Number of Drinks and Behavioral Differences...
ONE ?
Relaxed.
To most drinkers the first pint or whatever disappears almost unnoticed and will have little or no effect on speech/coordination etc.
Conversation will be of the polite, perfunctory variety e.g. soaps, school days, sport and the price of net curtains, etc.
Some beer-mat flicking will be in evidence, as the ice hasn't quite melted yet.
Potentially a good time for the politically incorrect amongst you to tell a bad taste or sexist joke.
Did you hear the one about the one-eyed Latvian and the chicken?
TWO ?
Happy.
Merry with the taste of that naughty little intoxicant in your mouth.
The second drink is invariably downed at a much faster rate than the first, with everyone anticipating the revelry to come.
Conversation will have picked up probably now touching on sports, soaps, school days - what else is there?
Oh yeah -and in non-specific detail, sex.
It's time to consider your first visit to the toilet, get a round of drinks on your way back.
This is a good time to go to buy drinks, the bar will be easily accessible and if not everyone has shown up yet, you will get away with a smaller round, enough said.
THREE ?
Tipsy.
Inhibitions start to break down as the alcohol puts to bed the spoilsport part of the brain that controls reasonable behaviour.
The urge to consume copious amounts of salted bar-snacks will begin about now and last right up until the first wave of nausea strikes.
Conversation still on soaps and sports - however, the sex talk becomes more specific and of a "I'd give that one" nature.
Still a weight off your mind, you will have forgotten all about the price of net curtains.
Could be a good time for the first belching contest of the evening, boys in particular go a bundle on this type of competition.
FOUR ?
Half-cut.
The voices are without doubt getting louder and the same jokes are now much, much funnier than they seemed earlier.
The incessant repetition of some dodgy comedian's redundant catch phrase will also never fail to get laughs...very poor.
Hands on top of your pint, as anything else is an open invitation to get to have a bar snack thrown in it.
The conversation now turns from the idle fantasy of 'partners you wished you'd had' to graphic detail of the 'partners you've had'.
Hand/eye coordination is now on the difficult side, boys take care not to catch your foreskin (or anyone else's in your zip fly).
Some girls will be working up to the first of the evening's "nobody likes me - everybody hates me" tears in the toilet crises.
FIVE ?
Drunk.(p**sed)
Definitely the best part of the evening, everything is funny and everybody loves each other, this is what social drinking is all about.
However, it's all downhill from now on, as those deep dark primeval urges - such as the need to eat the flesh of a dead animal or more commonly to procreate, take over - and man is driven to satiate these ancient desires come what may.
SIX TO SEVEN ?
Rat-arsed.
Anything you say from now on you will regret in the morning, that's if anybody else can remember what the **** you were talking about, but mark my words, there's always one who will.
Conversation will now be on a one-to-one basis, as nobody possesses the necessary social skills to interact with anybody but the person nearest them.
Thoughts return to the flesh of the opposite sex, will they ever go away?
Some people expound the theory that you always tell the truth when you're drunk but I am more the opinion you always say whatever is necessary to end up in the pantyhose/y-fronts of the person you've got them most chance to do so with. Vomiting is now a distinct possibility, a clandestine tactical chuck at this stage of the evening is advisable as a public one later could ruin any chance of a meaningful sexual encounter and will also leave room for a curry.
EIGHT TO TEN ?
Crap-faced (alternatively w**kered).
It is now that time of the evening when your fellow drinkers undergo massive mood changes.
Some people get aggressive when they've had one over eight, particularly those whose drink you've just hoovered.
Others get maudlin, teary and start to question the purpose of their existence of this planet.
Hey, if only they'd realize that there isn't one and that having fun down the pub with friends is as close as it gets.
Me? I know it's hard to imagine but I find I get even wittier, even more charming and better looking at this stage in the proceedings.
Unfortunately, nobody else seems to notice - p**sheads.
ELEVEN TO FIFTEEN ?
Esperanto.(or Gibberish)
For some reason you will find yourself totally fluent in Esperanto, however, nobody shares your bilingual talent.
It is also quite possible that you'll fall over at any minute.
What the hey, don't worry about it, if ever there was a time to fall arse over tit, this is it - it won't hurt in the slightest and if you've got any friends left in the morning you can proudly show off your beer wounds.
By now your carnal wants will be replaced by the overwhelming desire to sleep in your own bed - if you don't live nearby, the pavement will look ever so tempting, particularly to back-sufferers as its orthopaedic qualities are well known.
SIXTEEN PLUS ?
Clinically dead.
You'll feel like you've been eaten by a wolf and spewed out over a cliff - but don't you worry about it, what better place to sleep off your hangover and try desperately to remember what the hell you did the night before, than at work.
Never again till the next time (or even lunchtime), mine's a pint and get one in for yourself - cheers then.
Topic: Drunk (Read 847 times)