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