulterated grease, sugar and caffeine put a sizeable dent into our respective hangovers, so we happily, albeit a little unsteadily, moved onto stage two of our plans.

A short distance from the pub was a barbers. En masse, we piled into the store and each got a trim. Sounds wierd, but it's a great hangover cure. Granted you don't want to pass out and drop your head at the wrong moment, but it's very relaxing.

I have to say though, it was like something out of a bad mafia movie – all 5 of us in a line getting haircuts. We just needed some Italian guy in a bad suit to walk in and whack us all….

That done, we proceeded to Stage three.

Stage three.

The final stage.

The crowning moment of this glorious remedy. And let me tell you, it was pure genius. I’ve never spent a more enjoyable hangover.

Stage three consisted of a lap dancing club.

Most of the places in Edinburgh are full nudity, full contact (but you can’t touch her) and a 2 song dance costs the equivalent of $7.50.

And before you ask, yes, they have all their own teeth, hair and everything else they should. In fact, the girls are very cute, and I’d highly recommend a visit to the bars if you happen to be in Edinburgh and at a loose end.

More Irn bru and naked, hot women.

Told you it was brilliant.

Drunk. It's what's for dinner.

This is something that you will hear me say rarely, but the French got it right.

It happened once.

They said “Live to eat, don’t eat to live”. (Moilere said it the other way round, but there’s always one…)

Cooking food just to have sustenance is a waste. With all the foods, the flavors, the number of ways to make someone’s face light up as they bite into something they’d never tried before. Why would you limit yourself to the same boring stuff, day in, day out?

Sure, I’ve been known to cook to survive – you’ve got to eat and cooking for one can be boring. Of course I cook for dates. But, what I truly enjoy cooking is food for large dinners. By that I mean multiple courses for large gatherings. My passion for this came from my mother, who is a nut in the kitchen, regularly taking it upon herself to feed upwards of 30 from the tiny galley kitchen in our home.

This love was compounded by one of the Housemasters in my school, Mr. Huge. As before, not his name, but it is what he was known as (at least he was while he was out of earshot). He was a bachelor, and as such spent his Sunday afternoons cooking dinner for a select few who had wangled the invite. And receiving such an invitation was a glorious thing. And it led to the philosophy I mentioned above.

We’d turn up at about 2.00p.m., and dinner would begin. It was normally a 5 course affair; appetizer, soup, entrée, dessert, cheese and coffee.

And booze.

We’d have booze with every course.

In fact, we’d normally have booze IN every course as well.

The man could find a way of putting booze into almost anything, whether it be Champagne and Camembert Soup, Coq au Vin, or peas boiled in white wine. By the end of the meal we’d be nice and drunk, which is normally when he’d interrogate us for gossip that happened to be floating round the school at the time (he was cunning like that, you see). We were pretty easy to manipulate when the food coma started kicking in.

I remember one time five of us went to dinner. We were pretty well blitzed by the end of dessert, and before the cheese he asked us to move a piano from his house to the school chapel - I guess he needed to use it for a concert later that night or something.

Whatever, it wasn’t a big deal. It was a couple of hundred meters. It was a small piano, and there were five of us. Shouldn’t have been difficult.

Like most upright pianos, the thing had wheels, so four of us took a corner each and started to push the piano.

It's been suggested to me that no-one in their right minds would get a bunch of drunk 18-year olds to move a piano for them. But you have to bear in mind a couple of things. First, Mr. Huge had been drinking with us, so "right mind" probably didn't apply at the time. Second, it was the school's piano, so I'm sure, other than some inherent sense of responsibility and a need to use it later for the concert, he had no real attachment to it. And finally, the attending diners (that'd be me and my mates) were all school prefects, heads of houses, captains of sports and so on. You know, the creme de la creme of the school. The responsible, upstanding ones who could be trusted to carry out a simple task without causing the destruction, mayhem and chaos that would inherent in asking, say, a bunch of freshmen to do it.

But, like I say, we were drunk.

So there was no way we were going to do this the easy way.

Nor the sensible way.

I said it shouldn't have been difficult. It wasn't. It was quick and easy.

Very quick in fact.

Because we ran.

We pushed it as fast as we could, which given that we were all in either the top rugby or hockey teams of the school, was pretty damn fast. It took about 2 minutes to travel the 300 yards with this piano – no small feat given the number of turns we had to negotiate.

“But what about the fifth guy?”, I hear you ask.

Well, TM ran alongside the piano as we pushed it.

Playing jazz.

Hmmm....

Well, I think you'd agree we've been particularly unproductive on this for a while.

So I'm gonna post a couple of silly photos I found, just because I can.

The first is for James, cause he liked the Budweiser frogs so much.

Not my choice for models, but Angelina, Nicole and Katie were busy that day.

And second a lesson in knowing your limit.

Better stuff will follow, I promise.

The Big Ad

TV spots for beer have always been entertaining. At least for as long as I can remember, which, to be completely honest, is only about a decade. While elephantine in size, I have the memory of a gnat. I don’t remember beer adverts from the 70s, but, as it was from the 70s, it by definition sucked, and I don’t remember them from the 80s, but again, by virtue of decade association they sucked as well, but had better music. Therefore, I suppose what I am really saying is that since the 90s, beer commercials, with a few exceptions (Pete Coors, you bug me) kick all buttocks.

A few personal favorites include the horses playing football, the recent Guinness commercials (I say Phineas, Brilliant!), and of course the ubiquitous Budweiser frogs commercials and the army of off-shoots this campaign spawned. I have to admit, although I had a soft spot in my heart for the ferret, Louie and Frankie, they were my favorites. They were brilliant! An Abbott & Costello for the beer-drinker. While my love for the little buggers did not extend to taking part in the orgy of merchandising launched by their popularity, if Bud was to put out a DVD compilation of the ads, including the radio spots, I would seriously consider adding it to my collection.

Now, I have told you all of this so you will grasp the full weight of what I am about to say.

The lads at Fosters have created the greatest beer ad ever.

By ever I mean since man first discovered the frothy goodness that is beer, there has been no greater add.

You can view it here.

Go.

Go on, it will be okay.

Take a moment to wallow in the glory.

Watch it and be forever changed by the undeniable majesty that is this ad.

Then go drink a Carlton. Hell, have one on me, but I will have to owe you.


(On a semi-related subject, I find the current crop of ads for Tanqueray particularly irritating and, if I drank gin, which I hold, along with Mr. TunaCan, to be a Dutch fuck you to the English, I would stop. Or rather I would not drink Tanqueray anymore. God those ads bug me.)

Start The New Year Off With A Bang

Shots. Shooters. Slammers.

Three entirely different things.

I know it can be confusing since they may all come in a similar glass, but they’re different.

Trust me.

I'm a lawyer.

A shot is a single type of drink poured into a glass. Normally, you use a shot glass, but I’ve seen them served in a rocks glass. The amount of alcohol you pour into a shot, should be a shot. In other words a single measure. But I’ve seen doubles, triples and scary amounts poured as shots. I figure if it isn’t Jaegermeister, god speed. Shots are normally knocked back in one gulp. Do it in two, you’re not trying hard enough. Have to use more than three swallows, go back to your peach schnapps.

A shooter is a miniature mixed drink. It will be served in a shot glass, and either be poured from a cocktail shaker or be layered carefully in a glass. Again, these are designed to be drunk in one swallow. To do otherwise would ruin the effect, especially in a layered drink.

A slammer is a drink that almost always comes in a rocks glass. It will be part liquor and part carbonated drink. The idea is to firmly grip the glass with one hand, cover it with the other, and slam the base of the glass against the table a couple of times so that the liquid fizzes up inside. Then drink the afore-mentioned liquid as quickly as possible and try not to fall down.

They can be lethal.

A New Year’s Tequila Slammer

1 Rocks glass
1 oz Tequila
1 oz Champagne

Pour the liquids into the glass. Firmly grip the glass with one hand, cover it with the other, and slam the base of the glass against the table a couple of times so that the liquid inside fizzes up. Drink the slammer while it is still fizzing.
It can be done with soda as well, but it’s the New Year, where would the fun in that be?

Smoothie Hell

As I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I used to play rugby. I have played with many different teams, and on many different types of teams. Lately, I seem to find myself more involved with Drinking teams that have rugby problems, rather than the other way round.

That’s fine, but it takes a little getting used to. Rugby players are not always the most refined of individuals, and when you combine that with an alcohol intake of Herculean proportions, the result is rarely pretty.

Pretty funny, but not pretty.

To illustrate this, I thought I would relate a little story of my mate Cus.

As in previous tales; yes this was his name; no, his parents didn’t hate him; this was his drinking name, so it’s what we knew him by.

Anyway, Cus was from Manchester.

Now, I don’t hold the fact that he’s English against him. He was a good bloke despite that. And it wasn’t his fault that he was born there. He just wanted to be close to his Mum. But those folks from Manchester are a funny type. They drink like fish, and are basically unintelligible for most of the time – as are a lot of folks from the Midlands. And bear in mind, that’s coming from a Scot, a nation that holds the corner on both those markets.

