21 Mar 08

Hammy (Part 2)

Hammy - Best friend I grew up with in my hometown. Fond of alcohol, especially Stella Artois.

“First off, what do you think of all the comments that came in on Hammy (Part 1)?” I said.
“I’m quite surprised by the nature of some of the comments,” Hammy said (after drinking not much for him: ten pints of beer and a bottle of red wine), “but it’s just like water off a duck’s back to me, and some of it’s quite amusing. I honestly think it’s a culture difference. I can understand their concerns, but I think most of these people need to have a drink – there’s something uptight about them. And if they won’t have a drink, I’ll have one for them. Everyone’s saying I’m an alcoholic when I class myself as a bit of a binge drinker and that’s it – along with half the population of England and Northern Europe.”
“One person commented: hammy is a dick head. He will end up a sad old man pissing in his pants, if he doesn't already.”
“Although peeing in the pants hasn’t happened in years, it has happened on a few occasions in the past, and I’ve woke up with a map of Australia underneath my arse and a rainbow above the bedroom. Most people get a pot of gold at the end of their rainbow. I get a pot of piss. One time when me and a mate were inventing a new cocktail, we basically pissed the bed five nights in a row – the bed, the couch, the floor, etcetera. The cocktail took a week to perfect. I’ll hold my hands up to one of my mates pants-pissing occasions because when he took the knock I placed one of his hands in a glass of lukewarm water, which makes you piss your pants.” With the pirate voice coming in a bit, Hammy said, “Arrr, the perils of a pisspot. It was funny watching him do the walk of shame home the next morning with a tidemark of piss around his thighs.”
“What was this new cocktail you invented?”
“We were too drunk to remember any of the ingredients. We were sat there like mad pissheads in one house for a week. We did put a patent on it at the time, and NASA were interested in it for their latest rocket system.”
“One commenter invited you for a drink in Shetland.”
“To the guy in Shetland: thanks for the invitation. I may take you up on it some day, but wasn’t The Wicker Man filmed near there? If you can fix it for Brigitte Bardot in her prime to be getting bulbed in a pub nearby, I’ll be up there in a heartbeat. And whatever you guys do with them Shetland ponies is your business and none of mine.”
“It’s common knowledge in the Ring O’ Bells that you’re going to be stepping your drinking up this summer?”
“I just recently got my ticket into Spain, where we’re off on a stag do. The numbers are up 250 people who are all poets and pisspots. I’m actually flying out earlier, four days earlier, with three others – two cousins and a mate – to go into training, get acclimatized, and get match fit for the big occasion.”
“Which involves what?”
“It involves an English fry up for breakfast. We’re setting the clock for 5:30 in the morning. We’ll have bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, baked beans, and a glass of vodka and lime. We’ll sit near the pool till midday drinking mainly beers. Because only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, it’s down to the bar in the local village for more beers and, er, sangria, and local cocktails. We’ll go into the city of Valencia in the early evening, and see where that takes us, drinking whatevers on offer. We normally end up by finishing the night with me pouring everyone one of my invented cocktails, and everyone who tries it suddenly develops a face like a cow sucking piss off a thistle.”
“What about going to bed?”
“I don’t know. We just collapse around the pool and stuff, and wake up with ants trying to crawl into our mouths.”
“And this is just the warm up for the stag do?”
“Yes. On the last day of the warm up, we refrain from all alcoholic drinks, and, er, maybe we have one or two beers, but that’s it, because we’re off for a hike up the mountains and into this village. The next day – day one of the stag do – we get a train down the Spanish coast to meet up in the town with the 250 pisspots and let the frivolity commence.”
“Frivolity?”
“We don’t know until we’re there. Mainly drinking, singing, and sex, hopefully.”
“Sleep?”
“Possibly. It’s not a priority.Maybe the occasional tapas. After the four days of drinking with our Bacchus brethren, it’s back up to Valencia where we’re either going to chill out or we’re contemplating getting a ferry over to Ibiza where the club season’s just starting, and we’ll take it from there.”


Hammy called the next day, the pirate voice in full swing.
“Arrr, arrr. I threw a kebab at a Turkish man’s head.”
“Why?”
“It was his fault. I was just talking to some lad about football, and the Turk called me scum – or at least I thought he did.”
“How much have you drunk?”
“Arrr. No fucking clue. Arrr. The last thing I just drank was a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream I was saving to pour on birds’ nipples. I’ve been drinking all night. Vodka. I may of dozed off. I went through one bottle of that Absolut vodka shite.”
“What else?”
“There’s two empty bottles of red wine near where I’m sitting. I’m off to get some more now. Like you’ve got the taste for blood, I’ve got the taste for wine.”
“You must have drank some beer?”
“I don’t know. I was at yours at six, then I went to the Ring O’ Bells, where I averaged four pints every forty-five minutes.”
“So you haven’t had any deep sleep?”
“I hope so. I don’t know. Arrr, I’m off to the pub. No, I’ll make a tit of myself. I’ll drink indoors. I’ve been thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Not much actually. I can’t listen to my music on my DVD. I’m absolutely gutted. Arrr, I made up a song in the middle of the night and guess what?”
“What?”
“I forgot it. One sniff of the barmaid's apron and I'm doomed.”

And it’s not even the holiday weekend yet. What do you think of Hammy classifying himself as “a bit of a binge drinker?” He's also recommending I get out and drink more as a necessary part of my return and readjustment to English society.

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