Posts Tagged ‘Beer’

The Friday Question: Booze-Time Stories

April 24, 2009

Image by BP Perry

Welcome to Booze Britain!

That’s right! From the cradle to the grave, we Brits are drinking ourselves stupid in an orgy of boozy indulgence not seen since the heady days of the 18th century. Indeed, we’re so drunk, television has had little choice over the last few years but to document our inexorable slide into alcohol-induced insanity with a series of programmes such as Drinking With The Girls, Booze Britain, Street Crime UK and Brits Abroad. And they’re all ace because they hold a window up to our souls, and show us who we really are – pissed-up dregs hockling mashed-up kebab into a gutter with our trousers round our ankles.

Huzzah!

So to celebrate the coming together of this country’s two favourite pastimes of drinking far too much and television, we here at your rather woozy Watch With Mothers invite YOU to share your most interesting boozed-up experience.

Did you go out on the lash and end up married to a small family car? Were you astounded to wake up the next day with your head stuffed up your own anus? Or did you simply eat lots and lots of dog dirts, resulting in blindness and paralysis?

Let’s have no morbid stories, please, we’ve all got plenty of those. Instead, let’s stagger into a wall, pull down our flies, think we’ve flopped the old fella out when we haven’t, and piss boozy anecdotes all down the trouser leg of Friday.

WWMers: Mine’s a pint!

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Coors Light

July 17, 2008

This is one of those odd ones that I hate/like.

A bit like shaving your balls, it’s not nice to do but I like the way it feels afterwards. Or wanking off looking at pictures of your mum, which is nice at the time but after it you feel a bit… well… suicidal.

The advert starts with the usual humourless twattery; bubbles, filters, clean, cool…beer-guff – the sort of shite they wheel out for people too scared to drink proper ale (which should be dark brown, flat, a little cooler than warm and drunk by men – not baseball hatted tossers with three quarter-length shorts and Billabong t-shirts).

We’ve seen it all before. Swirling effervescent liquid glittering like silver sunflakes in tan gutmud with some Burton-deep narration – rich and manly – eulogising over it. Wonderful, delicious etc… hyperbole in a glass.

But wait. No. Something’s not right. The camera has pulled up through this pond of gassy gall and two young men are in conversation… Wait – the one on the right appears to be the one actually narrating… The one on the right IS the man evangelising about the wonders of Coors.

Jesus.

Now this is fucking annoying. At this stage of proceedings my exasperation dam has broken and a flood of rasping sighs gas into my living space like a farting cow. The tit on the left castigates the ‘narrator’ on the right for ‘doing that’ but by now my tolerance is repaired, something wonderful is about to occur…

I really don’t understand why this has happened; I can’t comprehend why any part of my being seismically shifts as it does. I mentally down tools and like a five-year-old waiting for the steam train to round the mountain, I freeze in anticipation for the narration to continue off-camera. The two protagonists look at each other in silent astonishment, then look behind.

Approaching them, extolling the virtues of the ‘clean crisp taste’ in exactly the same throaty tones as the narrator is a plain looking girl with a rather large mouth. Sweet Christ, no.

SHE’S the narrator, it’s her!! She’s nothing to look at. She’s mousey and a little rotund but something about her, the way she walks and the manner in which she ‘speaks’. The coquettish way she chinks her bottle at the end of her sentence. Dear reader… I FUCKING LOVE HER!

I’m left sitting there in silence, grinning from ear-to-ear like an utter twit, like I’ve just been touched by the hand of Christ. Why has this happened?

Oh beautiful Coors girl, be mine, be mine, you fat frog.

Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps

July 5, 2007

Two Pints of Piss 

Too pointless for laughter and a sackful of shit

In the absence of Tycoon, I realised that I would have to turn my attention elsewhere this week, and as I was drifting aimlessly through the channels late last night, I came upon an easy target. Not just an easy target mind, but an insipid, zombified beast wearily waiting to be put to sleep forever. And while, unfortunately, it is not yet within my power to do so, I was nevertheless struck with the irresistable urge to clobber such a pathetically inept and flailing subject on it’s sickbed. No, I am not referring to Make Your Play or indeed Glitterball, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. No, I’m talking about Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.

Canned laughter aside, there are no indications whatsoever that this is indeed intended for the purposes of humourous relief. In fact, any claims at all that this is funny are just out and out lies and anyone who even so much as smirks at the situation-based japes therein should be punched in the face for days, mercilessly relieved of their scalp, tossed into a volcano and shot at on their way down. Especially since those who enjoy its witless attributes are clearly chavvy types anyway. This is not intended as a purely throwaway remark either. It’s bland, shallow and utterly void of redemption, as well as being as much a reprehensible enemy of intelligence as anything else, anywhere on this knackered planet. As such, it is not just a programme for chavs, it is a fucking chav.

Taking into consideration that I have yet to encounter another human being who speaks well of this awful show, I am somewhat bamboozled as to the reasoning behind BBC 3’s incessant airing of it. As soon as it strikes midnight, it’s there. Multiple episodes, back to back, five nights a week. Lord above, how many series of this cascade of rancid camel shit have been commissioned? Someone, somewhere, needs a rare old twatting.

