(And Other Useless Life Skills)

I’ve posted about alcohol to some extent before.

Hey, I’m an arts student in Scotland, it’s only to be expected that the Drink is part of my, if not day-to-day then maybe week-to-week life. I’m in a specialism that can often be both physically and mentally exhausting – when you’ve spent a whole day scraping at a piece of sheet metal with another bit of metal that is optimistically known as a ‘tool’*, so that you can then fold it into a box, a large amount of cheap perry (the bit of sheet metal you’ve been hacking at just cost you £12, and you’re not even sure why you’re trying to fashion it into a box in the first place) seems like the way to go.

I posted the List already – and it shall be updated at some point in the near(ish) future, but what I’ve not yet thought about is the entirely useful skill of, and here’s the moral of the story, Knowing Your Limits.

It’s a very delicate balancing act, wherein you must tread the tight rope line that lies between Boring and I Wish I Remembered That. I’ve tried being sober and I’ve accidentally been absolutely wasted (Spanish bars, £4 pitchers of sangria, oh my!) and neither of them are any good.

There’s a beautiful rainbow of drunkenness that I’ve experienced, and I’m not talking about vomit.

The Rainbow of Drunk

Violet: the first glimmer of warmth and optimism

Indigo: perhaps two drinks in; pool game starts to go off and bus stops are very funny

Blue: just about brave enough to venture from pub or flat and towards clubs. 

Green: sudden burst of energy and hysteria. Strange photos will be taken, things will be thrown out of windows. Dancing is now possible.

Yellow: pitchers seem like a very good idea. Dancing is not only possible but possibly dangerous. Any food consumed will be AMAZING. It is a really good idea to climb on a pool table and steal all the balls.

Orange: Conversation with others is now impossible, as is walking in a straight line. Fear may set in, or numbness. Occasionally anger. Activities: running away from scary club goblins, sleeping, downing pints of water.

Red:  This stage is difficult to define as it mostly passes as a blur. Not complete blackout, but a confused fuzz of drinks running down your sleeve and a horrible and beautiful noise that is in fact music that no one would ever listen to. Activities: Smashing glasses, making tea and throwing it at your own face, crying.

Black: The void of nothingness. Leaves a wake of destruction in its path.

I’ve recently noticed that my personal right amount is roughly a glass and a half of wine. It goes up to somewhere comfortably between Green and Blue, and leaves me sensible enough not to neck anything too potent afterwards. It’s a wonderful revelation for a young girl to realise that going out doesn’t have to mean moving anything in your room that you don’t want to get barfed on or broken before you leave, in preparation for your inevitable wasted return.

Take my flatmate’s birthdays, for example. One was the start of October, and we ended up in two aforementioned Spanish bars drinking copious amounts of sangria. It ended messily, that’s all I’ll say. The important thing is that at the time I didn’t realise three things:

1. It wasn’t actually necessary to continue drinking in order to still be drunk

2. My flatmate was wasted and wouldn’t have noticed/cared if I’d stopped drinking

3. Sangria makes me angry

Compare this to my other flatmate’s birthday, about a month later. I started myself of with the magical glass and a half, and then over the next six hours (from 9 PM to 3AM) only consumed two Jack Daniels and coke and two vodka + lemonade + blackcurrant (which I actually hate because I don’t like lemonade, and the sweetness makes me thirsty and queasy, and when I was hospitalised as a child I threw up enough blackcurrant juice to make anyone want to die). All of this was interspersed with about two pints of water, to the barmen’s disgust.

It meant that I kept an acceptable level of tipsy, enough to enjoy clubs (sober = hate them hate them hate them) but not so much that I forgot everything that happened, which was just as well because it was a really good night.

I made another discovery, too. My friends are really really funny when they’re paralytic. I’d never noticed before. One of them spent ages drawing cocks in the dirt on cars, which may not sound amusing now but at the time it was hilarious. I also had to listen to a lengthy description as to why one of them wasn’t wearing underwear (it cut me in HALF I swear. In HALF).

In conclusion, I reckon I’ve finally learned a useful skill that a lot of my contemporaries don’t always grasp. It’s called being a drink-ninja, and it involves a lot of cunning alchemy and trips to the toilet to swiftly pour drinks you couldn’t refuse to be bought in the sink.

_________________________________________

* I even made the scoring tool myself. It’s like being Amish or something. Also, it should be noted that orange hot steel isn’t something to touch with your bare hands unless you want a new, very simple fingerprint design.