It was a warm summer's night, young B3tan was 17 years old, and feeling very grown up drinking in the pub.
I got to the Bull's Head a little before my buddies, and decided to get a beer in. My friends were late, so I had another.
Once they arrived, a switch to red wine was made. I shared a couple of bottles, and if anyone has ever combined the grape and the grain in quantities, they might realise that my adolescent self was about to enter a world of pain.
The darkness of night had taken hold - we were making merry, laughing and joking. It was only when I got up that it became clear I was very drunk. My legs swayed underneath me and my head was swimming. I staggered to the toilets, managed to piss, but was then overcome with the first wave of nausea. I made it to the toilet, got on my knees and hugging the porcelain like a long lost friend. SUCCESS - I vomited straight into the bowl, with minimal spillage. I should feel much better know.
How little did I know...
I washed my hands, rinsed my mouth, and was slightly distressed to see that my reflection in the mirror was spinning. Between the toilets and the pub there were two doors, with a tiny space in between. I had only made it into this confined area before needing to throw up again. I retched, and painted the walls and floor a vibrant purple colour. If you've ever drunk too much red wine you'll know what i'm talking about.
I began to panic. This was the only pub in town where underage drinking was tolerated. There was an unspoken agreement that if we behaved ourselves a blind eye would be turned to our obvious youth, and our fake IDs would not be required. By redecorating the room before the toilet I had obviously violated this. I decided to make a run for it...
I burst from the pre-toilet room, and staggered through the pub, knocking into a table and jostling through the more respectable punters into the cool night air. FREEDOM. I breathed deep - the lights and familiarity of the high street was calming, and I only had to make it to the bus stop, where as agreed, my long-suffering dad would be waiting to puck me at 11 o'clock.
I went to look at my mobile to check the time. DAMN. I'd forgotten it. This was in the days before a mobile phone was an extension of yourself, sometimes you brought it along, sometimes you didnt... I stopped someone, and asked them the time - 9.30pm.
OK, no problem, I could call my dad from the phone box next to the bus stop and ask him to pick me up a bit earlier. I got into the cubicle, dropped in some coins and lifted the receiver. I tried to dial, but my fingers just would'nt obey me.
No matter how hard I tried, I was simply too drunk to dial the number. The coins jangled out after a few more attempts, and scattered on the floor mockingly. I stooped to gather them, beginning to despair. I thought I'd reached a new low, but there was more to come...
I was suddenly overcome with a powerful and urgent need to take a shit. I looked around - the coast was clear. I dropped my trousers around my ankles, and without shame, squeezed one out, which slid down the glass. Looking at the turd on the floor, contemplating my failure to dial a number on a payphone, I figured that I needed to make my escape (again).
I made it to the bus stop bench a few feet away, and sat down, throbbing head in my hands. Maybe if I just lay down for a minute or two, I would be sober enough to dial home...
I woke up with a concerned looking couple over me. It would appear I had fallen off the bench. The kind lady said, "Don't worry, i've called an ambulance, it will be hear in a minute."
I could hear the the sirens. I tried to get up, but the effort was beyond me.
"Im fine", I slurred, despite all evidence to the contrary.
The paramedics came, I was loaded into the ambulance, and taken to hospital. I vomited again, thoroughly humiliated, under the stern gaze of disapproving nurses. I lay down and slept a few hours, then checked myself out (fake name and address), apologizing profusely for being a drunken arsehole, and wasting time. No one was impressed.
I managed to call a taxi to take me home. I can't remember the excuse I gave to my dad for not being there at the appointed hour. I think he know I had gotten wasted, but I never revealed the extent of my shame. I went into self-imposed from the pub, although i'm sure I would have been barred had I dared to return.
Every day for the next couple of weeks I was reminded about the episode when the bus passed the bus stop. I looked out the window at the phone box, with the brown stain on the glass...
