But it sounded like a good idea at the time!

Code:

To his mates, John Peake was an "extreme dude" who loved a cold beer and a good laugh.

He lived life to the limits and enjoyed surfing or skateboarding whenever he had the chance.

So when seven mates lined two wheelie bins up at the top of a steep hill at 3am yesterday after a night of drinking, Peake, 22, was among them.

"He was laughing the whole way down," friend David Gorrel, 21, told The Daily Telegraph. "Our mate, he died laughing."

link

We've all done shit we regret the next day, when sober thoughts lead to the realities of physics and legality. Ever had a three-day marriage? Tie a shopping cart to the back of your friend's truck? Get drunk and almost pull a Sonny Bono? Try to rob a convenience store for your last case of beer?

Focus: You've gotten drunk and done stupid shit. Let's hear it.

 

When I finally turned 18, and was able to get into bars legally, for some reason we always ended up at this same shithole bar, every week. It was called Hoagies. It was one of those places that seemed to change ownership and name every 18 months or so, but for some reason, Hoagies managed to buck the trend and hang on for a good 3 years. About the only thing that was remarkable about it was that it had $1 highballs from 8-10pm, so we'd usually go there early to get completely shitfaced, and then move on. Only problem was, but that time we were usually so fucked up we couldn't be bothered to go anywhere else, or the other places wouldn't let us in because we were too drunk.
One of the attractions of Hoagies was this one girl who was ALWAYS there, dancing on top of the speaker beside the dance floor. Ahh she was a real class act. She would always wear a skirt just long enough to prevent showing everything, but just short enough to give you a glimpse of her panties during her more energetic moves. She always wore her hair in two long braided pigtails, and once i was half in the bag, I'd get completely mesmerized by the gyrations of her ass and stand there, drink in hand, staring for what seemed like forever. One night, it was busier than usual, and there is this chick, on top of the speaker, just givin 'er. In order to get my usual creepy ogling position, I had to get right beside the speaker, giving me a more direct view than usual. Well from here, I could see right up her skirt and that she was wearing a thong and as a result, some beautifully tanned bare ass cheeks. I started trying to (covertly) wave everyone over to check this out, but instead they were more interested in making sure everyone knew they didn't know me. Well fuck them, they're missing the show. For some reason, the more and more she shook her ass, the more and more I was convinced that she was doing it just for me. She would look down and give me the most alluring come hither eyes (which I later found out from less drunk friends was a creeped out, what the fuck is this dude doing eyes). After a while, It was just me and her in a slow motion dream sequence of jiggling ass perfection. Then the perfect moment came at last. She squatted down to take a sip of her drink by her feet, and there was this gorgeous ass a mere 12 inches from my face...I did what any man would do when a woman shamelessly comes onto him like that, and buried my face right between those cheeks. The next sequence was kind of a blur....she stood up so fast my face was motorboating thin air. By the time I realized what had happened, her spectacular lush booty had been replaced by her leather boot which was now rising upwards and connecting under my chin. It snapped my lower jaw shut which put my teeth through my tongue and sent me sprawling to the floor. For some reason I couldn't get up....there was blood bubbling out of my mouth all down my front, and then 2 bouncers grabbed me and started to haul me out. As they were trying to lift me up, the sluices let loose and I puked all over one guy. This brought about a flurry of quick punches, and I was dumped out on the street. The last thing I remember was the line up of people waiting to get in laughing at me, and throwing shit at me as I was lying on the sidewalk. One of my buddies eventually came out, and took me to the hospital to get my tongue looked at, which was bleeding pretty badly.
That was the last trip to Hoagies for a couple of months, but it was a story that would be brought up constantly by my friends anytime we went somewhere where a chick was dancing on a speaker.

 

I have many, what my friends refer to as, "Brandon" stories. I do a lot of stupid shit for some reason when I’m drunk.

One story that stands out above the rest is my infamous scotch night. Me and a few coworkers decided to go to a local amateur hockey game one Friday night. We met at a local bar beforehand and had a couple beers and some food. We go to the hockey game and continue drinking. My drink would be low and one of my friends, Wiki, would bring me another. It's like he knew something good was going to happen that night. I think I had 3-4 24oz beers at the game, which has little old me feeling pretty good. After the game we decided to go to the bar that offered 2-4-1's (Labby’s) with a ticket from this game. Because my friend Wiki is cousins with the manager of the hockey team he got a bunch of extra tickets.

