There are no good bars near where I live. It's like fun limbo, so I drink in my house most of the time. And it's not the bars or the clubs, but the people. They all look like prison fodder, rooting around each other like horny pigs, struggling to get laid, getting into their little scuffles on the dance floor.
In a place called 'Grand Central', which is a club next to a train station, I got shit faced at the shots bar with my buddy Gary. The kinda shitfaced that shakes your head like a maraca in the morning, and Mr fuckin' prepared keeps complaining that his jeans keep slipping.
“Aw man! Ma jeans keep fallin' doon man!” 10 minutes later, “Aw naw man! My button on ma jeans broke man!” He's holding his waistband in one hand and spilling beer down his chest with the other, and again 10 minutes later, “Aw wit man! My ZIP broke man!”
So I take off my belt in the middle of the place and give it to him, and that solves the problem, but now MY jeans are slipping. So we sit down, because you're trousers can't fall down when you're sitting (scientists haven't discovered why that is yet).
Next round, we're both drooling over the bar, “Two pints and HIC two JD's and cokes! HIC” And while she's getting it, some pair-a tits and a hair-do comes walkin' over.
“Hey!” and she reels Gary away, leaving me at the bar to get the drinks. ALL the drinks! I'm clutching 'em to my chest and hugging them in place with my chin. And that's when I felt the breeze in my butt-crack.
Arms full of booze, my trousers fell down, and as I tried to waddle like a duck to the nearest table, my balance threw and I lost all the drinks. Every one of em, all over myself. I'm soaked from head to fucking toe, pants down, stupid drunk, pubes escaping, and nobody noticed because of a chav fight at the other end of the room.
in Grand Central, Livingston1,009