Anyway, Cus was a giant among men when it came to drinking. He’s one of the few guys I know who can drink a bottle of wine in one sitting.

I know what you’re thinking. One bottle of wine, that’s what? Four, maybe five glasses? That’s easy!

Really? Think you can do it?

When I say “one sitting”, I mean he’d put the bottle to his lips, and forty-five seconds later he’d take it away from his lips.

Empty.

Anyway, Cus’ drink of choice was Guinness, which he would drink like water, although he had been known to branch out into other realms. On those days he’d drink anything. But he loved his Guiness with a passion. He’d have it for breakfast if he could. Which he did on a startlingly regular basis.

His other true love was kebabs. Unlike most of the human race, who view kebabs as being a good thing to eat only when so drunk you can barely stand, let alone taste it, Cus actually sought out kebabs while sober. Yes, you heard me right, it was deliberate.

For those of you who have never had a kebab, let me explain.

First, let me start by saying you are the fortunate ones. There are two types of people in this world; those who have never had a kebab, and those who wish they’d never had a kebab.

A kebab is similar to the American Gyro. But not really. Like many things produced by Americans, I am sure that the Gyro s a result of hearsay, rather than direct experience. At some point in time, someone was obviously talking about a kebab and was overheard by an American. The American must have heard something like, “Take a pita bread, fill it with shaved meat, add lettuce, onions, maybe some chilli sauce and yogurt, and serve.”

Actually, that sounds pretty good.

But it’s not a kebab. Not unless you make it yourself.

To get the true kebab experience, you first must be prepared to take your life in your hands. Then you need to find a dodgy van that’s open at 4.00 in the morning selling the things. You’ll know you’re in the right place because there will be grease all over the van, and in the corner will be something that looks like an elephant leg on a stick. It’ll be grayish green and rotating slowly in front of the heating elements

When you go up to the hatch, ask for a “doner”.

The guy will take a pita bread, cut it open and head to the corner of the van where he will start carving thin slices off the elephant leg. Now the one saving grace of going at 4.00 in the morning is that folks just as dumb as you have been going up all night before you, so the slices you’re getting will not have been exposed to the elements and wildlife for long.

Once you have a decent amount of meat in the pita, he will throw in something that was probably shredded lettuce when it was cut 16 hours ago, a few onions that have been fermenting for so long, they scare away the rats in the van. Really they are there only to mask the taste of the meat, which probably went bad a couple of days ago.

After the vegetables (and I use the term in it’s loosest possible definition), comes the chilli sauce and yogurt. The chilli sauce doesn’t come with a government health warning. Oh no, the powers that be bypassed that, and went straight to the radiation symbols. This stuff tends to be an iridescent orange color, and it is so hot it’ll melt spoons if you leave them there for longer than a couple of seconds.

A word of warning, don’t every get this stuff on you clothes. I’m serious. I did once. About 12 years ago. I still have the jacket. And the jacket still has the chilli sauce stain.

They then have the audacity to pour on yogurt. I’m not sure if this is to make it healthy, or to go some way to counteract a burning sensation in your throat rivaled only by the sensation felt by the folks who used to own areas of prime Real Estate with built in under-floor heating in the desirable foothill region of Mount Vesuvius. Which ever it is, it fails at both.

Like I said, when eating kebabs you generally get them when you are about to pass out. Now, like I said, they are in a pita, and have liquids poured all over them. This means that are generally not the most elegant thing in the world to eat at the best of times, but when you are drunk it is just ugly. They go everywhere. They fall apart. It’s not pretty. But it’s not the worst thing.

Oh no. The worst thing is waking up the next morning, looking over the side of your bed, looking at what is lying on the floor next to your bed, and, through the splitting hangover, trying to figure out whether or not you had actually eaten it before it got there.

Anyway, like I say, Cus liked his Guinness and he liked his kebabs. So much so, he could never decide which to have first. In fact he liked them so much, this actually became an issue for him. Now for you and me, this is probably not a problem. You either wouldn’t let it bother you, or you’d have them together. A little kebab, a little Guinness, a little kebab and so on.

Well, that wasn’t good enough for Cus. He loved them both so much, when he said he was going to have them together, he meant it.

So, courtesy of my mate Cus, I give you the Smoothie from Hell (I have said before, some of these recipes should never be tried. This is very definitely one of them. Please, never, ever drink this. My mate did, but he’s an idiot. I share it with you for comic value only.)

The Smoothie From Hell

1 Pint of Guinness
1 Doner Kebab with extra onion and extra chilli sauce.

Place Guinness and Kebab into a blender and blend on high until smooth.Pour into a pint glass, and drink.

My Friend John…

Dr. Daniel’s. Paging Dr. Daniel’s. Paging Dr. Jack Daniel’s.

Ah, yes.

The beautiful square bottle that seems to fit so neatly into hand or coat pocket.

The lovely amber liquid.

The soothing numbing feel on the tongue.

The fire in the throat as you swallow.

The warm glow that blossoms through your stomach after you swallow.

The medicine which cures woes and soothes souls.

I am a huge fan of Jack Daniel’s in all his shapes and sizes, but there is a special place in my heart for the Black label. Now, I’m not saying it is the best Bourbon around. It’s not. In fact, it’s not actually a bourbon at all.

No, I’m not crazy.

Bourbon, unlike Tequila and Champagne which have to come from a particular region to be able to use the name, can come from anywhere in the U.S.A. (although some purists believe only Kentucky Bourbons are proper bourbons) Most Bourbons do come from one region - Kentucky, although not Bourbon county anymore, but it is not a necessity. Jack Daniels, however, is a Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey, not a bourbon.

So, I hear you ask, what is Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey, if it is not bourbon.

Well, the answer’s in the question. It’s a whiskey. From Tennessee. Made from Sour Mash.

You see, nothing if not educational this site.

Oh, and it uses a different process in the whiskey making.

Anyway, Jack isn’t my favorite whiskey, American or other wise. That spot is held either by Woodford Reserve followed by either Maker’s Mark or Knob Creek for American whiskey, or Bowmore, Caol Ila, Macallan 18 or Talisker for scotch.

But Jack has a special place in my heart.

The first time I got drunk was with the help of Dr. Daniel’s. A good story, but a bad idea. It involved me, a bottle of Jack, some steaks and passing out for the better part of 24 hours. I’ll tell the story another time.

I think one of my favorite things about Jack Daniel’s, other than their very cool merchandising, is their sense of humor. I’m not talking about their advertising, which is frequently very good, it’s deeper than that.

For instance, Jack Daniel’s himself died, get this, by kicking his safe in a fit of anger. Yup. He forgot the combination of his safe, so kicked it, and in doing so, broke his toe. It got infected and later killed him in 1911.

Or try this. The Jack Daniel’s distillery is located in the heart of a dry county in Tennessee. That’s right dear readers, you can make it there. You can buy it there. You just can't drink it there. Kind of sad, you know?

But this is the one I like, Jack Daniel’s is now sponsoring NASCAR. Now there’s nothing wrong with NASCAR that a few chicanes or turns in the other direction (you know, just to keep drivers on their toes) wouldn’t cure, but who I am I to argue? I do find it ironic, however, that a sport involving driving stripped down, souped up cars at insanely high speeds around a tight track, which requires intense concentration for extended periods of times, is sponsored by a company who, for years, has sold a product whose main consumers have been rock stars and teenagers looking to get blitzed out of their tiny minds.

Oh well. I don’t understand drive through liquor stores or Braille pads on drive up ATMs either, but the world goes on.

So, why the title?

Well, as Al Pacino once said,

“He may be Jack to you son, but when you've known him as long as I have...”

Smoking.....

I love it! I love it. I love it. I love it. It's the best shit ever
invented. Denis Leary – No Cure for Cancer.

(Well, Ok, I know he was talking about NyQuil, not smoking, but it’s a great line, and since I found the transcript of the show I needed an excuse to put a link in.)

I love to smoke. And it IS the best shit ever invented. (Apart from coffee and alcohol perhaps, but I’ll take that under advisement).

But not cigarettes.

I’ve spent too many nights working in dingy cellar bars with too little ventilation and too much cigarette smoke to be a fan of cigarettes.

I don’t understand folks who get so hooked the first thing they do in the morning is to roll over and light up. God, the thought turns my stomach. They smell bad, they taste worse, and they’re harder to quit that heroin, which, in my humble opinion is not exactly a ringing endorsement. Cigars, however, are different. I love cigars. I love 'em, I love 'em, I love 'em.

God, how I love cigars.

I love the way they taste, I love the fact that if I have a bad day, a cigar will make it better, but if I have a good day, a cigar will make it perfect.