We get to the bar and for some reason I decide to order Dewar’s on the rocks. I'd been watching a lot of Swingers so it seemed like a good idea. Being that I've never drank scotch before and it was 2-4-1's this shit hit me hard. The last thing I remember was talking to these two girls at the table next to us. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing head, soaked boxers and a major urge to take a piss. I got up and walked into the living room and noticed one of the legs on my coffee table was no longer attached to the rest of the table. I use the bathroom and as I'm walking into my bedroom I step on my jeans. They are soaking wet as well. I start becoming a little curious as to what happened the night before so I look at my phone. I see 10 missed calls from Wiki and I have 3 voice mail messages. I listen to the messages and it's all calls from Wiki asking me where I went to and that they are looking for me. I go back to bed and give Wiki a call later that day and find out the rest of the story.

Apparently after Labby's we decided to go to another bar called Buc's. We all enter the bar and the bouncer is carding everyone. I'm last in line and after everyone else was carded they looked back and I was gone. They figured I went to the bathroom or something so they went and sat down and ordered a drink. An hour goes by and they decide it's time to start looking for me. They search the inside and outside of the bar but can't find me. I have a history of walking home when I've been drinking so they decide to go for a drive and see if they can find me. The whole time they are driving around they are trying to call me and leaving me messages but can't get a hold of me. Finally it's about 2:30 or so and someone picks up the phone. Turns out it's the bouncer from Buc's and they found me lying in a snow bank. They go back to the bar and pick me up and bring me home.

It's still unknown how I got in the snow bank or how long I had been there. I'm thinking I might have tried to fight someone because I had bruises on my arms and legs. All I know is that I probably should have died that night. Since then I refuse to drink scotch.

 

A couple years ago on New Years Eve, my buddies and I didn't really have any place to go, especially since I was underage. The plan became to walk from my friend Dan's and basically sneak me into this nearby bar, and hang there for the night. We got there and the place was so dead at that point (early in the night) that the bouncer didn't give a shit that I wasn't 21 and let me in since my friends promised I "wouldn't drink anything."

Yeah, that was a lie. Cue my friend Dan buying drinks and then bringing them back to the table for me to drink. I felt like getting smashed, so not only did I drink everything he brought for me, I also kept drinking other people's drinks. For example, Dan would buy 2 Whiskey Sours, one for me and one for him, and I'd end up drinking both of them. Ultimately, by the end of the night I was completely gone.

When the time came for us to leave, we walked out of the bar but decided to stand in a circle in the parking lot and shoot the shit for a little bit. It's at this point that a hot-as-fuck girl walks over to our group says "Hey, this guy in there won't give me my keys back, can one of you come with me to help ask for them back" or something to that effect. Drunk me thinks only good things can come from this plan and I happily volunteer to follow her inside. Luckily my friends, not being drunken retards, knew this was bad news bears and decided to follow me in and watch from a distance.

Inside we reach the guy and I'm so gone that I have no idea what was said between the girl and the guy who had her keys while I stood behind her. What I do remember is him generally being an upset, obstinate drunk fucker and looking at me the entire time like I was a huge asshole. Eventually he decides to shove me, and the moment this happens I am being dragged outside by my friends, no idea what the hell is going on. As soon as we get outside they let me walk under my own power, and they convince me it was time to start heading back home.

As we're walking through the parking lot, we hear a tussle back at the door of the bar, and turn around to see drunk fucker running directly towards me like a charging bull. I'm so smashed that I'm completely oblivious to the possible ramifications of this and I just stand there and watch him come at me. He gets to me, punches me square in the face (which I didn't feel at all, but apparently I fell down to my knees and popped right back up), and then runs at my friends attempting to punch them. Before I know what the fuck is going on, Punchee McGee gets tackled by a bouncer, however at this point his friends came outside to help back him up.

My friends are desperately trying to get me to leave with them, as one of them was sober and could just drive me away, but for reasons unknown to me, I just had to go talk to the guy's friends and attempt to make peace with them. Luckily they were cool, knew their buddy was being a douche, and so after that I let my friend drive me away.

The most hilarious thing to me is that after all this happens, apparently the bouncers and some staff thanked my friend Dan for not slipping me drinks. Maybe it was my seemingly pacifistic attitude toward all the events, but I have no idea how they didn't realize I was completely smashed.

 

Ask and ye shall receive:

Ram on the Rocks

It was well into the morning hours, completely dark, and I was out somewhere on our ranch. Scared shitless. Down in the fetal position, I was hugging my knees. Convinced that if I unfurled something bad would happen, I had pushed back the driver’s seat and raised the steering wheel to make room for my 6 foot frame to fit under the steering column. I was prepared to stay the night if need be. I had locked the doors; the car was running but in park…. And the windows were down. The thought process is astounding: if someone wanted to get me, they could easily have reached inside the truck and pulled me out by my hair. Not that I noticed. I’d be surprised if I even cared. I had a death grip on my bottle of Captain Morgan and I was not letting go for anything. In the deep dark woods, far away (less than 50 yards) from civilization, easily moments from a kidnapping, it was all I had. Surely it would save me. But if it didn’t, just in case, I got out my cell and called 1-555-00039915555555.

