Drunk: –adjective – being in a temporary state in which one's physical and mental faculties are impaired by an excess of alcoholic drink (Dictionary.com).
Drunk: –adjective – being in a temporary state of awesome (79 Market St).
The end of each year signals some kind of universal desire to cast our memories back over the past twelve months. Problem is, 79 Market St has trouble remembering most of the past twelve months.
There are flashes of (neon) colour, snippets of conversation with dazed couch surfers, blurry memories of table-top dancing, and a dark suspicion that Britney Spears was played. A lot.
Instead of attempting to make sense of all these blurry memories, I’m going to sift out some of the more notable moments from all the pre drinks, house parties, after parties, drinking contests, Sunday sessions, boozy dinners, and weekend shenanigans.
So, without further ado....
The Top 5 Drunken Stories from 2010.
(Or, the Five Stories That We Can Actually Remember)
5:
Taubert. A name synonymous with ‘drunk’. His was a large, blurry smorgasbord of drunken tales to choose from. There were a lot of suggestions, multiple arguments, and many painfully repeated reasons as to why I was not re-themeing this blog “The Life and Drunk Times of Nick Taubert”.
Honourable mention: The time Taubert’s drunk alter ego stole a chair from a cafe, only to be caught by the big, burly, Greek owner and royally bitch-slapped across the cheek. Yes, slapped. Like a bitch. How I wish I’d witnessed that moment.
Anyway, top story from 2010 no. five is more a top re-telling rather than drunk happening.
It had been a work night and Taubert was out boozing like it was New Years Eve. He does that. All ‘gotta live life to the fullest,' despite a choking liver that might disagree. But ‘meh’ to the 20-something liver! They regenerate, right?
Anyway, he woke up the next morning, smelling of red wine and garlic I’m sure, and stumbled down the street to catch his train.
As he approached the park at the end of our street, he noticed...something...splayed on the grass. The he/she/it came into better focus as the fresh air cleared Taubert’s hungover vision, and he was able to make out that he/she/it was in fact a shirtless man. A snoring one.
The man jerked awake as Taubert passed. “It was my birthday last night,” he slurred, before rolling back over.
“Impressive” Taubert said, trying to recall if he'd ever passed out in a public park.
Then, while waiting for his train, a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase plonked down on the seat next to Taubert.
“Big night?” the man asked.
Taubert nodded, all sheepish.
“Don’t worry, same here,” said the man. “Want to know what helps?” He popped open his suitcase and pulled out a bottle of Lynx.
“I’m okay,” said Taubert. “I have aftershave with me.”
“Okay, more for me” said the man...then sprayed the Lynx into his eyes. “Where do you think all these people are going?” he continued, as if he hadn’t just SPRAYED LYNX INTO HIS EYES.
“Uh, work,” squeaked Taubert, edging away.
“Oh, makes sense,” said man, with a suit and briefcase which would make any onlooker assume he himself was going to work.
The train to the city then pulled up. Taubert hurried on and squeezed into the middle of the busy train to avoid the man he’d been talking to. However, the man didn’t get on the train. He just continued to sit on the bench outside, staring at nothing as the train pulled away.
Taubert began to suspect that the only people who got drunk on a weeknight were loony...so where did that leave him? Cool, carefree 20-something drunk? Or loony-to-be?
My vote is on loony-to-be.
Alcoholism - 1, Taubert - 0.
("Tantrum!")
4:
After offering a Taiwanese couch surfer his very first taste of alcohol, then teaching him his very first drinking game, and taking him to his very first gay club (then forgetting him in said club), we introduced young Honda to the messy aftermath of too much booze.
Oh, he was fine. He witnessed our messy aftermath.
Cut to our friend Henry clinging onto a trash can for dear life, slipping and sliding on the vomit-slick concrete as he hurls up all the TEQUILA! shots. I’m patting his back with one hand, finishing my kebab with the other. Hey, I’ve seen heaps of vomiting in my lifetime; when you gotta eat, you gotta eat. Taubs is running back to The Market – “we forgot Honda!”
(Honda was fine, by the way, cluelessly making friends with some gay drug dealers)
Now, cut to Honda’s dazed face as he helps drag Henry’s limp body from the taxi and back into our house. I can’t help them, because I’m still eating my kebab.