"The most futile and disastrous day seems well spent when it is reviewed through the blue, fragrant smoke of a Havana cigar." Evelyn Waugh

I have to thank my father for getting me started on cigars (and I mean that in a good way). He used to smoke when I was a kid, and my brother, sister and I would ask to light the cigars for him, and occasionally he’d let us. The first time I smoked a whole cigar, I was wandering round a marina in Florida with my parents. My Dad had to return to the hotel to check on something, and so he gave me his recently lit Montecristo #2, saying, “Keep it alight until I get back.” Well, who was I to argue? I dutifully kept it alight, never inhaling, never rushing, just thoroughly enjoying one of the world’s best cigars. My Dad returned just in time to be able to take the last draw from the cigar before putting it into an ash tray.

I was 13.

And I’ve never looked back.

I now smoke more than I should. That’s not to say that I smoke as much as I’d like, but, for the time being at least, I’ve reached the level of cigar intake allowed by my income. Basically, I spend more on tobacco than I do on groceries. Just like my Dad.

"I smoke in moderation. Only one cigar at a time."-- Mark Twain

My Dad, sadly, has quit smoking. I would have really enjoyed being able to sit down and have a cigar with him at the end of an evening. He’s said he’ll break down and have one with me when I get married, but since that doesn’t seem to be anywhere in my immediate future, I’ll have to keep waiting.

He stopped about fifteen years ago now, but still loves the smell of them. I can tell, because every time I visit my parents and have a cigar in the living room after they go to bed, my Dad cusses me out. Not for smoking in the house, mind. Oh no. With the peat fire in the living room, that ain’t the problem. The problem is I had the cigar without him being around to be able to get the vicarious pleasure from sitting in the clouds of smoke I produce.

This phenomenon is never brought home as much as it is at this time of year. Every year, my Dad will buy my brother and I a couple of cigars to have after dinner on Christmas Day and on New Year’s Day.

"After a truly good meal, an outstanding cigar is still the most satisfying after-dinner activity that doesn't involve two human beings."-- Brad Shaw, Radio Announcer

Anyway, this really bugs my sister.

Not so much because she doesn’t get in on the free cigar action – I’m not really sure that cigars are her thing. It’s more because she isn’t allowed to join in on the post-prandial destruction of our lungs.

“Sounds fair.” I hear you say, why should you get to smoke; yet she doesn’t. Well, like all things, you have to know the history. My folks have never told her she can’t smoke. It’s more a case that she long ago told my parents that she didn’t smoke. In fact, I believe she said she thought it was a filthy habit, and proceeded to convince them that she would never smoke. Never.

Well, that was then.

Today, she does smoke. In fact, she smokes like a chimney. But she feels that since she did such a good job convincing them way back when, were she to now pick up a cigarette, it would destroy any image they have of her being a sweet innocent little thing who would never do anything wrong. And as such, she holds back.

(I haven’t the heart to tell her that the ‘rentals aren’t stupid and have probably known she smokes for years. I mean, even though she hangs out the window for her nicotine hit – bear in mind her room is on the 3rd floor, so she’s going to pretty extreme lengths to keep this hidden – you can still smell it on her when she comes back inside.)

Over the years, my brother and I have suggested to her that she should quit. We use articles we’ve cut out, we get her to add up the amount of money she smokes per week and tell her how many pints of beer she could have instead. That sort of thing. Nothing seems to work.

Our favorite, and you should take notes here, is to write little sayings down the side of her cigarettes. Not the pack. The cigarettes themselves. You know, little things like,

“No, I really do like the way they taste.”

“All my friends do it.”

“It makes me look cool.”

“I thought they had vitamin C in them.”

and my personal favorite,

“I smoke because it makes me look older.”

By the way, this approach doesn’t work either, but it’s highly entertaining for my brother and I.

You don’t think so? Sit for a minute and imagine your little sister trying to be all cool while some punk in a bar is hitting on her. Just as she hits her stride, she lights up her cigarette. And then has to explain why her cigarette has “Does this make me look pretty?” on it. Sure, she can make us look like idiots, but it’s hard to recover from that position. And, as a bonus, whether it be a no-necked, shaven headed, leather wearing meatball, or a light-on-his-loafers, prada wearing, manicured metro-sexual, the walking hard-on in question now knows she has two protective elder brothers who will kick seven shades of shit out of him if he puts a foot – or a hand – wrong.

Cos we care, you know?

And besides. We think it’s funny.

Back to the point in hand, if my sister happens to be home at the same time as my brother and I for Christmas – which, lets face it, is really the only time we get together as an entire family now-a-days – she has to sit around after dinner watching my brother and I smoke our cigars, while trying to keep her cravings in check.

My brother and I try and help her through this ordeal in the best way we know how. By sitting in the great clouds of smoke created by our cigars and blowing smoke rings in her general direction.

Because we love her, you know?

Since it's seasonal....

This was sent to us by our friend Slinky. A lovely lady I first met while she was holding court in a bar at flipside . At the time, she was keeping the riff-raff (whom I will gladly admit to being a part of) in line with the occasional gentle ministration of a croquet mallet.

Anyway, for your enjoyment, please find the Sober Santa game.

Use the cursor keys to steer santa round the area, picking up the glasses of liquor as you go. Don't stand on the railroad tracks, because they are electrified

Peppermint Martini

2 parts vodka
1 part peppermint schnapps
1/2 part creme de cacao

Combine ingredients in a shaker with ice and shake until desired temperature is reached.
Strain into a martini glass.
Garnish with a candy cane.

Holiday Science

Recently my esteemed colleague Scott posted about the popularity of faxutini’s, which brought to mind the Peppermint Martini I sampled once upon a time. It occurred to me that this would be the perfect excuse to buy myself some decent vodka (I think the only vodka I had at the time was Stolichnaya, which is fine for mixing, but not martini-ing) and a good shaker. But before I did any of this I needed a recipe. Fortunately I knew just the source: Specsonline.com. I will save singing the praises of Spec’s Liquors for another time, suffice to say they are always my first (and usually my last) stop when I am searching for something related to drinking. A search of their bartender’s guide provided the following recipe:

STOLI PEPPERMINT MARTINI

2.5 parts Stolichnaya
.5 parts Peppermint Schnapps
.5 parts Crème de cacao

Mix ingredients together in a shaker with ice.
Strain into a martini glass.
Garnish with a candy cane.

Shopping list in hand I headed out to Spec’s to do some damage to the old bank account and then do some more damage to the liver. When I got home with my supplies I went ahead and whipped one up using Ketel One vodka rather than Stoli. The first few sips were okay, but it was quickly apparent that something was wrong. The vodka flavor really started to come through when I was about a third of the way through the drink. I had mixed it sufficiently as I shook the drink until a fine layer of frost had accumulated on the shaker. Clearly the ratios were off a little bit. The trick with this drink is to have the peppermint schnapps be the only thing you can taste without the peppermint being over powering. I changed the ratios to:

2 parts vodka
1 part peppermint schnapps
.5 part crème de cacao

Although I wondered why the crème de cacao was included in the original recipe, I wasn’t ready to cut it out entirely as I suspect it helped cut the peppermint flavor. This mixture seemed to be just right. I drank the entire thing without ever being able to taste the vodka and while I knew I was drinking a peppermint drink, but the peppermint was not overpowering.

I think I will play with the recipe a bit more in the future, but for now I feel confident declaring victory and posting my results here. I think my next science experiment will involve putting a twist on the classic Pimm’s Cup, which has been a favorite summer drink of mine for some time.

Knot what you want....

Since this is the time of year that most of us get inundated with Christmas parties, whether they are social or work related, I thought I would write the second installment of the Little King Saga. I use this, not so much as a cautionary tale as to the evils of drinking (although it works well under that guise too), but more of an example of why it is important on certain occassions to try and stay sober and keep your wits about you.

So one night, my two friends LK and Andy had decided to spend a quiet evening drinking in Edinburgh. They spent several minutes thinking about it, and decided to hit no more than, say, five or six of their favorite establishments for the evening.

Back then, this is what passed as a fairly quiet night.

Trust me. I’m a lawyer.

Anyway, at about 11.00 p.m., they stumbled into one of the last of their chosen venues for the evening. I forget which one it was, but I would be prepared to lay a small sum of money on the fact that it was located in somewhere in the Grassmarket.

Well, they got their drinks in, and faster than you can say “Watch out, they’re behind you!” they were set upon by two of the local ladies who were out for a good time.

Now as I have said before, LK is something of a god when it comes to beer goggling. This is to say, the level at which he sets the bar for “acceptable standards” for the girls he picks up while anything more than mildly inebriated is several feet underground. Sometimes, I think a heart beat was sufficient. However, as I also said, when he was sober, he managed to pull some absolute stunners, and I am truly jealous of him for that. The git!

Well, on the evening on which this story takes place night, he was sober. Well, sober enough.

The two lovely young ladies who had approached him and Andy on this particular evening were, I am reliably informed, absolute shockers. Now, I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.

These two lovely ladies, spying LK and Andy, decided that their new mission in life was to take the boys home and make men out of them. And they proceeded to set about this task with alacrity.

As I said however, the boys were sober, and as such were having none of it.