I am not a responsible person. I am not a good role model. Whatever you see me do, you should do the exact opposite. The only way I learn my lesson is through experience, and I possess neither the foresight nor the reasoning process to fully anticipate the consequences of my actions. But, I always forget this.

My brother is two years younger, and the exact opposite spitting image of myself. He is small, stocky, blonde hair and a propensity for gathering female attention. I am tall, brown hair, built like a runner and possess the social aptitude of a fork lift. Luke loves playing sports whereas for two years I made my name by writing sports articles. The last time we played basketball together I believe he dunked on me. He listens to whatever rock/emo abortion is currently on the “underground,” and I listen to James Taylor and my Wings Greatest Hits CD. Yet despite our differences, I would do anything for him. Tonight was one of those nights. I was home for the weekend, and my younger brother, his friend, and two girls were over at the ranch. It was clear from the start that the women were for him and his buddy, and while this was slightly disappointing to me, I understood. I was playing wingman.

I drive a truck. Four-door pickup, big bed in the back. If I wasn’t getting anything that night, I was damn sure my younger brother would at least get his. I am so fucking sweet. We tossed some sleeping bags in the back, with pillows, blankets, everything they needed. I got behind the wheel and put my Simon and Garfunkel CD in the changer. Ready to rock and roll. I drove around the property and parked the truck along a trail, in a dried creek bed.

My thinking was simple: I knew the ranch like the back of my hand. I had driven around plenty in the smaller vehicles, and while I do not in any way promote driving in such a state, I rationalized that it was fairly safe as long as I went slow and easy. Anyway, all I had to do was find a place, park, keep the windows up, doors shut, music going and mind my own business. Whatever went on in the back (which to this day I do not know), was none of my concern.

It was a simple task, which I royally fucked up.

My Achilles' heal when I drink is when I attempt to reason. While sober, I often reason too much, but rarely do I find myself in a situation for which I am not prepared. While drunk, I will frequently bend the confines and laws of proper social etiquette, alcohol absorption rates, and physics, to meet my underlying desires at the time. In the truck, thinking back to the chemistry classes from high school, I reasoned that the diet coke was only working as a diluting substance, and as such needed to be eliminated from the equation altogether. My next memory was standing at the back by the tailgate, explaining to no one in particular that I did not know where we were and that it was time to go. It was immediately understood that the best course of action was to bail on the situation, and my party left me with strict instructions not to go anywhere.

Blank.

I was sitting on my floor mat in the fetal position, doors locked, hugging my knees and wondering how I had sunk so low. I did not know where I was, why I was only wearing one flip-flop, or how come my shorts came to be worn backwards. I soon concluded that I was no longer capable of functioning under my own power, and I needed help. Fast. A series of phone calls followed. To my older brother, his wife, grandparents, sister, other sister, several cell phones, a few friends in a different city, our home phone, and to a number my call log later showed to be 1-555-00039915555555. Finally I got in touch with my step-father, who upon hearing my demands to “coshme fine me pleeeeease,” immediately started laughing.

I arose from below the steering column to see a pair of bright lights shining upon what I understood to be my vehicle. I demanded the headlights identify themselves. They responded only “Holy shit Sam. Come on let’s go.” Now barefoot, I followed the sound of the voice toward what was later revealed to be our jeep. Though trying to act disappointed, as is outlined by an established history of proper parental practices, he could not help but laugh. “You’re paying for it.” I was happy just to be going to bed. “Yeesh shir,” I responded.

The next morning we began the scavenger hunt, following the tire tracks as they swerved around several trees and fences, cut through pastures and drove down trails. Over a mile’s worth of joyriding which was disappointingly erased from memory. The assumption is that I tried to find my way back. In the process, I almost flipped the truck. I had driven straight off a several-foot cliff, jamming the front bumper into the opposing hillside, and high centered the Dodge with the rear wheels off the ground, the back frame resting on the rocky embankment. The tow truck bill was $150, but the rear bumper was destroyed and in need of some expensive cosmetic repair.

