A night of bare buttocks, 'foot-the-ball' and old age

So last night was a first for me, without much fanfare or prior planning, I found myself in the Student Union Bar (or whatever the cool kids call it) in the middle of one of these ‘football’ matches that apparently I’m a retarded homosexual for not liking. Or something like that.

Apparently the match was between Totten’um Hotspurs and Arsenal United and was one of those matches that people ‘cared’ about. So every time someone touched the ball there was a collective groan of either anticipation or horror. It was like being in a public toilet after an outbreak of food poisoning.

Speaking of public toilets, one curious thing that me and my pard’ners in crime noticed during our hour or so -rather hypocritically- defending our table from drunken people was this…we were the only people there wearing pants. It was an odd revelation, sort of equivalent to waking up in the morning and discovering that you were in a different house to the one you went to sleep in. The closest thing to ‘pants’ in the entire room were short-shorts, worn mostly by boys with several socks stuffed down their pants. But seriously, who likes short-shorts?

I can’t believe I just wrote that, anyway, call me old fashioned (you wouldn’t be the first, or the last) but if I were out on ‘the pull’ –which is about as likely as a Big Brother contestant doing something or worth- I’d be more attracted to the girl that wore clothes. But apparently bearing your sphincter to everyone in the room is totally in this summer, next year it’s keeping your spleen on a beer mat. No doubt you’re half expecting me to start wearing tartan slippers, put Radio 4 on at a moderate volume. Maybe after that I’d maybe tell you about the good old days when I had to walk 5 miles to get a lump of coal for breakfast…in the snow…wearing nothing but rope and a gasmask.

Anyway, on with this train-wreck of consciousness! For the first time in University I found myself going beyond nicely drunk and winding up just plain ol’ wasted. As you kids would say. I reached the point where I obsessed about the highlighting on a poster in the mens bogs (seriously though, what does Cog Des Soc mean?). At one point I’m sure I could smell colours, and my partners in pant-wearing-crime giggled into their squishy plastic cups of vodka.

Eventually I my alcohol influenced brain began to write the same old story; stumbling, getting laughed at by the more sober members of the party, narrowly avoiding saying something stupid, saying something stupid, bitching at someone about one of their friends. By now you’re probably thinking ‘what the hell is he getting at?’ And to be totally honest, I have no idea. It seemed like a good idea at the time, sort of like getting drunk I guess.