They decided that the best way to dissuade the girls from their chosen goal was to be unresponsive to their advances. So, in a moment that can only be described as pure brilliance, they decided that the best way they could act uninterested was to act as though they were both gay.

For each other.

Genius, I tell you, pure genius.

Well, almost. Actually what happened was that the girls decided it would be even more of a notch in their proverbial belts if they could take home two gay guys and convert them. So they tried harder.

After about an hour and a half, my buddies decided that they couldn’t be bothered with the charade, so while still not interested gave up, and just enjoyed the evening’s drinking. By this stage the ensemble had moved from beer and liquor (ok, more likely alco-pops and peach schnapps) and were drinking cocktails. You know, pretty things with cherries and umbrellas.

Well, whenever cherries are involved, cherry stems tend to follow closely behind.

In this case, they had followed, and as with most drunken evenings, the table decided to start tying them in knots. Two of the table had failed to complete the task when LK stepped up and put his stem into his mouth.

As he started to manipulate the stem, one of our two heroines announced across the table,

“If you can tie that, you’re coming home with me.”

Well, LK almost choked on the stem, but to his credit, he worked the stem.

He played with it.

And he played with it.

And he played with it some more.

Until after about a full minute and a half, he finally he took the stem out his mouth, and to the great disappointment of the girl in question said, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get it.”

Well, shortly afterwards the girls left to try and find fairer pastures. At which point Andy turned to LK and said,

“Ok. What the f*#% went on there? I know you can tie those in knots. I’ve seen you do it before, so what the hell?”

To which LK said,

“Oh, I had it tied. I had it tied in about seven seconds. It’s just it took me the rest of the time to get the damn thing untied.”



Have a good Christmas. Eat, drink, be merry, and we’ll see you back here soon.

Chick Magnet

While I am not the past master at drinking that young Scott appears to be, this past week I was reminded of one of my more heroic bouts with the bottle which is worthy of sharing if, for no other reason, it took place the first weekend I made Scott’s acquaintance. The event of which I speak involves me, more Lone Star than any sane man should drink, a Screwdriver the size of Idaho, Scott, 2,000 dirty hippies, and the eponymous Chick Magnet boxer shorts.

Burning Flipside is held every Memorial Day weekend in the Texas hill country, just a few miles west of Austin. For many people Burning Flipside, or Flipside as it is more commonly referred to, takes on a certain aura of spiritual homecoming and serves as a stop-gap in their struggle against reality between trips to Burning Man. I am sad to say that it does not hold a deep significance for me. For me Flipside is an opportunity to go camping with a group of friends, hang out, drink, and enjoy the floor show. My downfall is that every other activity I engage in at Flipside, be it hanging out, enjoying the floor show, or eating dinner, also involves drinking. This means that I will, in the five days I spend at Flipside, consume a heroic amount of beer and liquor. My alcohol intake for those five days is probably about a third of my alcohol intake for the entire year.

This past year I had taken an ample supply of Lone Star for drinking during the day, and then donated a couple of bottles of McCormick’s Vodka (for which I cannot find a website) to one of the donation bars out there to ensure my evenings would be filled with liquor-y goodness. This came back to bite me the night of the burn. I had spent most of the day in the creek drinking with a rotating cast of casual acquaintances and friends, however I knocked off about 4pm for a quick bite to eat and a little bit of a nap before the evening swung in to full gear.

I awoke from my nap still feeling that warm sensation of a light buzz. I got ready for the night’s activities, which included burning a huge freakin’ rocket-sculpture, and made my way down to the field where the burning was going to take place. After the burn I wandered into the aforementioned donation bar where I proceeded to drink. At some point Scott showed up and convinced the bartender to fess up with the end of a bottle of Jack, which we shared while BSing. I had met Scott earlier in the weekend, but he was bust doing things which shall not be mentioned on this blog, so we had not really hung out. For some reason this turned into the night where we hung out. I switched between the Screwdriver that Ate Manhattan and Jack Daniels for awhile. At this point I was very drunk and Scott decided he needed to escape the field for a bit and thus he beat feet for his car beneath the flimsy excuse of needing to get some cigars for us to smoke. I continued to drink. Scott walked about five miles to recover said cigars and return. I drank more and more and more. The Jack was all gone. I got a refill on the Olympian Screwdriver. I smoked a cigar.

At this point the evening starts to get a little hazy.

I remember trying to talk to Scott but then wandering off when I got the feeling I was interrupting him dropping some game on an unsuspecting young lady. Sadly, as it was to turn out, wandering off meant wandering back into the bar where I could be plied with more of the hooch. At this point in the evening this was officially a Bad Idea. There was a stripper pole in the bar. There were people making use of the pole. I might have said something fairly inappropriate to the people using the pole. I am not sure. About this time I realized I was way too wasted to be in public so I started the drunk stumble-walk back to our campsite.

Somewhere along the way I found I had to vomit. Not wanting to mess up the outdoors with my spew I opened the front pocket of my overalls and puked in there. I found this little fact out a couple of days later when I went to wash the overalls.

I made it back to camp and collapsed into a camp chair, which to my surprise, survived the evening. As I was sitting there in camp chatting with my campmates I started to be sick again. I was so drunk I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even turn my head. After about thirty minutes I managed to recover enough to realize that I was covered in my own sick and I was past the point of being sick and I needed to pass out. Right then.

I clambered out of the camp chair and slowly made my way to my tent, shucking clothes enroute. This trail of breadcrumbs was thankfully kicked into a pile in front of my tent the next morning by some kind soul.

I am sure you are now asking yourself why the title of this post is Chick Magnet. Well, fair reader, the last anyone saw of me that night as I beat a retreat from the field of battle were the bright yellow words ‘CHICK MAGNET’ emblazoned across the ass of my boxer shorts. A name I certainly lived up to that night.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the Tipeler site, a friend posted this comment, which I thought was worthy of preserving:

Alas, I was witness to "Team ChickMagnet" in all its glory. A few of us were sitting in camp jibber jabbering around the vomit episodes. It was grand!! In between episodes, James was even capable of making jokes and somewhat carrying on with the conversations. There were a couple of newbies with us. One girl started to get up and leave but I think she realized she didn't know where to go so she sat back down. I assured her that it was "OKAY." THEN... dear god, when he finally ventured off to bed and his pants fell down around his ankles causing him to sort of shuffle off to his tent, I thought I would die! His boxers said CHICK MAGNET across the ass! In my state of mind, I couldn't help but think this was some sort of performance art. Really! Beautiful, just beautiful! I love you, Chick Magnet!!!

Thank you, Susan. I had completely forgotten that I was carrying on a conversation between chunder rounds.

Burners

Originally posted by Scott.

1 rocks glass
1 brandy snifter with diameter only slightly smaller than the rocks glass.
1 oz high proof, high sugar content liquor – sambucca, cointreau, and drambuie all work well. 151 works, but you’d be insane to drink that.
Matches or other source of fire.

Pour liquor into the brandy glass and set on fire.

Once burning, place rocks glass over the brandy glass and leave until flame goes out. Don’t let it burn too long otherwise the brandy glass will get too hot to drink from (at least too hot to drink from without burning your mouth).

Once the flame goes out, pick up the glasses without breaking the seal, bring it to your nose. Then lift off rocks glass, and AS YOU TURN IT OVER, breath in hard through your nose, inhaling all the alcohol vapor, then knock back the shot.

THIS IS VERY ALCOHOLIC SO BE CAREFUL.

ALSO, THE GLASSES GET VERY HOT, SO TRY NOT TO BURN YOURSELF.

YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

Why it works - The fire burns all the oxygen, creating alcohol vapor. As you breathe in the vapor, it travels through your nasal passages and into your lungs, all of which have much thinner walls than you stomach, so the alcohol is absorbed almost instantly, and you get drunk for about 30 seconds. That passes, then the booze you swallowed hits and you get drunk for longer.

Two for the price of one – you just can’t beat it.

You Want Me to Drink WHAT?

Originally posted by Scott.

As I think I may have said before, I like to drink. I like alcohol, the variety that is available, the way different types of alcohol can be mixed together to create something new, and the effect it has on me.

As a result of enjoying alcohol, on something of a regular basis, I have, on occasion, found myself slightly inebriated by the end of the evening.

Ok… maybe slightly inebriated is an understatement.

“Smashed out of my tiny mind” is perhaps more appropriate.

Most of these evenings manage to pass into the mists of time, being remembered merely as a good night; an evening you went out with your buddies and drank enough to make everything entertaining, without the nasty side-effects of spending all night calling for dinosaurs, or waking up and trying to explain to yourself why the sheepdog lying in bed next to you is wearing a tutu.

Some of them stay with you though.

These are the traumatic evenings.

The ones that frequently lead to traumatic mornings.

As I said, I like alcohol. I like the way it tastes. I like the way you can mix it together and make new and interesting drinks. But that's not to say that I like all alcohol.

