Monday, 6 June 2011

The Dangerous Nature Of Buckets

One group of friends and I get together for a meal at one of our houses every couple of weeks or so. Usually it's takeaway curry from the nearest local Indian restaurant, which is why we refer to it as Murray Curry And Gay Film Night. We pick the worst gay rom-coms ever made and spend the time screaming a mixture of insults and brilliantly sharp criticisms at the screen. The former increase and the latter decrease as the night progresses and the alcohol content in our systems rises.

Because these evenings invariably involve alcohol, which as we all know is my downfall, it generally leads to much stupidity despite my best efforts. So it was no real surprise when, during the most recent curry night, the following happened. In order for the following to make sense, you will require the following pieces of information:

1. A local bar we go to sells buckets (children's sandcastle type buckets) full of alcohol, ice and straws.

2. I consumed many buckets and very much enjoyed them on a recent night out which was the best one I'd had for ages.

3. The day after I imbibed said buckets, I woke up still drunk and felt invincible, at least for a couple more hours.

4. I have a fervent wish to do this again.

Two of my friends and I were talking about their upcoming trip to Germany, which we realised was happening (rather unfortunately) over my birthday weekend and the following weekend as well. They invited me to go, as some of their friends are coming over (turns out its the Women's World Cup football, apparently, you know I don't follow sports unless it's ice hockey and even then I only really go to see the thrill of man-on-man violence) and I thought it sounded like a decent idea. However, I said I'd have to think it over, as I had been planning to have a small but fun night out somewhere in Edinburgh, preferably accompanied by lots of the aforementioned buckets.

After a moment's pause to consider this, the next sentences out of my mouth were "On my birthday I want to get fucked. With buckets." Which, you will note, is a perfectly logical statement to make, but only if all everyone can see the punctuation. I sometimes forget that life inside and life outside my head, despite only being separated by a few layers of skin and some bone, can be two very different realities.
Both friends looked horrified and whipped their heads round to stare at me, before bursting into hysterical laughter. It took me a second to work out why, and then my feeble protests only served to increase their hilarity. Then the more I explained how, on my 26th birthday, I wanted to imbibe alcohol in buckets like on our last night out, amd not, as they thought I had suggested, voiced an urge to begin sexual relations with plastic construction materials, the more they laughed. It was a moment that with other friends, I might have been able to play down and hide under the Carpet of Memory, but not these guys. I knew this would be become another joke. 

It's on me. But in three weeks' time, so are the buckets. Let the good times roll.


  1. "Fucked With Buckets" could be the name of your book, or your band name, or a puzzle on X-rated Wheel of Fortune. I like it. It's alliterative, AND classy.

  2. I'm starting that band right now. We'll create a new genre of folk-punk and have at least three panpipe players.

    Thanks for the comment, I've been a huge fan of your blog for ages!

  3. Thanks!

    I'll tweet Zamfir, master of the panflute, and see if he's game.

  4. I always thought Zordon from the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers would be a great harmonica player. It's probably all he could manage, what with just being a face and all. I'll have my people call his people.