Stories from 1996 Chapter 28 A Britpop Journal

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August 26th 1996

You know when people do an inexplicably horrible thing when drunk and blame the drink. When the cliché of “I didn’t know what I was doing,” is used as a Get Out of Jail Free Card. Alcohol as absolution. I never understood this until this morning.

However ridiculously behaved I have been after a few Stellas or vodkas I have always had some level of control over my actions. I have known full well what is going on and any stupid deeds have always been of my own doing. Last night, on the other hand, was so out of control and frighteningly irresponsible that I am unsure of whether to drink alcohol ever again.

It started off innocently enough, with no hint of the carnage ahead of us. Harry was down for the night having spent most of the summer at home in West Wales. On a whim we decided  to go back to Cathays for some Bank Holiday student pub drinking, still trying to cling onto the fallacy of being a part of that world before the baby Freshers arrive.  It was this whim that led us to the Woody where, at 3.30, we began our early afternoon with a pitcher of lager. Perfectly respectable Bank Holiday behaviour. So far so good.

After what was probably a couple of hours, time having no value when on a Leo Sayer, some welcome familiar faces entered the pub in high spirits. Coincidentally Ben and his mates that we knew quite well for one reason or another had also decided on The Woody as the location for their Bank Holiday merriment. This was excellent news as it gave us an opportunity to get even more rowdy and drunk. The atmosphere was on fire, the tunes were loud (they turned the jukebox up for us), the pitchers of beer kept on appearing and the banter was flying. A lively, loud group of drunkards intent on fun, friendship and flirtation.

My recent encounter with the opposite sex still a cringy memory, I had given myself a talking to and intended to approach any males with caution and grace. Unfortunately, just like any other authority and wisdom I have ignored in the past, I was not going to take my own advice, particularly when any ability to think reasonably had been heavily diluted by several pitchers of Stella Artois. Fuzzy logic doesn’t even begin to explain my mental state by 830 yesterday evening.

And that is that. I cannot write anymore on this episode in my life as I have no more memories. My every thought process obliterated by alcohol.

Fastforward to this morning.

My next conscious moment was when I begrudgingly opened my eyes to an unfamiliar and unnerving morning view. I knew immediately it was not my bed. Even though my head hurt to think I quickly realised that I was not alone. Shit. I am appalled to admit it, but for about 5 minutes I could have been sharing that intimate, very used space, unclothed (I had checked) with anyone. There were preferable outcomes, Mark Morriss, Rick Witter, Gruff Rhys. Or less preferable but I could still shrug it off outcomes of Ben, one or two of his previously dabbled with mates, or even one of the prettier females from the party (hey it is the 90s).

images But, alas no, the site I had to behold that revolting stench of a morning was horror personified.

A grim immoral ending to a nightmare of no memory.

He had a ponytail. A beard. And a Man United duvet cover.

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