Some drinks are politely described as "an acquired taste". As far as I am concerned, if you acquired the taste you are either drunk or desperate need of professional help. Chartreuse for instance. Or the Robitussin of the drinking world, Jaegermeister. I don't like these drinks because, lets face it, they taste like ass.

However, some alcohol I dislike so much, merely getting close enough to smell it turns my stomach. These are the drinks which not only taste bad, but are inextricably linked with bad drinking experiences.

Tequila for instance.

A drink guaranteed to turn refried beans into regurgitated beans if given half a chance.

Now don’t get me wrong. I have NEVER been drunk on tequila.

There has, however, been occasion when, during the course of a evening, I've been tricked into imbibing a shot or two of tequila. Don’t ask me why, I can’t stand the stuff. I put it down to peer pressure, or perhaps the pretty bartender using her feminine wiles on me. You know the way they do, confusing me by batting her eyelids while offering me the Devil’s own piss, usually with the words, “it’s ok, this is good tequila.”

Let me tell you now, ladies and gentlemen, bartenders lie like rugs. Tequila is NEVER good.

Anyway, whatever the reason, I hold others responsible because I’d never drink that stuff in my right mind.

The smell of it turns my stomach, but the taste. Oh, god the taste is awful....

I don’t know what it is about the flavor, but no matter what I drink before or after it, that flavor stays with me. All night long. Five cigars later and I can still taste it. Try to drown it with 8 pints of Guinness and I can still taste it. Scoff down a kebab bought from the back of some dodgy van at 4.00 in the morning loaded in chilli sauce, and I can still taste it.

Tequila seems to be the last thing you taste at night when talking to god on the porcelain telephone, and it’s the first thing you taste when you wake up the next morning feeling as rough as a badger’s arse.

And that's never a good thing.

Although, arguably, it's not as bad as Cointreau.

Well, It Seemed Like A Good Idea at the Time...

Originally posted by Scott.

When I was a younger man, I played rugby.

I played on a Rugby team that had a drinking problem, unlike the ones I’ve played on lately, which are drinking teams that have a rugby problem. One year, we went on our annual Rugby tour to the fair country of Italy – Venice, to be precise. Nice town. Expensive as shit. Not as fun as Amsterdam the year before, but all said and done, a good place to travel if you get the chance.

Now, let me start the story by saying that the first rule of Rugby Tours is much the same as the rule for trips to Vegas – What goes on Tour, stays on Tour.

Yeah, right!!!!!

If you can remember the story, you should tell it – that’s how legends are made.

Like the story of my mate Andy (who features later) who woke up in the wrong bed. No big deal. Except, he woke up in the same bed as another player. Okay, I guess. Except the bed was against the wall, and Andy was lying next to the wall. Uhmm. Okay. Except, the bed was a bunk bed, and you got it – they were on the top bunk. We never did figure that story out.

Anyway, we went on tour with 30 players, plus associated coaches, family, significant others and general hangers on looking for a good excuse to get ploughed for a week. 30 players. 5 games. 15 players per game. Now, stay with me here, this means that, at most, you should be playing 3 games during a one week tour.

The deal every evening was that the team for the next day would be posted by about 8.00 p.m., after which you would figure out whether you could go get hammered, or had to take it easy for the night. Come the Wednesday evening at 8.00 p.m. nothing had been posted. Come 8.30 p.m., still nothing. By 9.00 p.m., my mates Andy, Charlie and I were getting kind of hungry. So, being intelligent, rational individuals, we started weighing the likely team for the next day. We figured that since we had already played two games, and since we were all guaranteed to be playing in the last game, that would be our three, so we were safe for the evening.

We headed out for the evening; you know, the usual thing – pizza and beer (by the way, good pizza those Italians folks – who knew?). We then hit a few bars, and drinking ensued - beers, shots, more beer, cocktails. Oh, and some beer. As I say, the usual.

It’s not that we were trying to get drunk you understand, it’s just there are rules to rugby tours, and a certain blood alcohol level has to be maintained throughout. I’m not sure what that level is exactly, lets just say the appropriate measure involves the amount of blood in your alcohol stream, rather than the other way around.

Anyway, after about 11.00 p.m., other team members started coming up to us suggesting that, since we were playing the next day, we might want to take it easy. Well, being the intelligent rational thinkers we were, we thought they were winding us up, so we ignored them. Well, actually, we told them to “Bugger off”, and proceeded to down enough alcohol to sink a small boat.

You know, something the size of the Titanic.

Anyway, we got back to the hotel at about 1.30 a.m. after a good 3 hours of fairly heroic drinking and found that we were indeed on the list for the next days game.

Oops.

Well, like I said, we were intelligent rational individuals, so when faced with this knowledge we did the only thing we could.

We drank more.

Oh, sure, we could have gone up to our rooms, drank several gallons of water, taken a few aspirin and tried our best to be sober for the next day, but are you kidding me?

As it turned out, my mate Charlie had bought a liter bottle of Cointreau on the way through Duty Free, and this seemed like as good a time as any to break it open. Which we duly did, and proceeded to do Cointreau Burners with it.

Burners for those of you who don’t know, involve taking a rocks glass, pouring a couple of ounces of rocket fuel in the bottom of it, and setting it on fire. When it is burning nicely, you put your hand over the glass, totally covering the rim, while being careful not to burn your hand. As the flame continues to burn, it burns all the oxygen, creating alcohol vapor, and forming a vacuum seal around your hand – the glass will literally stick to your hand if you get it right.

If you don’t get it right, you’ll burn the shit out of your hand because the flame won’t go out.

You’ve been warned.

And yes, this is one of those drinks that are a really bad idea unless you are drunk already. And if you are so drunk that they seem like a good idea, you are probably too drunk to be drinking them.

Anyway, once the flame goes out, pick up the glass without breaking the seal, bring it to your nose, and as you break the seal, breath in hard through your nose, inhaling all the alcohol vapor, then knock back the shot. The alcohol vapor travels through your nasal passages and into your lungs, all of which have much thinner walls than you stomach, so the alcohol is absorbed almost instantly, and you get drunk for about 30 seconds. Then the booze you swallowed hits and you get drunk for longer.

Two for the price of one – you just can’t beat it.

But we should have.

We should have beaten it with a very large stick, because you get very, very drunk off these. Especially when, at the end of a very heavy evening, you drink the entire liter of the stuff.

Twelve years later and some days I can still taste it.

Suffice to say, the morning after was less than pleasant.

On the bus to the game, one of us was in full hangover mode (me). One of us was unconscious (Andy). And one of us (Charlie) puked non-stop throughout the 45 minute bus ride to the game. Not good.

But nothing compared to what happened when we got to the game. After we arrived, it got really bad.

We found that half the pitch was about 4 inches deep in mud. As any sports player (or hell, anyone with common sense) will tell you, running in 4 inches of mud is bad if you feel well, but murderous with a hangover.

And just to add to the fun, a nearby sewage pipe had broken, so the air stank of raw, untreated sewage.

You can picture it. Needing to breathe to get oxygen into the body so we could deal with the mud and hangover, while being unable to breathe because of the smell.

I have never wanted to die so much in my life.

And I will never, ever, drink Cointreau again.

Ever!

Chocolate Martini

Originally posted by Scott.

aka

One for the Ladies

Ingredients

2 ounces vodka

1 ounce White Crème de Cacao (that’s the clear one)

--------

Crème de Cacao and chocolate powder to rim glass

Chocolate chip, cherry or strawberry as garnish

--------

Pour all liquid into shaker filled with ice. Shake, or stir until desired temperature is reached.

Put a Chocolate rim on the glass. (Place glass upside down on a little Crème de cacao, to moisten rim. Place into a saucer of chocolate powder to coat rim.)

Pour liquid into glass, be careful not to hit the pretty chocolate rim.

Place chocolate chip or strawberry in glass or on rim, according to artistic desire.

Drink.

Repeat.

The Martians Are Coming...

Originally posted by Scott.

“I enjoy a Martini,

Two at the most.

Three, I’m under the table.

Four, I’m under the host.”

------------------------

I forget who said that, but I’ve seen it happen.

There seems to be a trend that’s been happening over the last few years by which Martinis are seen as a cool and trendy thing to drink. I think this is a good thing.

Why? Because I likes me some Martinis.

And not just because Martinis are a socially acceptable way to drink 2 shots of gin or vodka, without any stigma being attached. Don’t know what I mean? Think about it for a while. If you order a Martini you are viewed as classy and sophisticated. If you order a double vodka straight up, you are viewed as an alcoholic.

It's harsh but true.

Actually, I think that the glasswear goes someway to perpetuating this. The ability to handle a drink in a glass as awkwardly shaped as a Martini glass does give you a certian number of style points. If you can spend all evening drinking Martinis and still handle your booze - and by that I not only mean the ability to still be vertical, but also the ability to not spill your drink every time you move it - you have a certain amount of class. Spilling your drink each time you move it because you're so drunk is not good. It means you can't handle your liquor and means martinis are probably not for you. Quit now, and stick to something lighter. Peach schnapps perhaps.