Two days before I turned 16, I side swiped a tree reversing and had to repair the front fender. While playing wingman, I placed my truck in a ditch and caused major damage to the rear bumper and panels. Yet due only to luck, I assume, I had never received a speeding ticket nor ever been involved in a traffic accident. This all changed a month later, when I was out on a date with a girl and entirely too focused on not the road. We had gone to see Christmas lights and we were driving around afterward, just talking, when a drunken driver decided to wedge the front of his car under my rear frame. No one was injured, but it was remarkable how difficult it was to identify the previous ditch dents from the damage caused by the wreck. I got lucky.

That night on the rocks, however, I finally learned a very important lesson. And everyone watching me did as well: if you ever get the opportunity, never let me be your wingman. Or your date. Or your driver as well. I am not a responsible person. And never think I am your role model. Because I run with my eyes closed, and I kind of like it that way.

 

Strong Buzz vs. Lag Bolts:

Just after turning 19, we went to a strip club called The Fabulous Forum and we were walking down the street looking for a cab after the festivities. My friends and I were walking past a small church when my friend drunkenly pointed at the sign on the sidewalk and then commanded at me: "Drop-kick that sign!!" So being the hero I am I backed up, took a full head of steam, jumped in the air with Koko B. Ware agility and kicked the sign full bore, realizing at the exact same time the newly fallen snow covered up the fact the sign was dead-bolted into the sidewalk.

My spine crumpled like a cardiac line, and I laid moaning on the sidewalk for ten minutes in pain while my friends kicked snow on me and yelled "FAGGOT!!!"

 

There was the time I got robbed by fake Moroccan hookers after attempting to stop a mass brawl at a pub in Barcelona, but instead I shall share with you a tale from a time in which I lived in a filthy, rat-infested shithole with a bunch of reprobates. It was a large house, and had a constantly rotating series of roommates, as few could put up with the insanity/stench for long. I didn't officially live there, but I spent 6 nights a week there and paid rent in weed, so I was a roommate in all but title. Notable roommates at this house:

'Baseball bat', a girl so named for being semi-publically violated with one of those mini-baseball bats, in both the front and backdoor. This girl offered me head for a lift to the service station that was no more than five minutes walk. Oddly enough, her Dad was a cop, a fact which would cause us problems later.

Then there was 'Jessica', a girl who had two primary sources of income: dressing up as a Red Cross worker and collecting donations in a large can she had wrapped ordinary white A4 paper around and drawn a red + sign on, and telling the many, many boys she slept with that she needed money for an abortion. Both of these girls were fucking (and impregnated by) 'Hank', a reasonably streetsmart meth addict who mostly stole bikes from the local trainstation and sold a bit of weed.

There was also 'Steve', the gent who had introduced me to the house. Steve lost his virginity to an Asian girl he met at a nightclub, who, after giving him head for about 4 weeks, was revealed to be a pre-op transsexual. Seriously. He continued to date him/her/it, eventually moving in with it and losing contact with all of us.

But this story belongs to 'K', a weird guy who was reasonably tough white trash dude who would occasionally flip out at no provocation. K had ripped some people off on a drug deal, and they later set our front garden/gutters on fire, but that's a different story again. Anyway, K needed money. In his infinite fucking wisdom, K decides to rob the local service station. With an iron bar as his only weapon. (Incidentally, K huffed a lot of paint/glue/petrol, which may have influenced his decision). The local service station, it turned out, had shutters that could come down for just such an occasion. The clerk hit the switch, the shutters came down and the front doors locked, and K was left standing there like a fucking assclown, waiting for the cops. (At this point, I assume robbing the service station no longer seems like such a sound plan). K, in telling this story, always proudly recounts how at this point he started eating the lollies off the counter, just to show how unconcerned he was with his situation. Did I mention K was fucking retarded?

Anyway, the cops come, K gets arrested, gets charged with armed robbery, but because he was only 17 at this point, gets sent to Juvenile prison. We don't see or hear from him in a while, and basically gratefully forget he exists. Well, at some point he gets let out, and on rare occasions drops into the house to drink with one or another of the dodgy roommates. K likes to drink, and one night he has too much to drink, freaks the fuck out, starts throwing punches, and has to be pulled off one of the guys he came to see. Then he collapses in tears. Now, seeing K cry is really, really fucking weird. Like, unimaginably weird. Then he breaks down and confesses he was gang-raped while in juvy. Now, if you're a drunk, stoned, 18/19yr old guy, what is your response in this situation? What can you possibly say, to this unstable man who knows where you sleep?

Anyway - I think the moral of the story is 'be careful about what sounds like a good idea at the time, especially if the idea comes from a guy who sniffs paint, in case you end up getting raped'.

 

The following has to be my most ridiculous drunken experience ever. It’s pretty tame by the board’s standards, but it’s the best I’ve got. It was my last day of classes at BCIT and my family was heading over to Gabriola Island to meet some cousins and aunts for Thanksgiving.

