Friday Night
It's half past seven. A good time. A decent time. You and your best mate push open the hostelry door and are met by a warm, welcoming tide of sounds and sensations. Laughter and convivial chat fill the air and a fire crackles in the corner, imparting a golden glow across the walls. Your saliva glands kick in as you walk to the bar - a length of pristine oak displaying a bewitching variety of brews. There's a new guest ale - must give it a try! Behind the bar you can see the Top Shelf glinting up above, with a heavyweight selection of single malts and quality vodkas on offer to those of weakened resolve. Sad, who needs it? As you peruse the pumps you sample the bar snacks, thoughtfully laid out to whet the appetite. Delicious!
As the first mouthful of cool, hoppy beer slides down your throat you turn to your mate and smile. This is what it's all about! Friday night. On the town. A few quality beers, some good-natured banter, a release from the worries of the world. Later, maybe a curry and a DVD back at home, sound sleep and up for the joys of the weekend. Maybe a match? Maybe back here to watch the rugby? For now you can sink back and let the pub take the strain ……
…… So you're standing at the bar, 14 pints in, swaying. You need a slash, there's already a great stain on your crotch from your last attempt. When you look around, things move too quickly, or at least more quickly than you. Bits of salty food hang off your face, your eyes are bloodshot and your hair is like matted grease. Your breath stinks of yeasty swill, there is a pleasant bubbling in your bum and your hands are sticky from God knows what.
You are gorgeous! You can do anything! You are SuperDrunk!
That beautiful woman over there keeps giving you the eye - you know what she's after. You smile at her seductively. She's looking away coyly. Women, eh? What a tease!
Your mate doesn't look too good. In fact, shit, he looks AWFUL. Wait a minute, that's you … oh, there's your mate. Jesus. The state of him. Some people don't know when they've had enough. Talking of which - oh it's closing time, get them in. Top Shelf time. 'And a whisky chaser with those' - why can't the barman hear you? - 'A whisky chaser!' Cheers.
That woman's leaving with her mate. What a hint. Easy to see where this is going. You head for the toilets, steady yourself with the old one-arm brace against the wall and piss for England. Quick glance in the mirror, wipe the crisps off your face and run wet hands through your hair. Now you wash them under the tap and do the same again. Go on - the smile. That's it: a bit crooked, mysterious, alluring, sexxxy. Your mate's being sick - there's no time for that. Grab him, wipe his mouth on your jacket and give him a gentle slap. 'Come on, mate! We're in!' 'Ughh...Where? What?' You laugh - what a mate!
Outside there's no sign of the ladies. This is bad news, they must have misread your signal. Their loss. There will be other women. Tonight. You feel your powers reviving in the cold air. Ahead a brick wall bars your path to freedom - well, out of the pub car park. But you are SuperDrunk and nothing gets in your way. With a few bounds you are there, and a leap takes you up, up and not quite over the wall. Your face slams concrete. It will not give. You slump to the floor. The need to piss is strong again. Maybe you can piss the wall away. You take aim at a gap in the concrete, trying to widen it with your golden beam of hot superpiss.
Behind you you hear giggling, like a silver brook. It's the ladies! They're still here! Excellent! Better play hard to get. Zip up, even though you haven't finished. Your mate's being sick again, over a Vauxhall Astra. This is going to be up to you. Summoning all your super powers, you cross to meet them. My God, she's beautiful, even more beautiful than eight pints ago when you first exchanged glances. She was a bit of a munter then. Funny how wrong you can be. Her mate's not bad either - is a threesome on the cards? Nah, don't be greedy.
'…Icouldn'thelpnoticingyouearlier,' you say, you think.
'Fuck off, you alky perv,' says Dream Girl. 'Look, he's pissed himself!'
You laugh along with their banter, draw yourself to your full height and then blow your biscuits all over her mate. You can tell she wasn't expecting that. SuperDrunk triumphs again.
The moral of this story? If you can't fool anyone else, at least you can fool yourself! Nice one, SuperDrunk.