Anyway, as I said, I like Martinis. I like them because of the way they taste. And by that, I mean that if they are made well, they taste like water.

Of course, from that comment you can tell I am something of a philistine. I drink bone dry Vodka Martinis with a twist. Ketel One by choice, but I’ve been known to stray. Now, there is logic behind this choice. First, I don’t like drinks which taste like Christmas trees, so tend to stay clear of Gin. Second, if I wanted a snack I’d order one, so keep your damn olives out of my vodka, ok? Finally, and this is important, people who drink Dirty Martinis are out of their tiny minds. And drinking more sea water is only going to make it worse.

This is going to be a rant about “Fruitinis”, but let me take a moment to clear something up. A “Dry Martini” is not made more “dry” by adding more dry vermouth. I swear I’m going to do serious injury to the next person who pours a shot of vermouth into my Martini when I ask for a Dry Martini.

Let me give some history.

The original Martinis were made with English dry gin. That’s where the “dry” comes from. Got it? Good. Once you understand that and you understand that when you pour more vermouth in, even dry vermouth, there is less of what makes it "dry". Winston Churchill said it right when he explained how much vermouth to use. He reckoned that if you let sunlight pass through the bottle of vermouth into the glass, then that is about the right amount. If your bar has no sunlight, wave the bottle over the shaker like some sort of voodoo charm (just long enough to scare the alcohol), then put the bottle away.

A place for everything and everything in its place. The place for the bloody vermouth is in its bloody bottle, ok?

Anyway, Fruitinis.

As I said, I’m a something of a philistine, I drink vodka martinis with a twist. But I’m snobbish enough to raise an eyebrow at all the “fruitini’s” that are sold in bars. I get that you can do wonderful things with alcohol, and it’s fun to play with. I also understand that fruitinis give an extra avenue of drinks to those who find the classic Martini too strong. and that’s great. But I’m not sure that “fruitinis" are Martini’s. And I’m definitely not convinced that drinking “Fruitini’s” makes you a Martini drinker. Especially if you can’t stomach a classic martini because “It’s too strong.”

I can understand the Cosmopolitan. But it doesn’t sell itself as a Martini. What makes me pause are drinks like the Apple Martini; the Pineapple Martini; the Kiwi Martini (who the hell thought that up?). I mean, I’m sure they’re good, but are they really Martini’s?

I’m not sure what exactly defines a Martini. It certainly goes beyond pouring your drink into a really awkwardly shaped glass. (I’ll leave my diatribe about bars and their stupidly shaped Martini glasses for another time, suffice to say if it isn’t straight stemmed and clear, it’s a gimmick. And if you have to use a gimmick to sell your drinks, go back to school and learn how to make better a better drink.) For me, and please realize I sat and thought about this definition for at least 30 seconds before writing it down, a Martini is a drink containing predominately gin or vodka, plus whatever you decided to water down your perfectly good liquor with, shaken or stirred and poured into your glass.

And it should be clear.

Now, I know that opens me up to clever questions such as “Whether vodka and coke would be a Martini”, but my witty come-back to that is, “Bite me!” My main point was to say it Martinis should be clear.

Which brings me nicely to “Chocolate Martinis”.

Now I like Chocolate Martini’s. Alcoholic Chocolate. What’s not to like? But the thing is, what most bars serve as Chocolate Martini’s are, in my opinion, no more Martini’s than a glass of Bailey’s Irish Liqueur. Which is frequently what they are. Just because you pour your concoction of Vodka, Kalhua and Godiva liqueur into a Martini glass doesn’t make it a Martini. Its still and Orgasm, and belongs over ice in a highball glass. Probably with a little umbrella and a cherry.

You want a Chocolate Martini, knock yourself out, but keep away from all the cream based drink. Unless, and I’m spitballing here, you use it as a float on top of your drink.

No. Actually, thinking about it, just keep the creamy drinks out of the Martini glass.

Please!!!!

Anyway. I’ve said it before, I’m an equal opportunity drinker. I guess if you like what you’re drinking, drink it, and ignore me. But don’t proudly proclaim yourself a Martini Drinker because you can drink twelve of the Strawberry Watermelon Martini your local hostelry serves in an evening without feeling a thing. Sure, they go down as though they were water. With all the fruit juice in them, they probably are, or at least might as well be. For my money, if you can’t drink the classic martini, whether you choose gin or vodka, you are a cocktail drinker, but not really a martini drinker.

However, to show that I am actually a nice person, who does more than just criticize others, here’s a recipe for a Chocolate Martini that I consider a Martini (albeit not one that makes you a Martini drinker. But at least it’s clear.) Try it before you complain that it’s not right. It is right, and it’s actually very good. Chocolatey, but you can still taste the vodka, and it isn’t too sweet.

And best of all, it’s clear.

CHOCOLATE MARTINI

Ingredients

2 ounces vodka

1 ounce White Crème de Cacao (that’s the clear one)

Crème de Cacao and chocolate powder to rim glass

Chocolate chip, cherry or strawberry as garnish

Pour all liquid into shaker filled with ice. Shake, or stir until desired temperature is reached.

Put a Chocolate rim on the glass. (Place glass upside down on a little Crème de cacao, to moisten rim. Place into a saucer of chocolate powder to coat rim.)

Pour liquid into glass, be careful not to hit the pretty chocolate rim.

Place chocolate chip or strawberry in glass or on rim, according to artistic desire.

Be prepared never to drink a creamy chocolate martini again.

Beer. Helping Ugly People Have Sex Since Who Knows When.

Originally posted by Scott.

Or alternatively,

Friends Don’t let Friends Beer Goggle. Unless it’s funny.

This is the first in a line of stories I have about my mate Little King.

I have so many stories about him that it’s difficult to know which one to start with. Let’s clear one thing up. Yes, he was called Little King. And, No, it’s not that his parents didn’t like him, it’s just the name he went by during drinking games – and besides, he’s married now, so the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

I contemplated whether to start with the glorious tale of his 18th birthday, which started with Mexican food, progressed to him being handcuffed to an inflatable doll, and finished with him getting his head shaved. With friends like me, you know?

I toyed with the idea of discussing our evenings playing drinking games where, during the span of a couple of hours, we would each drink the United Kingdom Medical Board’s recommended weekly intake of alcohol before heading out to the pubs.

Finally, I decided on a more enlightened topic. Beer Goggling. Something at which Little King was a god.

Beer-goggling, for those of you who don’t know, is a phenomenon I’ve seen on both sides of the Atlantic. Normally it refers to that state of mind where alcohol and lust combine to completely override common sense, good vision, and good taste. It’s the stage at which the Old English Sheep dog in the corner of the bar is starting to look mighty sexy. But it refers to more than just a drunken hook-up. I think that, in a Pavlovian kind of way, it might also have something to do with last call. If you watch long enough, it’s something that you can set your watch by it. About 30 minutes from closing time, whether you’re in a bar or a club, suddenly people start going crazy trying to hook up with someone so they don’t go home alone. Don’t believe me? Go spend evenings in a less than classy establishment for a couple of months and tell me if I’m wrong.

Let me take a moment here and first insert a little story about my buddy, Goggles. Goggles was a true master at this sport. His ploy, if you want to call it that, was to get absolutely blitzed, and about half an hour from last call, go up to the first girl he saw at the bar, tap her on the shoulder, and ask, “So. Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

Invariably he would get slapped.

Undeterred however, he would then move to the next girl in line – normally within earshot of the first, and ask “So. Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

Again, invariably, he’d get slapped.

At which point he’d move to the third in line, again within earshot, and ask..... Do you sense a pattern? Now, my point is not to make fun of Goggles (OK, it is. But that’s not my entire purpose). I grant you that he’d get slapped a lot. He also got laid a lot. Because eventually, he’d find someone whose standards had dropped as low as his, and they’d hook up for the evening.

And that’s Beer-goggling ladies and gentlemen.

Goggles was a master. But LK was a god.

The evening which I am going to recount occurred in the first semester of our undergraduate year at Edinburgh University. We were at one of the University Student Unions; the much lamented and undervalued “Teviot” – a great place for a cheap pint (about a $1.50) and a plate of food, by the way.

Back in those days (and I’m sure even now) it had about 5 different bars and ran about 4 different night clubs in the place on a Friday evening (yeah, it was that big). The busiest one was on the top floor (the name temporarily escapes me – but that may be alcohol induced). We had been there for about 2 hours when we started noticing LK and his ladies.

I use the plural form deliberately, albeit, without a chromosome test at least, somewhat loosely.

I’d been talking with my other mates and, as normal, we were discussing LK. His prowess with the ladies was interesting, and therefore always a talking point. It would have been impressive, had it not been for his taste, or lack thereof. Don’t get me wrong, he picked up some gorgeous young ladies, but that was when he was sober. Which was rare.

After about two hours, we were discussing the woman he’d hooked up with that night, but it turned out that my four friends and I could not agree on the description of the girl. Short, tall, medium, thin, heavy, dark hair, red-head, blonde. Turns out there was a reason.