Ralf Little has long since bypassed his own sell-by date and must no longer be allowed to surf his own faded projection of success. Granted, he was quite funny in The Royle Family, but time has passed and now he’s just an offensive stain. I don’t even know the names of the rest of the cast but quite frankly I pity the joyless wankbags. I find comfort in assuming they’re all two strokes short of a climax.

I realise that this is not the only British sitcom guilty of bringing comical emptiness to the masses, (My family, My Hero, anything with Nicholas Lyndhurst post Only Fools And Horses) but Two Pints of Lager should voluntarily die for the sins of all the others as far as I’m concerned, minus any kind of resurrection.

Already, I have devoted a near-regrettable amount of my own precious life-span to this unworthy subject, and if I dedicate any more then I’m in danger of becoming a fool to myself.

Glastonbury Festival 2007

June 28, 2007

Lovingly pared down from this article on Piqued.co.uk

Glastonburied 

Some people never leave their homes, after my trip to fucking Glastonbury I now understand why.

Thursday 

On the Thursday morning, oh it seems a world away, I met my bro and his missus at some godforsaken hour in the morning at Sainsbury as we had a few more items to pick up in order to facilitate our stay in a environment that would upset the residents of Darfur.

Off we all rolled, our hearts full of joy and anticipation, for the 2.5 hour journey to a large, huge, plot of land near Shepton Mallet in Somerset.

On the Thursday the festival was just starting to find it’s feet, the main stages are closed but the stalls and bars are functioning sufficiently. Despite the heavy rain that has been pervading the region for, well, forever, the going wasn’t too bad, my Doctor Marten boots saw me good and because there were only 2/3rds of the 175,000 expected, getting around wasn’t too much of a trial. I’d arranged to meet a mate, in an area called Lost Vagueness (Christ, doesn’t the name alone annoy you?) an area right on the outskirts of the site.

The walk back the fucking camper van took nearly an hour, the ground was already beginning to show signs of serious deterioration due to a resurgence of rain and the feet from the movement of people from one place to t’other.

Friday

I was woken by the thunderous sound of rain on the roof, sides, and from all I know, the underside of the van. Despite their tent bearing up well, my bro and his missus joined me in the relative security of the vehicle to cook breakfast and make tea. The rain came down so hard we had to delay our trip into the site by an hour; partially due to the cruel realisation that I’d at last have to wear my fucking wellies and my objection to the fundamental fact that if I didn’t, I’d be soaked to the bone.

By now the ground was getting difficult to navigate through and it seemed that the numbers for the previous evening had quadrupled, there were people absolutely bloody everywhere. The first band we saw were The Earlies, I wished I’d been late. Unfortunately I was late for the first 10 minutes of Modest Mouse as I’d wholly underestimated the time it would take me to walk 200 fucking metres through an Amazonian Swamp and nearly one 5th of a million people. Once there I caught one of four of the best acts of the weekend. I stuck around for The Automatic who were accompanied by heavy rainfall, I and the audience held fast, it was worth it despite the little shrieking git who bounces over the stage like Daffy Duck having a fit.

I made it back to the Pyramid for Amy Wino. She’s not bad, certainly has a pair of pipes on her but worth all the hype? I don’t know. Naughty Amy was off her box so I decided to join her and I rolled a big fat joint and got so stoned I got the fear. Food saw it off, a big cardboard plate of peas, beans, carrots, gravy and a single steaming pie, it was rather delicious and I celebrated with a pint of the local, a Somerset ale called Wirrey or something. It was a fucking sensation, so much so that by the following day they ran out of it and I’d forgotten what’s its called. Whirrey? Whir.. who cares.

The day was starting to get complicated, as the crowds began to pour into the Pyramid stage for Bloc Party my brother and his missus were keener to get stuck in the front, being a card carrying claustrophobic I remained in a position behind the giant screen and auxiliary speakers, providing me with a certain degree of comfort whilst not compromising on sound or vision. It was an okay set, a little bit too arrogant for want of a better negative but I know what I mean at least. After it was the turn of the fucking Fratellis. Foolishly I accepted the invitation by text from my bro to place near the front that was apparently ‘spacious and arsehole free’. Why on earth I wanted to even acknowledge their existence let alone get nearer to the cunts is beyond me but the area I found myself in was neither spacious and most certainly not arsehole free. By now the mud had turned parts of the ground to deep puddles of shitty, muddy soup which resulted, predictably I suppose, into swimmingly pools for wankers intent on covering themselves and as many people in fucking mud. What with that and all the ‘do wop tee do’ from the band I was outta there like I was on fire after 15 minutes.

Glastonbury mud is clay based, its deceptively soft but sticky, its cloying, clogging mud from hell. It can rip your wellies off in a second, it slipperier than a British Gas salesman in anal lube and it seems to have a limitless depth. In short it’s like trying to walk through quick drying cement. Throw in hundreds of thousands of people moving in every conceivable direction you may understand why my legs of have gone from those of a 90-year-old invalid to Thierry Henry in the space of a few days.

