Pint O'Puke

I like to consider myself as someone who is not easily persuaded to try something purely because someone else thinks it is a good idea.  

Actually that's not strictly true.  

February 1993, I visited my brother at University.  He was having a 'Party 'Til You Puke Party'.  I'm not sure how many of you have been to a party like that.  Carrier bags sellotaped to the walls.  Pizza delivery, kebab shop and ambulance crews on standby.  Clearing of schedules for the next few days...

...Anyway, being the elder brother I was the voice of experience.  The One Who Had Done It All Before.  I had been to Uni, imbibed and survived.  Yeah, right.  I have little alcohol tolerance and the unfortunate habit of getting hangovers when still tipsy.  But my brother and his friends didn't know and I wasn't letting on.

At the start I saw my brother's room-mate making an evil-looking concoction in a pint glass.  

'What's in that glass there?'  
'It's the penalty drink - we're playing Fuzzy Duck later.'
'It looks like puke.'
'Sure does.'
'Is it puke?'
'Nope.'
'What is it?'
'It's snakebite with a twist - Ruddles County bitter, Merrydown cider, vodka, peach schnapps and wine.'
'Sounds ...lovely.  What's that curdled stuff on the top?'
'Oh, we've added Bailey's Irish Cream to it.  The bottle was nearly empty so...'
'What does it taste like?'
'Don't know.  Want to find out...?'

So...  The elements were in place for the tragedy to unfold.  Big brother - voice of experience - check.  Large amounts of alcohol - check. Insufficient amounts of party food to soak up said large amounts of alcohol - check.  Pint O'Puke - check.  

Let the games begin!

We were all sat around in a circle, puke bags and pint glasses at the ready.

Now here's the thing.  Drinking games are never, ever a good idea.  There are no winners.  Only different shades of losing.  Once you start losing there is only one way this situation can go.  Anyone who tells you any different is lying.

'Fuzzy Duck'
'Ducky Fuzz'
'Fuzzy Duck'
'Ducky Fuzz'
'Does he?'
'Duzzy Fu-  Bollocks.'

I was that soldier.  Every single time.  I remember the Pint O'Puke tasting vaguely frothy and sweet - a bit like curdled milkshake.  It got better with every sip too.

So I lost - badly. After getting lost on the way to the party toilet - more of a ceramic pot in a lake of piddle - I passed out on my brother's bed. Half an hour later, Mount Vesuvius erupted and the Pint O'Puke re-emerged to terrorise anew.

There were three casualties that night.  My brother's University scarf, his mattress and my dignity.  

Not exactly my finest moment.