How many times have I, or will I in the future start a blog entry by describing how dazed, confused and hungover I am?
Well here’s another one.
Only this time, instead of being awoken by the suns optimistic shine to start my hangover, I woke up to my friend Jodie trying to Facetime me.
Fully clothed, on top of my duvet with no recollection as to how the fuck I even got home. There was a mop bucket next to my bed and a pint of water on my bedside drawer, I’m not forward thinking enough to collect these things so clearly one of my house mates had to rescue me from myself. All of this and it was only three in the fucking morning.
Once upon a time, I used to pride myself on being able to remember all the events of a night out in spite of how much alcohol I consumed. I was the wise one, the one who told the stories in which others had forgot.
Over time, I’ve had the odd moment in which a few things had slipped, and not before long those ‘few things’ extended to a good hour or two of absence in memory.
Last night, I remember pre-drinking, singing along to Blink 182, and having a duet to Neck Deep, the taxi arriving and that’s it. Nothing until 3am. Apparently I crashed and stumbled home a mess at midnight and was later found in my bath tub. Here is some unfortunate proof.
Now, this seems bad, and let’s face it….It is. But the bright side? I can’t remember the horror stories of how I even got home. What I do know is however…I lost my fucking iPod that night.
However the fact I got home is a miracle in its own right, as I’m going to tell you of a story that could have had a bit more of a shit ending….
For this ‘blast from the past’ we don’t actually go too far back…
Our story takes us to just last year, 2015.
Our House mate Roxanne had moved house, meaning that my tiny box room that I had been occupying for the last six months was to be abandoned for her room. Moving the stuff over, we realised that we now had a spare room, which me and Andrew dubbed as our ‘party room’.
So of course, there’d be no point in a party room without having a few drinks in it. So we invited Alan round for a few. Laughs were shared, stories were exchanged and songs were sung out of tune. It was a good debut for the room.
Now, the problem with last minute shindigs and copious drinking at such events is that you run out of alcohol. For some this is a sign to stop, for us however it was a sign to just go down town instead.
Losing my way from the gang as per, I decided to drink solo at the local dive bars, I knock back a few shots, try a cider I didn’t like and lost my spirit and decided to go home.
Given the title of this, we won’t call it a plot twist but the main arch of our story was then discovered.
I had left my keys at home.
Now, at this point I was incredibly drunk, my phone battery was dying fast. I could’ve just waited on my front porch, but that would attract attention from the weirdos that lived on my street, so that was out.
Our next plan of action was to just find a good bench in a park to relax and maybe crash out on. Again, the streets of Plymouth are mean, and attracting unwanted attention was not in my interests. I then came to a conclusion that my drunk, poisoned brain considered “A good move”.
In hindsight it was not.
See, my porch, a bench, a park. All places in which the public and any bad character could come across, come across a large, afro donning, drunk guy and think “Let’s mug that idiot”.
Do you know a place that statistically speaking wouldn’t be littered with shady characters?
Not just any woods, the largest woods, and nature reserve that Plymouth could offer, Saltram.
Already it was a long walk from town to Saltram, so I blissfully started my journey, all forty minutes of it, not during one step did I think “This is a bad idea”. My Ipod reassuring me to keep going.
I eventually made it to the long, dark pathway entering the abyss, and without second thought I went straight in. Even on a summers day this pathway is usually empty minus the odd cyclist or dog walker every so often, so you can imagine how dead it’d be at three in the morning.
Getting deeper into the woods, the path splits into two.
The left would go deeper into the woods, and near a giant lake.
The right would take us into a giant open field which housed a manor.
Figuring that stumbling drunk to some manor would probably end up turning into a Beauty and the Beast situation, I decided to go left, I figured a lakeside view would be pretty this time of night.
And so I walked, blissfully unaware of how stupid this decision was. My Ipod ran out of battery so I was left with the sound of silence and my own footsteps, it was bizarrely a very tranquil experience.
I made it to the ‘lake’ (I quote lake because it’s way too fucking big to be a lake, but I wouldn’t know what else to call it).
Just by said lake was a steep hill, and on top some sort of stone placement in which me and Dan used to call “The Temple” as kids. As a result we’ll call it that now.
I somehow managed to traverse this hill and sit next to The temple. With a good view of a good chunk of the city. I watched the odd car go by in the distance as if they were little fireflies. Nothing but silence, barring the gentle sound of a breeze here and there.
Now going inside The Temple, I lie down next to the stone work on a concrete slab, it was bizarrely comfortable. It was a strange thought in the grand scheme of things, all the cars and people passing by with a view of Saltram in the distance had no clue there was some drunk mid-twenties moron relaxing in the depths.