It took me nearly two hours to get to the cabaret tent. I was back in time to see Jeff Green. This was a, if not the, Glastonbury highlight for me. His act was so funny I spent a full hour honking like a goose, tears down my cheeks, breathing issues, the fucking lot. He’d managed to achieve that rarest of things that only a stand up at the top of his game can do, perpetual laughter from the room that occasionally peaked to hysteria. He was filthy, observant and delivered his jokes with the charm of a gentleman. Outstanding.

Saturday

Saturday was the best day of the lot. Firstly, a splendid set by Biffy Clyro and then CSS a likeable Brazilian punk/electro outfit that forced good weather on the crowd. When the sun did appear the whole of Glastonbury let off a single roar of appreciation that really did feel quite, well, special. So much so it reminded one why one was at the fucking place in the first place. These were salad days, Glastonbury at it’s best, drinking in the sunshine with friends that had arrived by design or spontaneously, to share in the music and the whole atmosphere of the place. Despite my overall negativity of the experience, that’s one thing that I did engage with, largely, the people there are very decent and at times one does genuinely feel part of a celebratory collective, even when alone.

My brother and I had arranged to meet a mate at The Glade for one of my favourite bands of all time, The Ozric Tentacles. Without wishing to go into a history lesson, I’ve seen this band dozens and dozens of times over the years, mainly when they were unsigned and you could by their tapes for £2 and a hash cake for the same amount. This was the best music act of the weekend. The venue was a funky covered stage set up in a copse, the green light radiated off the trees by the flashing lighting rigs and lasers looked magnificent.

The band came on, lifted off the tops of our heads and poured some gorgeousness in, I danced, we danced, everyone fucking danced. Even when the set stopped dead so some crew could help out some poor tripper who’d freaked himself out, we danced. For a nearly an hour it was unsurpassed joy and energy, I was whacked out of my noggin and I didn’t care. At last I’d really found what I had come for.

Sunday

By contrast Sunday was the worst day. Due to the bastard pissing rain we didn’t actually get into the festival til 4pm, I managed to cover the end of The Young Knives set which was magnificent, if I’d been in a better spot and seen the whole gig it would’ve been way up there. The struggle back to the Pyramid stage was almost impossible, by now parts of the site were totally inaccessible, and those that were heralded nasty surprises, I watch a girl fall up to her waist in a chasm of mud, to the left and right of me people were falling arse over tit and the general sense of humour that had pervaded the festival spirit were flagging, this wasn’t fun.

After we went and ate, kebabs, bloody good they we too and I went off to see Ian Cognito in the cabaret tent, I didn’t fancy The Who because the Pyramid stage area was virtually impossible to navigate and The Chemical Brothers on the Other stage don’t push my buttons. I made the right decision by my standards, Ian’s act was blistering, cynical, offensive and hilarious. It seemed a very fitting way to close the festival, though he was a lot funnier than most of the past 3 days. As I slid back to the van I passed a stage were Bill Bailey was performing. I bumped into a couple of likely lads from Derby, nice chaps, we shared a spliff together and I headed off into the fucking rain for the last time. When I got back my bro and his missus were attempting to get out of their wet clothes. I sat in the front, they in the back and we chatted and ate all the snacks we’d bought from Sainsbury, well most of them, I chucked a bag of Cheese Balls all over myself as I attempted to converse with wine.

Monday

Monday morning began early; we thought getting out of Glastonbury would take an age. As it turned out getting out at all was impossible because I’d drained my battery operating the small fridge in the back. Mercifully our neighbour helped us out, we packed up our stuff and attempted to leave.

At last we were headed back for London. I was shattered and the last thing I wanted to do was drive, but drive I must. We hit a fucking huge queue near Andover that took well over and hour to conquer which put my schedule back somewhat. I suffered a creeping trip through South London, which was made considerably worse by the sudden and violent need to take a behemoth shit.

So was it worth it? Spending four days in a raincloud and having to risk your life taking a piss in pissy mud, with other people watching you piss as their piss goes over your welly tops, having to pinch back unholy turds because you can’t face the stinking plastic chod bins again, having to spend so much energy getting a pint it was hardly worth the effort, well maybe that’s going a bit too far. Yes, the music and the company were good when I had it, the people were nice and when the sun was out and you were settled it was as good a place as any in the world to be. But it was all let down by the other factors.

One other thing, Glastonbury makes a big song and dance (literally as it happens) about the environment, all the carbon footprint ‘I count’ stuff is surely turned over and fucked in it’s freckle by the sheer fuel burning mechanical logistics of getting the site prepared, the bands that have to be flown in from around the world, the audience to congregate in one spot from all over the country and beyond. I reckon my carbon footprint is greater just by my having to do over 5 washes just to get the mud off my fucking clothes.

Still, I would consider going next year. Maybe. Maybe? Actually, fuck it. I’m watching it on TV. If at all.