Drink, Drink-me-do

You! Yes, you. Read this!

As promised, i managed to haul my dormant anus out of my land of sloth. This only happens when there is a good reason to do so, however. So, when the prospect of drinking a crate of Foster's sprung up, i left the house quicker than V.C.s from a Napalm-struck forest (or some other badly fitting comparison).

The night started pretty standard: Turn up, watch the telly, crack the jingoist/sexist jokes (of course, this is only for the sake of the blog. I mean, would i actually crack a joke of that nature? (yes)), listen to unbearably loud music until there is that funny buzz in each ear that won't go away (no matter how much you drink....).

I got to about Foster's # 6 (i...i..i mean 10! What do you think i am? a lightweight or something?!) and decided that i'd try and emulate scenes of films that i'd recentley watched (bad move? Yuss!). Somehow, the 'Beerfest' way of drinking beers became a quite desirable feat to attempt, so i went about finding a sharp, stabbing implement, and proceeded to murder some whores.
Wait! That last bit was fabricated. I actually went and found stabbing implements (in the form of a friend's keys) in order to pierce the beercan in the side. (The whole manouvere involves shaking the can, stabbing it, placing mouth over just-made hole, and then opening ringpull. This allows maximum speed when 'downing' the can)

I decided to go upto the host's top attic windows, open it, and begin to perform the required moves. However, the first stab did not pierce the can, so i turned and faced my friend, and with a blasé attitude, began stabbing the can profusley. This resulted in a surprise explotion of the can, and a subsequent surprised Lloyd (me). In the following seconds, i managed to throw the keys from the window with surprise.
My friend began to point out my error with some level of enthusiasm (mostly involving words that include, but were not restricted to: 'fuck', 'jesus', 'oh-noes' and 'i love mens bums' (i cunningly added that last one, in case he reads this...)), to which i reacted with complete indifference and replied "Look! I did the Beerfest can trick!".

I was still brimming with enthusiasm when numerous rescue attempts were hatched and implemented in order to bring the keys back to the safety of the owner's pocket, from the roof of my friend's house, where they then lied.
One attempt reminded me of a poor person's take on the scene of "Mission Impossible" with the big tall room and zip-wire/rope. One friend leant out of the window, whilst holding my unstable, pissed-up hand, and slowly tortoise-crawled down the roof of the house, towards the keys.
He hooked the keys with his toes. Success was near! Then, in true piss-artist fashion, he let the keys slip, and they fell to rest in a new, exciting location: The guttering!

I won't go on and describe everything, but in a crude/condensed form: The keys were rescued when the same friend climbed on top of the kitchen (directly under the said piece of guttering) and fished the keys out, with a rake. One extremley important lesson learnt from this experience is that if i ever choose (for some unbeknown reason) to visit a fairground, the smelly pikies will not be conning me out of cuddly toys and tenners stuck to magnets, no! I have a mate who can fish keys from gutterings, so all of their simple ploys won't get us!

Anyhow, the rest of the night was pretty standard as far as drinking with me goes. I managed to nearly double the earlier quoted amount, and do various 'funny' things whilst inebriated.
I then went to sleep, and woke up.

Goodbyes!