Taubs and Honda haul Henry to the bathroom, and then freeze at the door.
“Uh, he’ll have to use your bathroom,” Taubs says to me. Both boys have stricken looks on their faces.
“Why?”
“Come take a look,” Taubs says. Well, not so much “says” as “squeaks out”.
I take a look, and there, slumped on the toilet, hair brushing the floor, pants around her ankles, is our third housemate, Maxine. That’s gotta be uncomfortable.
See, Max had her own adventure that night when she decided to trial every shot, mixer, and cocktail listed on the menu at the bar she was at. That decision culminated in vomit (oh so much vomit), an angry taxi driver, and a drunk, logic-be-gone, pseudo-realisation that cats had the right idea, propelling her to curl up in a corner of the balcony to sleep, pawing pushing away her boyfriend when he tried to direct her inside.
Her boyfriend must have given up since as we found him passed out on her bed, drooling a little. But her bladder achieved what he could not, and we now we cut back to Taubert and Honda’s discovery: Maxine passed out on the toilet.
“Can you take care of this?” Taubs asks, then bolts.
I tentatively try to shake Max from her drunken coma. Her head snaps up in horror-film speed and she kind of hisses, then shouts “stop pressuring me!” and slumps back into her uncomfortable sleep.
...O-kay. I slowly back up and close the bathroom door.
Henry has passed out on Honda’s mattress, fully clothed, and poor Honda is trying to get comfortable in a corner of the couch. “I have a bus to catch at 5am,” he mumbles before also passing out.
He was gone by the time we all woke up (the next afternoon). I wonder if he ever drank again. Or caught his bus, for that matter.
Binge Drinking - 1; Max - 0; Honda - scared.
("Trees pretty, beer bad")
3:
Before Max, we had Sam. He moved out in April to live with his girlfriend. He could out drink all of us – to the point of literally passing out where he stood. Usually after taking all his clothes off. Though, this story actually involves a suit.
Taubs and I were in Sydney with a couple of friends for a festival. Sam was home alone. We got a call from him on our second day there. He was giggling, and I could almost smell the beer through the phone.
“Guess what I just did?” Sam managed to breathe out in between the laughing fits.
“Should we be worried?”
“I sold the house!”
“...okay, that’s a yes.”
Apparently, bored and drunk, Sam “borrowed” an Open for Inspection sign, donned a suit, and stood in front of our (rented) house, ushering passersby through the open front door. These strangers strolled through our bedrooms, our kitchen, our backyard, asking about infrastructure and price while Sam pointed out the dirty dishes, (my) hanging underwear, and empty bottle displays. All with a salesman’s smile.
He even offered to throw in a free set up guitar strings to the lucky purchaser.
“So...did you sell the house?” I asked, concerned.
“Yes!” Sam started laughing again. I could hear him slapping his face and trying to catch his breath. “Guess for how much?”
“Enough to pay for our lawyers?”
“One dollar!”
Oh good lord. Well, the house was still ours when we got home from Sydney, so Sam’s credibility still needs polishing, and our Real Estate agents never got in contact, so luckily the couple that Sam sold the house to for $1 never followed through with the purchase.
79 Market St – 1; Beer – 0.
2:
This is also a Taubert-centric story. One I retell with glee - since it showcases my awesome housemate status and Taubert's drunk housemate fail.
At about 3am one morning, I get a phone call. It’s that curly haired bastard. He slurs something about stranded, lift, lost, and St Kilda.
Okay, okay...I throw on a jumper and drive to St Kilda. In the middle of the night. After backing into a pole from middle-of-the-night tired.
Once in St Kilda, I call Taubert to see where he is. He slurs something about bright and road and kebab and pole dancing. Um?
I hear a police siren through the headpiece, and turn to see a police car down the road. Okay, so he’s up around that end somewhere. Yep, I should have been a detective, or something.
I find Taubert opposite a brightly lit kebab shop, twirling around a light pole on the side of the road. So that’s what he meant. I usher him into the car before his late-night pole-dancing and heel-clicking gets him beaten up. Hey, it’s Melbourne: almost anything can get you beaten up.