Turns out that by two hours into the evening, he’d made out with six different women.

SIX!!!

I have no idea how he had the time to put drink down him, let alone hook up with six different girls. But that was LK. As I said, the man was a god.

We found him shortly after that, took him aside and told him he might want to pace himself. He was only little after all – about 5’4”, and a physique which can best be summed up by the phrase “cuddly”. “Rotund” is a close second. But he had a confidence I’ll admire for a long time – although I’m truly glad that I can’t emulate it.

After that we did our best to look after him. We kept our eyes on him, and every time he started dancing close with a girl, we stepped in and dragged him away. Now this might seem mean, both to him and the girl, but we figured it was only right. He was our mate, and we figured neither he, nor the girl (ok, girls) in question wanted to wake up the next morning trying to figure who the hell the random person next to them was. After all. Friends don’t let friends beer-goggle.

But he got away. He was only gone for 10 minutes, but he got away.

When we found him, he was trying to give some delicate, young lady the kiss of life. Either that or he was trying to extract her fillings with his tongue. We couldn’t tell. And he had her hands up her shirt.

Now this is occasionally something to be applauded. Perhaps not in the middle of a night club, but who I am I to say when true lust is going to hit? So sometimes it is to be applauded.

Although, perhaps not when the “apple of her father’s eye” in question was a Women’s Field Hockey goal-keeper. Perhaps not when there were three spare tires visible beneath his arms. And almost certainly not when the name written on the back of her XXXL hockey shirt read “Man Eater”.

So we left him alone.

And laughed.

Quietly.

And at a a distance.

Personally, I think we were scared of Man Eater.

But besides. Friends don’t let friends beer-goggle. Unless it’s funny

Pubie's Last Stand

Ah college. The mere mention of that word brings back fond memories of co-eds who wouldn’t give me the time of day, late night discussions over cigars and beer on the top floor of Agnes Arnold Hall, and the occasional bout of semi-criminal mischief. College is also the time where I began to understand the joys of drinking and no one did more to demonstrate this to me than Pubie. Pubie was my tragically coifed and nicknamed roommate my sophomore year at the University of Houston, and while he was a year younger than Mr. TunaCan and myself, he embraced drinking with an élan that was unrivaled by any of our other compratriots.

Pubie, so named because of his incredibly short, curly hair, taught me many things. At this point in my life I did not like beer and had only been drunk a couple of times, both in response to problems with the fairer sex. I am not sure how much drinking he had done before arriving at UH, however I know once we discovered you could trade meal-clicks for pitchers at Coog’s Café our livers were never going to be the same. Pubie was on a National Merit Scholar scholarship, which at the time meant a full ride to UH with the seven meal-clicks a day eating plan. This added up to a lot of beer and junk food. Added on top of the fact that we could get beer for free from the university was the Honors Program parties. These always involved a couple of kegs and the person manning the door would traditionally ask whether you were drinking or not rather than asking to see I.D. If I ever feel the need to sue someone over my drinking UH is so going to get it.

The final drinking straw, as it were, was the fact that Mama-san’s was less than a five minute drive from campus. Mama-san’s was a drive-up liquor store that would sell to you as long as you could get your money on the counter. I saw kids who could not have been more than 11 or 12 riding their bikes away from there with a forty or two stashed beneath their arms. To this day I do not know the actual name of the store and I have no idea who found it. I suspect that it was one of the frat-rat’s who shared the dorms with us. Forced to guess who it was I would blame the TKE (Tau Kappa Everybody) who lived on the 4th floor and managed to pull off a GPA somewhere in the neighborhood of 1.0 his first semester. This guy would START the day with, I believe, a Tang and vodka.

Throw in a bit of boredom with all these factors and shake vigorously and there you have the recipe for drunken antics the likes of which take place on many campus’ across the nation. Anyways, you get the picture, here we are, a bunch of kids of above-average intelligence with nothing to do and copious amounts of alcohol available to us. Stupidity ensued. Sending frozen oranges sling-shotting down the hall was a drunk idea. Freezing the rubber mallet was probably a drunk idea.

Now, I have told you all this so I can share the single funniest moment of Pubie’s freshman year.

He had finished his finals sometime that morning and then came back to the room and packed all of his stuff since his parent’s were picking him up the very next morning. As soon as he was done packing he headed out to drink and play cards with the boys. He was already upstairs and drinking before I bothered to get out of bed in the morning, which means he was able to drink a heroic amount of beer before I headed upstairs after dinner that night. At this point he was already laughably drunk.

Pubie was what we refer to as a six-pack homosexual in that as soon as he was drunk he started to give everyone hugs and tell them he loved them. You were fine as long as you hugged him back and told him you loved him, too, but if you rejected his affections he would get MAD. He also got very good at cards when he was drunk. Like scary good. He was already in his hugging stage when I wandered off, ostensibly to pack some more of my crap, but most likely to play on the computer (I was 100% loser in those days). Around 1 or 2 in the morning it occurred to me that I should try and track Pubie down and get him to bed since his parents were going to be there in a few hours.

I headed upstairs again and began my search. He was not in any of the usual hangouts and I was beginning to think that he had either sealed the deal with one of the girls he had been pursuing all semester or that Olga, the scary Turkish girl, had found him passed out in a corner and was having her way with him. Either way I was not going to interrupt as I was either proud of him or not willing to sacrifice that much of my sanity for him. Then I heard him laughing like an idiot and the sound was coming from Mr. TunaCan’s room. I poked my head in to see if he was actually in there and lo and behold I found him.

Pubie was standing on one of the desks in the room facing the window. The windows at UH did not have screens on them and they opened at both the top and the bottom. In this case the window was open with the top down. Pubie had his business in hand and he was peeing out the window and laughing the maniacal laughter of someone who needs to visit the nice men in the white coats for a while. I am sure there was some cussing involved in coaxing Pubie down from his perch but eventually he was convinced to pack up his junk and get down from the desk.

To say Pubie was trashed is to be way understating the fact. Quite frankly to this day I am amazed that he was still conscious, let alone ambulatory. As near as I can figure it he had been drinking for roughly 14 hours at this point. 14 hours! Truly this man had a liver empowered by the gods.

After we talked him down from the desk I escorted/carried him to our room. As soon as we got there he let me know he had to pee again but that he was having trouble standing. I guided him into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, letting him know that he was on his own. While he was in the loo I worked on getting his bed ready all the while wondering how we were going to get him up to the top bunk. He let me know he was finished and I made him promise he had his pants on before I opened the bathroom door.

Sweet Monkey Jesus.

In the dorms we used to joke that Mr. TunaCan approached urination like many people do a piñata, blindfolded and swinging for the fences. It appeared Pubie had taken this to heart this night as he managed to pee on everything in the bathroom EXCEPT the toilet. Everything. Including himself. At this point I was beginning to get a bit exasperated with the shenanigans and so I pushed him into the shower and turned it on him on cold, hoping it would sober him up a little. After his shower he changed into some clean clothes and started to climb into his bunk. About halfway up the ladder gravity started to assert itself and he almost fell off. I managed to stabilize him and get him into bed where he promptly fell asleep.

I quickly followed, thinking that I was glad his bunk was not over mine.

The next morning I dragged him out of bed and forced him into the shower, knowing that I had to act quickly since his parents were arriving at any moment and the room reeked of piss and beer. Fortunately I was able to gather all of his clothes and bedclothes from the night before and get them into a trash bag and into his stuff before they arrived. Once Pubie was out of the shower he was looking a little more human and we conspired to frame our third roommate Carlos, who we hadn’t seen for weeks but had left a couple of Olde English bottles around, for the smell in the room.

His parents came and collected him and his things and that was the last time I saw Pubie for several years as I chose not to return to the University of Houston. Truly Pubie is one of the greatest drinkers I have personally known and I am glad his last stand was worthy of retelling.

Drink Recipes

I went ahead and split out the drink recipes from Scott's post so we can have them as individual lines in the Drinks section of the Links. You can now return to your drinking.

Shambles

Fill a highball glass with ice.
Pour in 2 oz. of vodka.
Fill the glass to within 1/2 inch of the lip with Red Bull.
Top off with champagne.


Originally posted by Scott in Drinks to be Drunk while Drinking to get Drunk which really should be subtitled, "What I suckered James into drinking on his birthday."

Car Bomb (Proper)

1/2 Pint Guinness in a Pint glass
1 Shot glass of Jamisons (although any Irish whiskey will do in a pinch)
Remember: Specify you want an entire shot of whiskey if you are ordering this at a bar, American bartenders tend to do a half-shot of whiskey and a half-shot of Irish creme.

Drop the shot glass of whiskey into the 1/2 pint and drink the whole thing in one go.


Originally posted by Scott in Drinks to be Drunk while Drinking to get Drunk which really should be subtitled, "What I suckered James into drinking on his birthday."

Drinks to be Drunk while Drinking to get Drunk

Originally posted by Scott.

Drunk. Hammered. Wasted. Blitzed. Ploughed. Trolleyed. Guttered. Maggotted.