The next thing I know, I awaken to a flock of birds singing, chirping and presumably mocking me. “Ohhhhhh this was a bad idea” I say to myself as the 6am sky lightens to a dark blue.
This was a dumb idea.
I’ve had a lot of dumb ideas, but this was certainly a top percentage dumb idea moment.
I bring myself to my feet and peer out of the temple, the odd ‘firefly’ in which I had been so fixated on mere hours before were now a lot more frequent for the morning rush to work. Again, this was a dumb idea.
I walk down the steep hill, taking caution with each step. It was then when a dog walker came into my sights.
“Oh for fuck’s sake”.
For the first time in my life I had came across a stranger in the woods and felt empathy. I was probably the fucking dodgy one in this situation. This chap just wants to take his Husky for a walk, and now he’s witnessing some twat come from the temple on the hill, slowly approaching down.
“Just don’t make eye contact”
I think to myself.
“Just go a complete separate way and he won’t think you’re a murderer” I reason to myself.
Problem is, my mind is now so transfixed on not looking like a murderer that I forget about my cautious footing on the dew soaked hill.
It only took one false step on a loose patch of grass and I was gone. My legs sweeping under me as my vision is forced to the sky, a thunderous thud as my back crashes into the hill.
“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh” I let out a mundane moan, obviously now catching the dog walkers attention. If I was in his eyes a murderer, I was a tragic one. I think I even slid down the hill a fair bit in my crash landing. Hurrying myself back to my feet, I leave the area. Quickly.
Now it was just a case of walking home. Usually I could at least browse Facebook, or listen to my music, but both iPhone and Ipod had died in this journey so I was very much left to my own devices. I got some snacks from a nearby petrol station to keep me sane.
An hour later I had finally made it home, I was ready to be reunited with my bed.
Then it hit me, the reason I had been in the woods in the first place.
I had no fucking keys.
Knocking on the door proved to be a thankless task, and it was getting cold. So I figured at this time Mcdonalds would be open.
Realising I was still a little drunk upon entering, I try my best to act sober. Which resulted in me having a fifteen minute chat to the cashier about Captain America.
I order my Mcmuffin and cup of tea. Go into the corner where I can be alone with my food and shame.
From the first sip my tongue felt like it had just set foot upon the sun itself. A thousand fires had scorched the roof of my mouth, this tea was obviously made from hell itself. My morning wasn’t improving.
I ate my Mcmuffin in silence, looking at all the happy, hangover free people with a hint of envy in my eyes, mud still stained on my back from the earlier slip. It was all in all a bananas moment.
After my Mcmuffin, I come to the inevitable conclusion that my tea will literally never, ever cool down so I just left it and returned home.
Again, knocking on the door seemed a pointless endeavour so I had a brainwave moment.
I’d merely jump over the back wall.
I stroll to the back alley, and get to the sealed back door to the garden. Wedged shut from where I once upon a kicked it back into place in an attempt to fix it. Which let’s face it, judging from this moment worked a bloody peach.
I look down the alley and see one of those wheelie things that postmen use for their big deliveries, why there was on in a Plymouth alley I will not understand, but I was not arguing this.
I wheel my makeshift ladder to the back gate, and delicately begin to climb. At this point it feels like a simple two foot device has hoisted me seventy feet in the air.
I grasp onto my back wall and hoist myself up, knocking off a lot of tiling in the process.
Without any grace or charm I slump my body over the wall, make pleasantries with a nearby cat (which promptly left) and fall into my own back yard.
The back door was fucking locked.
Now, a few months prior to this moment I had a bit of a DIY stint in me and wanted to create a backyard sofa. Ideally made from pallet wood. As such, whilst drunk on previous night outs I had taken pieces of pallet wood and thrown them into my back yard until I had enough pieces of pallet wood to build a decent sofa.
There was, and still to this very moment remains one piece of pallet wood in my back yard.
I pick it up, and drag it pathetically to the corner of the back yard, wedging it into the corner of the stairs to my back door, thus creating a decent make shift bed.
I lay down, at what is now probably 9am in my back yard on a piece of pallet wood, wondering where it all went wrong, the only comfort was the fact that this ‘bed’ I made was actually pretty comfy in its own right.
Just as I found solace in this, it started to rain.
But fear not, I had another million dollar idea.
I climbed over my back wall, again.
Used the wheelie delivery thing as a ladder down to the back alley.
And took the ten minute walk back into down.
Went into Wilko, a little bit drunk.
And bought a fucking duvet.
I then proceeded to repeat the process of getting into my back yard. Only this time, armed with a duvet, which I then used with my pallet bed.
As if that was my life now.
Luckily, it wasn’t long until I got back into my house, and subsequent actual bed.
But hey, fuck it. I got a duvet out of it, so as far as hangovers go it wasn’t that bad, I guess.