Background

This was written one very hungover morning in St Andrews, where I was a student a while ago. It's as entertaining as anybody else's drunk stories, however much that may be.

5.55am, Thursday, St Andrews.

Hail means ‘Hello’, doesn't it? Ha ha. It was the hail that woke me up. God was obviously in a playful mood, otherwise he'd have let me get another hour's sleep before dragging me out of my ever-changing dream. Most people get hangovers, I get alarm calls. Well, it could be worse. As it was, I awoke to the sound of my carpet being made of crickets. Not the actuality of it, just the sound as thousands of brave little ice pellets threw themselves at my window in a sterling attempt to bring me back to consciousness. My ever-obliging mental jukebox decided that I would really like to hear a loop of "Victoria" by The Kinks. I attempted to replace it, but ended up with "Mr Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" from Thunderball (sample lyric: He's tall / and he's dark / and like a shark / he looks for trouble / that's why the zero's double / Mister Kiss Kiss Bang Bang). I dislike mornings.

Once I had enough of my brain working to be considered a proper person (rather than a few mis-firing neurons and 13 stone of meat), I stumbled over to the sink, switched the light on and tried to prise my eyes open. When the left one finally decided that it was going to have to open some day anyway, I got a look at myself in the mirror. I looked rather cute, thank you very much. What with being out of focus (no glasses) and sleepy looking, I looked like a Manga version of myself, without the speedlines. Speedline-san would be rather bored if he was assigned to my life story. Alive at 5.21 in Fife. Now there's a puzzler. The options are: a) Lie in bed for another two hours, fully compis mentis b) See if the papers have arrived yet c) Go watch satellite until the Cartoon Network gets on the air and calm myself with some Scooby Doo or d) Write down what happened last night.

Most of the hall then repaired to the Upper Common Room for coffee and coffee (the budget not quite getting into mints territory). Forswearing the java as a sobering influence, I danced the delicate ballet of courtly intrigue with my usual finesse. Or I may have just lurched around the place. It's hard to say. The only interesting thing to happen was my finding myself in the foyer when I was obviously in no condition to have made it down the stairs. Still haven't figured that one out. But, no time for love Dr Jones, we were off. The pitiable people with higher tolerances than I had decided that we should go to the Old Course Hotel for a post-drink drink. "You're far to drunk, why not go for an early night?" was the message sent by the Numbskull who does that sort of thing. "Go and get your coat" was the one that filtered through my vine-stupid head.

If you ever want directions from the North Haugh to the Old Course Hotel, don't go asking me.

The fleet dropped out of hyperspace in front of the revolving door of the OCH and, after an entertaining five-minute wandering of the ground floor, were told that the bar was on the fourth. Thinking that this would improve our drinking chances, we headed up. Everything is subjective, so you have no right to mock when I say that the OCH reminded me of the other big hotel I've been in, which was the Disneyland Hotel at EuroDisney. Slightly less talking mice, slightly more Whiskies. Now, when you've just got toasted on free wine, it's generally time to sit back and let the alcohol flow through your system, slowly corrupting your higher mental functions. Plus, I was going to be sick soon. So I decided to indulge in a cigar. My Zippo stirred in my pocket, eager for its first taste of tobacco, but it was to be foiled. This was no 45p Hamlet purchased in a bad mood from the Union Off Licence, this was a £6.25 Romeo y Julietta No. 3, and these people knew what they were doing. They warmed the end with a match and gave it to me to puff into life. A fine moment, one which even dispelled my old saying "the problem with cigars is that you wake up with your mouth tasting like a forest fire". Of course, sitting here now, I wish a helicopter would dump a load of water into my mouth (preferably not lake water. I prefer my beverages slightly more condom-cowpat-comedy-doomed-scuba-diver free) while a swarthy pilot shouts "it's no good, this whole state'll be gone by the afternoon", but hey, carpe diem.

I had progressed about a third of the way down my No. 3, when my forefathers called to me, saying that it was time to perform the traditional rite of manhood. I lurched out the bar toilet-ward (a good bit of temporal engineering coming up) shortly before one of the waiters told me where it was. Huh? "First door on your left, Sir". Man they know how to treat their drunks. Or maybe they don't want me breaking down the ambassador's suite door shouting "Let me in or I'll vom on your carpet!". Either or. As it was, I found myself in the rather swish toilets, where I encountered a problem. Student toilets are built for one thing, i.e. being sick in. I have no idea what the OCH's toilets are built for because they a) Are very low down and b) Have wallpaper on the walls. Stumbling out of downtown Splashbackville (after a brave attempt to clean the worst of it up) I found that my cigar had gone out. Not that I was far behind it. As I didn't, contrary to appearances, want to sick up any vital organs, I was forced to see my sweet little No. 3 passed round the company, until it rested with The Minister. Who sucked it until it was wider than it was long. Now that's class. In retrospect, I may be partly responsible for the half hour he then spent in the toilet (the right cubicle, not the left one which I had previously christened) while The Gay Icon and The Druglord attempted tricks with my Zippos (yes, plural; no, I don't know why either).

After a period in which my brain appeared to be shutting down for good, The Druglord then suggested we progressed to the Union. My three working brain cells screamed "NOOOOO!!!!!" in a most Marvelesque way, and I was forced to listen to them. Pausing only to call The Minister out of the toilet, we headed down in the lift and through the revolving door without any comedy mishaps. Damn. The Minister was not in much of a state to progress on my associates' binge and so I looked manfully into the distance, took a deep breath, pulled The Minister up from his crouching position, and we set off back to Hall. Only one of us was sick on the way back, which I think shows admirable group restraint.

If you ever want directions from the Old Course Hotel to the North Haugh, don't bother asking. There appears to be a wormhole linking them.

As usual, I managed to get undressed and take out my contact lenses while in a state of drunkenness that would impress a Russian tramp. What an esoteric mutant ability.

"So Taz. What have we learnt today?"

"Nyar argh splt grr nyar"

"I guess you're right. We haven't learnt a thing"