Laika’s Spout – Game Reviews and Objectionably Sardonic Ramblings.

Drunks are dicks
April 8, 2009, 2:13 pm
Filed under: Other, Rants in general | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The first blog post in a while, I know but that’s probably down to me not having been pissed off by something that wasn’t commented on by everybody and their fucking mother. Being the disgusting youth I am, I went to a field party yesterday; essentially entailing a PA system, a shed, some speakers and about 50 or so tents, I decided to get a taxi with the ‘responsible lot’ partly out of their perceived maturity but mainly because a taxi between four is a lot less than a taxi on your own. Ironically, last night a Channel 4 documentary on drunken teens and their strain on the NHS was on, bizarrely located in the Midlands, where this party was. Next time I’m staying in and watching it.

Yes I realise there were tents but I never stay over at these sorts of things due to them being guaranteed to be the single worst nights sleep of your life so far, until the next party which miraculously manages to be worse. I digress greatly from my main point and the main reason I’m writing this article. Drunk people are the single worse type of person on the face of this planet: they’re loud, they smell funny, they manage to find new ways to lose any shred of dignity they used to possess. Actually, these aren’t the reasons I hate them, these are merely the reasons I don’t drink myself into oblivion like so many 0ther useless pricks. It’s always the girls, always the fucking girls. If you’ve not experienced it in person, you’ve experienced it on various expose documentaries about the state of Britain and failing that you’ve probably seen the front of a tabloid in the past hundred years. 


The horrible thing about drunks is that they’re in a state of self-inflicted helplessness which leaves us less-drunk and more-standing-without-support types in a sort of moral limbo. I spent twenty minutes trying to get somebody I don’t know into a taxi after one person who was meant to be getting in had already gone home due to be completely para-fucking-letic. Dickhead number 2, however, point blank refused to leave. Picking them up causes them to scream and hit you. Oh terrific, for being concerned for someone all I get is a punch in the fucking face. At this point the ‘Oh fuck ’em!’ part of my brain starts to kick in, getting increasingly frustrated by this absolute idiot who, if left alone, would probably choke on their own sick and die. At this moment in time, that sounded like the attractive option. 

It’s not as if I haven’t been there, mind. I’ve been sick through alcohol twice now, one I put down to the lethal combination foreign nasties, a game of rooftop cards and ridiculously cheap Chilean alcohol. The other down to this bizarre ‘legal high’ called Spice, which made everybody (combined with 15 or so beers) incrediably sick. I most point out, however, that in the case of the former, nobody knew I’d been sick. I got myself to a toilet 10 whole minutes before the sickness started as I knew I didn’t feel quite right. Sick once, then sleep. THAT’S IT. The latter was pretty much the same affair, apart from this time it was sick, sleep, sick, sleep. At neither point did I need the assistance of others and when offered I actively refused.

Fuck you drunks, fuck you. I am by no means against drinking, hell I actually quite enjoy getting mildly tipsy, the ol’ dutch courage is pretty good in itself, that little extra social confidence that means you might actually engage in conversation with others rather than trying to create something in your already stagnated social circle. In fact I urge the government to somehow harness the power of mildly-tipsyness into some sort of pill, calling it the ‘Will of the Dutch’ or something, it could become the 21st century’s version of ‘Fisherman’s Friend’. 

I’m saying it here and I’m encouraging others to do the same, if one of your idiot irresponsible friends decides to drink themselves to sheer idiocy and there’s other people around, leave them. I am not sacrificing my night to accomondate for someone being an complete and utter dick. You made your grave now you can fucking lie in it. Friendship doesn’t matter when someone expects you to pick up the pieces of something which is entirely your fault, especially if it means you have to practically wrestle someone you don’t know, for half an hour or so, just so you can get home. 

That was my night. Three hours of being very slightly drunk and a bit high. Home by 12. This is not what I’d call a fun bloody night.

 In the spirit of parties and my new-found love for this genuinely awesome song:


Coping with loss; or, more accurately, how not to.

It was inevitable, I knew it was coming yet, somehow, even though I thought I was completely prepared, I wasn’t. I don’t think anybody can be, even if you lose somebody who you were never that close to. He, my Grandfather that is, had been fighting a losing battle with Alzheimer’s for years and to be honest, he could barely form words and had absolutely no clue who I am. To put it into perspective, he’s been ‘DNR’ for about 3 years. In that sense, I guess, the grandfather I knew and loved was already gone, but I don’t guess that made the final blow any less bitter.

I first found out about the inevitable on Saturday, mid-shift at my part-time job, sister came running teary-eyed, informing me that my parents had to rush off, post-haste, down to Gravesend Hospital where he’d been admitted with ‘respiratory problems’. I feared for the worst, and was immediately allowed home. Mid-walk home, I don’t know how or why, but I just let go. I just let go. I started crying in public, walking down the middle of the road, knowing what would happen.

Here we are, today, 8th December and it has finally come to a head. I guess, you could say it was a relief. I guess you could say it’s a release from pain and suffering but really, is it? Even though he didn’t know my name, or recognise me, he was happy. He seemed happy, and for me, that’s still a life worth living. Is it better to be happy and insane, or unhappy and sane? I’d pick the former any day of the week.

Is it strange that my first thought on hearing the news was not for myself, but two things: how my poor Mother must be feeling, solitarily fighting a losing battle with the social services and co-operation from her siblings and secondly, this blog. I don’t know why, but my first instinct was to write about how I feel. Not to tell my story and receive sympathy, by any means, but perhaps to understand how I feel because, to be honest, I don’t know. I know this probably sounds tenuously cliched but I honestly don’t know how to feel. I wouldn’t call it sadness, but it’s not a million miles away.

The worst part of this though isn’t the fact he died, not by a long shot. But more, his ‘fall from grace’, to articule myself in the most banal way possible. He was a captain of a tug, on the thames, which I understand isn’t the most presitigous job in the world but, captain of his own boat none the less. Then it struck me, age is a terrible curse. We make joke from time to time about how awful the NHS is, how incompetent it is a system but, it’s the best we’ve got which leads me on to ask; by having such a good healthcare system, life expectancy at it’s highest ever, have we actually almost condemned ourselves to inevitable senility and undignified death? From Captain to not being able to unbutton your own fucking shirt, how’s that for a glorious retirement?

I found out he finally died about an hour ago, mid-football match in which I, for the first time ever, scored two headers. This was before I heard the news. 
A sense of bizarre exctasy, brought on by sheer luck of being in the right place, the right time, with the right hat on, to nothing. Just, nothing. And the journey from the astroturf to home, all I could think is the lyrics and the instrumentation of ‘Communist Daughter’ by ‘Neutral Milk Hotel’ which is a beautiful song, I guess I see the trumpets as a sort of, send off and I suggest you listen to it too.