Friday morning, I was writing my final exam for my 1st year Joinery course at BCIT. I passed my final, and got a decent mark on my final project. This of course meant some celebrating was in order.

My whole class went to the campus bar as soon as we were finished the exam and got in right as it opened. First thing I do was order a pitcher of beer and some wings with a friend. After about 10 minutes, both are gone, so with my burger I order a crown and coke. Realizing that the bar was starting to get fairly busy, I ordered 2 crown and cokes when I was finished my first one. I didn’t know how long the waitress would take to do her rounds, and I wasn’t risking having an empty glass in front of me. After this point, I decide fuck it and get two double crown and cokes. I believe it was around 1 pm by this point, and I am well on my way to shitfaced.

Somewhere in there a classmate mentioned he was parked just outside and had a joint to smoke in his truck, so I joined him. Now the parking lot is a decent walk from the bar so I was a little skeptical at first, but then I realized that when he said parked right outside, he meant it.

He had decided that parking in the middle of the courtyard, beside half a dozen security vehicles was the reasonable thing to do. Of course being fairly buzzed at this point no bells went off that maybe smoking weed in a vehicle in the middle of a wide open area with tons of pedestrian traffic and security vehicles next to us might be a bad idea.

But we smoked the joint, and joined our classmates back at the bar without any altercation.

Around 2 pm, my brother came to pick me up. At this point I’m 3 sheets to the wind, just right fucked, and somehow my brother didn’t seem to notice. We stopped off at his place to grab his shit where I finished another beer before we hopped on the bus to the ferry terminal. We caught the 5 o’clock boat and immediately went to the outer deck to start shotgunning beers and taking swigs of Jager. We managed to finish an 8 pack of Cold Shots and an entire 2-6 of Jager.

After this ferry ride, he was starting to feel it too, and I was probably legally retarded. We had a short walk ahead of us to the second ferry of our trip so we did the only logical thing to do: bought another pack of Cold Shots and drank those along the walk.

Now if this had continued on until we reached the other ferry terminal, this wouldn’t have been a noteworthy story. But we managed to get distracted by the one thing that is the downfall of all men: boobies.
Walking along the street, the neon sign was like one of those neon-blue mosquito traps, and me and my brother the blood-sucking retards being drawn to it. “The Globe: Bar and Girls”. I mentioned that I’ve never actually been to a strip club, so my brother suggested we take a pit stop for some more drinks and some entertainment. We walk in, I get two more crown and cokes, and we head straight for perve-row.

My last clear memory from this portion is having a naked chick pull a $5 bill out of my mouth.

Next thing I know I'm on a sidewalk talking to some kids around my age who are going to Ladysmith, about a 20 minute drive away, and invite me onto their limo. I'm drunk, have no idea where my brother is at this point and don't know who these kids are or really where they're going, so I decide I should probable go with the safe bet here and get in with them.

We get to the bar and it's filled with old guys with long beards and leather Harley jackets. They think I'm hilarious and start buying me drinks. After a while it hits me, I should not be here, so I leave, and just start walking.

It's really late, and have no idea where I am and it's pissing down rain. Next thing I know, this random car pulls up to me and stops. The driver has a bright yellow security jacket on.

Security: Hey man, where are you headed?
Me: … Uhh, Nanaimo and Hastings?
Security: That’s in Vancouver. You’re on Vancouver Island. Just get in man.

I figured him being some form of security guard meant he was an alright guy, so hopped in with him. I somehow managed to spit out that I needed to get to the Gabriola Island ferry terminal. He dropped me off there, but informed me that the last ferry had sailed and I’d have to wait until the morning to get over. I looked around, and see an apartment is the closest building, so I strolled over, and waited until someone else goes inside. I said that my friend who lives there isn’t answering his buzzer and I just wanted to get inside the lobby and try calling him on my cell. Once inside I laid down on the chairs in the lobby and passed out, using my soaking wet jacket as a blanket.

Next morning I woke up, walked across to the terminal and phoned my parents from the payphone.

Me: Hey, so I’m at the ferry terminal, taking the next boat if dad wants to grab me on the other side.
Mom: Ya, dad will come grab you and [My brother]
Me: … [Brother] didn’t come over last night?
Mom: … He’s not with you?
Me: … I’ll see dad in a few.

Turns out my brother managed to get picked up by the cops and spent the night in the drunk tank.

Neither of us remember what happened in the strip club, or how we got separated. And I still don’t know how I didn’t either pass out, just start throwing up everywhere or die that night. Most alcohol I’ve ever consumed in one night. The main lesson I learned that night was to stay away from double crown and cokes.