Whatever the term, this is something I almost never do deliberately. It has been a very long time since I actually set out to get drunk. Normally it takes something catastrophic happening in my life before it sounds like a good idea.

Now don’t get me wrong. I get drunk.

A lot.

As I see it, there’s nothing wrong with getting drunk. Hell, it can make for fun evenings. I mean, I like booze. I like the way it tastes. I like the incredible variety of alcohol that exists. And since getting drunk is a by-product of having things I like, that works out well.

It’s just that I rarely start the evening with the goal of getting ploughed. In fact, one of the things that truly irritates me while I am out having a quiet drink with friends, is the bunch of arseholes in the corner who are power drinking because they think it is cool and clever. Bloody idiots.

I do not see, and have never seen, the attraction of getting so out-of-your-skull drunk that you end up hugging the porcelain throne all night. Then you get to spend the next day enjoying the twin joys of a crushing hangover and your mates filling you in on the many dumb activities you got up to the night before. (Actually, I’m pretty sure that at least a small part of alcohol induced blackouts is due to the body’s basic desire to NEVER EVER remember who it was you slept with the night before, rather than any effect the alcohol may have had on you.)

However, I had something of a misspent youth, so after about a decade of getting people drunk out of their minds, I have skills.

In fact, I have mad skills.

In order to go some way to fulfilling a promise made by James, I am going to start adding in a few recipes for drinks. Some may be familiar. Some you’ll go “What were you thinking?” and some (I’ll let you know which ones) should never be drunk. Ever. (In fact, if they ever sound like a good idea, you are way too drunk to be drinking them.)

Shambles

Take a highball glass. Fill it with ice.
Pour in 2 oz Vodka.
Top to within ½ an inch from the top with RedBull.
Fill with Champagne.

Beware. This tastes like candy, and is very easy to drink. You will not realize how strong it is till you try to stand up. You’ve been warned.

Car Bombs

½ pint of Guinness in a pint mug.
1 Shot glass full of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. (Watch out – if you ask for this in the US, you have to specify this. Otherwise bartenders have a bad habit of giving you a shot glass with half Jameson’s and half Bailey’s in it – to be avoided)

Drop the entire shot glass into the Pint glass and drink the whole thing in one go.

----------------------------------------

Watch this space. More will follow.

Edit. I added RedBull to the Shambles receipe. Kinda looses something without it. -- James

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Originally posted by Scott.

Back at home (sunny Scotland for those of you who missed it), everyone has his or her “local”. A local, for the uninitiated, is an individual’s pub, or bar, of choice – the one where he or she instinctively heads for a quick drink. Your default pub, if you like.

Now, because I’m British and we like confusing people, a “local”, although easy to get to, is not necessarily the closest bar to home. Rather, it’s the place where you choose to drink over all the others in your area. Your home away from home. Your port in a storm. Your refuge from the grind of daily life.

It is important to note that what makes a pub “good”, is different from what makes it your local.

What makes a good pub may be the extensive selection of Single malt Scotch. It may be the 75 beers on tap – only a handful of which are domestic. It could be the big screen TV’s showing any number of sporting events from the NBA play-offs to the local highschool tiddlywinks championship. It could be a taste of home. It could even be the waitresses dressed as schoolgirls. Whatever the draw, whatever the hook, the important thing is that it continues to bring you back. What makes a local is different. Sure, your local is probably somewhere you consider to be a good bar, but there’s more to it.

Merely being a good bar isn’t enough. It misses the point. The “local” is a phenomenon that goes beyond just being a good bar, or a place where you’re almost guaranteed to hook up with someone. For my money, your local is a place for which you forsake other bars EVEN THOUGH the other places are good bars, or you’re almost guaranteed to hook up with someone.

For me it’s the place where you walk in, and you know people. Regardless of what day of the week it is, or what time it is. It’s the place where the guy behind the bar, or the girl who brings you drink is not a member of staff, but your friend. It’s the place where not only do they know what you drink, but normally they don’t even bother to ask, because they started to pour it for you when you walked through the door.

What brings me back to places is a simple recipe. It has to be comfortable. It has to have two or three of the drinks I like on a regular basis. It has to attract the type of people I want to be around, for whatever reasons. It has to draw those who like to drink, yet deter power drinkers and drunks.

What makes a place my “local”, is a factor that is so easy to point to, yet so hard for many places to get right – the staff and the atmosphere they generate. If you get the right group behind the bar, then I will come back again and again.

The key is a term I mentioned in the opening paragraph. Find yourself “your home away from home”. Find the place that you’d want if you were opening a bar. Find it, and stick with it. When you get to the stage where everyone knows your name, you’ll never leave.

Because you have no need to go anywhere else.

You’re already home.

My local, for those of you who are interested, is currently 10 Downing St., located at 2549 Kirby Drive, Houston, Texas 77019. It's close to work, and definitely worth the drive from where I live. I’m probably there 5 nights a week, and I consider it my home away from home. So do my friends – if I’m not in my apartment, chances they’ll find me at “home”.

The Usual

Originally posted by Mr. TunaCan.

Everyone should have one. Its the thing you automatically order when the bartender walks up to get your order, but you've been staring at the ass of the girl at the end of the bar as opposed to thinking about what the hell you want to drink. For me, its whisky and water, preferably Jameson's, but in a pinch most anything will do. Its important to find something that you like a lot and is common enough that you won't have to cycle through fifteen different drinks/brands until you find something to drink in this particular backwater shithole of a bar. Case in point: A few months ago I was in Brussels with a couple of buddies (Lapp and CB), after sampling some of the damn fine local beers, we wandered the city looking for a suitable place to get a serious drink on. We eventaully found what appeared to be a goth/eurotrash bar in the old part of the city. Now for some reason, no bartender in Brussels will speak English to you (as opposed to Amsterdam, where everyone speaks English). Mainly they want to speak French, and while I took a few years of French, I'm less than conversant in it. They had it, and more importantly, they understood what the hell I was trying to order. We proceeded to break ourselves on it that evening. We wandered to Amsterdam the next day (where we had wandered from in the first place), and I noticed a lovely little fact. Every single bar I meandered my drunken ass into had a bottle of Jameson's behind it. Every. Single. One.

First Question

So why is the name of the blog Alcoholocaust while the URL is tipeler.blogspot.com?

Well, the short answer is that some no talent twelve-stepping ass clown who may or may not be named Lou Kesten has the alcoholocaust.blogspot.com URL all tied up. Normally this would not bother me, however he has made exactly one post to his blog back on Sunday, December 30th, 2001. The one sick pleasure I can derive from this is that while this Alcoholocaust is about the joys of drink his is, “…dedicated to the principle that recovery from alcoholism can be, if not fun, at least funny.” There is a glorious irony here that I like to savor for a moment.

Mmmm. Tastes like victory.

I tried a couple of other URLs, but they were also tied up. When I looked up tippling at Dictionary.com (one of the most useful sites out there, in my opinion) I found that is was possibly derived from the Middle English word for bartender, tipeler. Tippling.blogspot.com was taken (as were benders.blogspot.com and benderz.blgospot.com) so tipeler.blogspot.com became the home for the new and shiny Alcoholocaust. Besides, I figure having a foreign language kind of ups the intellectual hipness of the place, and lord knows we are going to need all the help we can get with that here.

No one actually asked this question, I just thought I would get it out of the way before someone did.

As the more astute amongst you may notice, we are now kicking it at alcoholocaust.blogspot.com thanks to Lou Kesten who turns out to be a hell of a guy and gave up the URL when he read this post. I moved this post from the tipeler site for the sake of completeness.

The Second Day

Welcome to my second entry in to the ever expanding blogosphere! The Alcoholocaust is a blog dedicated to, as I say in the description, the most noble and manly of arts: Drinking. Everything related to drinking is going to be fair game on this blog.

• Bar reviews? Count on it. Well at least for the three bars at which the group of miscreants I know drink.
• Drink reciepes? Bring ‘em on. Even if you’re not a member of the blog, email them in and we will try them out and post them along with our thoughts.
• Stories of drunken exploits? Are you kidding me? That is really the whole point of this blog, but don’t tell anyone else, I want to have some shoddy veneer of class.
• Philosophies about drinking? Absolutely! I would like this to be a thinking drinker’s blog. A symposium if you will, but maybe with less of the butt sex.

I have also invited two of my friends to contribute to the Alcoholocaust, so in addition to trying to stick with a theme (which my other blog, Opiate of the Masses couldn’t do if the theme was super-glued to the blog) I am going to have to share this space with a couple of other drunkards. I will let them give in depth introductions themselves, but believe me when I tell you they are both well versed in the rarified science of drink. One is a former bartender hailing from Scotland and the other is a former philosophy major from the outskirts of East Texas. Both of them had upbringings and made life choices which I believe destined them to become the grand masters of the art that they are today. In all honesty I bow before their knowledge and consider both of them not only my good friends, but my spiritual advisors.

Now let’s get this party started.