Taubert smells like beer and raver sweat and I have to roll down the windows to keep from gagging. He’s in an annoying drunk-happy mood and I need to tell him five times to put on his seatbelt before he actually hears me over the radio that he’s just cranked up and is dancing wildly to. I think he has it on Gold 104.3.
“YOU ARE AWESOME,” he shouts, then hugs my head, covering my eyes, just as I’m turning the car around a street corner.
“TAUBERT!” I yell, missing a row of parked cars by an inch.
Taubert lets go and rolls down his window, sticking half his body out and waving his arms in the night air. I half expect him to start barking.
“MONICA MARINOV IS AWESOME,” he shouts instead. “YOU SIR, DO YOU WANT HER NUMBER? SHE’LL GIVE YOU SEX! 0411- ”
“TAUBERT!” I yank him inside and close the windows.
He then forgets how awesome I am, and starts talking about how awesome HE is, for the whole goddamn ride home. I tune out, until he punches my shoulder and drunk-smiles, waggling a finger in front of my trying-to-drive face. “I know I’m awesome, but hands to yourself.”
“Taubert, my hands are well and truly to myself. They are both on the wheel, trying to keep us alive. Dick.”
Taubert looks drunk-confused, tilts his heads, looks at the wheel then back at me and says: “But I’m awesome. So hands to yourself.”
I resist the urge to punch him in his awesome face.
“Can we go Hungry Jacks? Please please please please please please please please please please.”
“OKAY! Shut up.”
I turned around and drive us to Hungry Jacks. Inside there are two Neo-Nazi looking guys hassling the counter clerk. Apparently their meals are taking too long. Drunk Taubert mutters under his breath – audibly – to back off, that there aren't many people working at night.
The Neo Nazis stop hassling the clerk, and turn to look at us. Great.
“Ignore my friend, he’s drunk,” I say and glare at Taubert.
The Neo Nazis get distracted by their food finally arriving – two Happy Meals – and leave. Taubert spends the rest of the wait and drive home trying to drunk-analyse why he thought it was a good idea to play the hero at 3:30am in a dingy Hungry Jacks restaurant. His main concern was that he might have put a girlfriend in danger, had he had one at the time.
Gee, thanks. Dick.
Once home, I attempt to reclaim my sleep but drunk Taubert wants company and threatens to lock me in the pantry. Yes, the pantry. Amongst the bread and cans of tuna, so at least I won't starve to death while keeping him company against my will. In the end, he just resorts to scuffing the floor with his foot and pouting, attempting to pull on my guilt strings. I resign and stay and watch infomercials with him to keep the household peace. For two hours. While listening to him re-analyse his Hungry Jacks heroism.
Drunk Taubert - 1; Monica - 0.
1:
Now, I like to refer to myself (affectionately) as a vodka-whore. I enjoy my vodka in shot-sized portions. Multiple shot-sized portions. I have been known to brag about my alcohol tolerance. There was one night, though, when the vodka won. By a memory-less mile.
I was out with Taubs and a group of friends at Love Machine. We’d started the night with pre-drinks, where I’d bought with me a bottle of Russian Standard. We’d cleaned it off by the time we headed out – 10pm.
We got to Love Machine at 10:30, and headed straight to the bar for our first round of SHOTS! Then, when the stragglers of the group arrived at 10:45, we had our second round of SHOTS! In between, I was having my own one-on-one rounds of SHOTS! with different people.
11:00 – third official round. 11:05 – one-on-one round. 11:15 – fourth official round. 11:30 – one-on-one round.
Now, I usually don’t go this hard, despite a themed blog that may point to the contrary. I enjoy drinking, but I also enjoy standing upright. Half the fun of weekend benders is the platform dancing, after all. That night, though, I think arrogance (I can’t get drunk!) decided to teach me a lesson.
12:00. I squeeze my way to the front of the bar between two good looking gay boys. I ask if they knew each other, and introduce them when they say no (I had to ask for their names first). After shaking hands, I declared, that as a thanks for forging this new friendship between them, they both have to buy me SHOTS!
... And that’s the last thing I remember.
8am. I wake up in my bed with a start, fully clothed, vomit bucket on the floor beside me (yes, 79 Market St has an official vomit bucket. It’s bright pink and has the words “vomit here” written in black marker on the bottom of it).
I stumble to my bathroom and my vision takes a moment to follow me, and when it does it kind of slants everything forward in its haste. I blink rapidly to clear the fuzz and squint at the mirror. Are those scratches on my forehead?
Taubs knocks on the door, and peers in.
“You’re alive. That’s good.”
“Am I still drunk?” I ask.
“Probably.”
“I don’t remember a thing.” Which is actually a Monica-first.
“WELL!” says Taubs. “Let me fill you in”...
12:30. Taubs had bumped into a friend from his highschool, and he wanted to introduce Taubert to two pretty girls he had just befriended. Taubs took one step towards the pretty girls, then caught sight of a stumbling figure, arching backwards then fowards as she attempted to re-learn how to walk (“That was me, wasn’t it?” I interject his story. “Yes, Monica”).
“Oh. My. God,” Taubs had said. He turned to his friend, apologised, took one last lingering look at the two girls, then made a beeline for me in an attempt to beat the looming security gaurd. He grabbed my wrist and started pulling me towards the exit. “We gotta go.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said, attempting to stumble back in the direction of the dance floor.
“You’re about to get kicked out. We’re leaving.”
“No!” Apparently I tried to stamp my heeled foot, but kind of slipped instead. Taubs eventually managed to drag me outside and into a waiting taxi.
(“I looked like a rapist – dragging a drunk, protesting girl out of a club.”
“Especially with your hair.”
“Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Sorry. Continue.”)
I started crying (“crying?!”) on the drive home, telling Taubs that I hated him for making me leave. Then having a drunken change of heart and apologising, then reverting back to hating him. This lasted the whole drive home.
Once we pulled up in front of the house, I managed to fling open the taxi door (and leave it open) and drunk-stumble to the front gate, at which I dispelled all those 7/8/9...15? shots onto our poor, abused garden.
“I just want to DIE!” I exclaimed, drunk-dramatic. “Right here.” Then slumped to the pavement.
“Not right here,” sighed Taubs. He tried to lift me up, but I refused. So he left me nestled on the gravel and tried to wake up Max to help, but she just kind of sleep-punched the air in response and scared him off.
Taubs mentally debated sticking a pillow under my head and leaving me out there to sleep. Maybe with a blanket thrown over me I’d just look like an odd-shaped boulder. His conscience won the argument, though, and he managed to half pull half lift me to my room. He dumped me onto my bed and ran to grab the household’s bright pink vomit bucket.
... Then learnt why you should always hold back someone’s hair back when vomiting. Ew.
“Don’t move,” Taubs commanded. He left me hanging over the side of the bed, like a rag doll, and ran to grab a towel to clean my un-held-back hair. The next fifteen minutes were then spent trying to teach this rag doll where to aim its lolling head if the need to vomit reoccurred:
“The pink bucket. Here. Beside the bed. Now, where’s the bucket?”
I point.
“No, that’s your bed. Over here. On the floor. Look. Okay? Good. Now, where’s the bucket?”
I point again.
“No, that’s my face. Let’s try again.”
(Me: “What happened after that? I pass out?”
Taubs: “I tried to take your bra off.”
Me: “Excuse me?”)
Taubs had managed to remove my earrings and shoes so they wouldn’t get caught in the sheets, and was standing there waging an internal debate with himself. See, he had once been told, in all earnest, by an ex-girlfriend, that sleeping with a bra on was up there with inhaling asbestos – totally unhealthy. In a boob-deforming way.
(Me: “You tried to take my bra off, for my health?”
Taubs: “Yes. I’m not creepy, I swear. I was being a good friend.”)
He squeaked out the question, explaining about the boob deformity, and apparently I slurred out “okay” and slumped forward. Taubs edged close, squeezed his eyes shut, and reached out blindly to find the back of my shirt. Tired-now impatience saved this awkward encounter, and I flung my arms out, waving Taubs away. He kind of squealed and jumped back, then skirted out of the room in relief: To hell with her impending deformity!
8:10am:
“And that’s what you missed,” said Taubs.
I took all this in...
“I did not pass out on the pavement!”
Taubs pointed at the scratches on my forehead. Oh no.
“Okay, good luck calling in sick, I’m off to work.”
Oh yeah, this all happened on a Sunday. I had to be at work in an hour.
You win this time, Vodka.
("Shots!")
