The GB Birthday Saga

The day started, like so many others, with plans to sit in a beer garden in the sun. We arrived around midday, and walked up to the bar of a pub set in the grounds of a Nottingham park. As we walked in, a sight which would set the tone for the remainder of the day greeted us. A strange image of fat men walking around in flamboyant shirts with their names written on their backs. It was soon obvious that a darts tournament had been shoehorned into our bar. I sensed danger as there were darts flying everywhere. A drunken man could come to a lot of harm in this situation. Especially a drunken man with little or no sense of danger, direction or propriety. Sadly, myself, GB and our companions fitted perfectly into this category.

The four of us wisely retired to the beer garden, amongst my favourite places to drink. There is something amount the hot sun shining down on a cold pint that makes me get all, well, drunk. Somewhat incongruous with the other patrons was a very large young woman with purple hair and some student companions. Being sober at this stage, we largely ignored her like the nice people we are.

A few happy hours passed, after which LE's girlfriend, JP was somewhat tired and decided to fall asleep. Arrangements were quickly made for LE to have a few more pints and then retreat from the situation. Unfortunately the lesbian/earth mother/purple haired warrior took offence to this and unwisely decided to intervene.

LPH: If you really loved your girlfriend, you'd take her home now.
LE: If you knew what was good for you you'd fuck off now.
I'm not going to take advice from someone with purple hair.
LPH: What's wrong with my hair? You should take your girlfriend home.
LE: Look, just fuck off and sit over there. Bitch.

The umpleasantness over, we continued to drink. LE removed himself and his defunct girlfriend. The substitution was DK, GB's Russian colleague. At this point, I decided that things should be set straight and explained to DK what had occurred in my quietest, most subtle voice. I then detailed a fantasy in which I maimed, killed and burned the bodies of a legion of purple haired lesbian warriors who interfered with other people's drinking. The three students drinking with our tormentor seemed somewhat unhappy on overhearing this and DK suggested we move on.

A day of solid drinking followed. Myself and GB ended the night in a late bar, where another of GB's multiple colleagues decided to get around 30 shots of various spirits (I seem to recall it was mainly aftershock) and play a drinking game which I understandably had little grasp of the rules for. GB was of little assistance being at least 75% unconcious. His only actions were to wake up occasionally, gaze incomprehendingly at the huge pile of shots on our table, then drink one and return to slumber.

After being solidly beaten (or winning) in the drinking games, we attempted to go to a club. It is a sign of my level of drunkeness that I agreed, with my utter disdain for clubs and the drinking opportunities they offer. Fortunately, as we crossed the road to queue for the club, GB stacked it. Unfortunately this section of the tale is third party information as I cannot recall the incident. Apparently it was an excellent dive, fully worthy of a Premiership footballer. GB declined to get back up, and instead crawled through broken glass and up the steps to the club. In full view of the bouncers and the policemen attending some form of incident.

PC: What are you doing?
GB: I'm going into the club.
PC: I don't think you should do that.

My only memory of this period is audio - GB's colleagues arguing with the taxi driver about whether we could make it back in his taxi. My assumption is that we were both comatose in the back of the vehicle. He eventually agreed to take us home. Whether he did so or kicked us out at the first opportunity is now lost in the mists of time. All in all, a good day was had by everyone except those we came across.

My Drive To Work

Driving to work today, I saw a dude in my mirror who actually made me laugh out loud. He was driving a champagne / piss yellow Rover 200. Not quite enough to make me laugh. He was pretty big looking. Certainly not enough.

It was the mirror finish wrap around shades. Covering around 75% of his face. I wanted to press my secret 'stop time' button, get out of the car and write in big letters on his dasboard:

"Dude. People outside your car can SEE YOU. They can SEE INTO THE CAR."

I would also have turned his steering wheel 90 degrees to the right, steering him into oncomming traffic. If he survived when time restarted, then fair play. Otherwise,

Of course, that would have made me late for work, so I didn't do it.

A short while later, he pulled alongside me at some traffic lights. I looked over briefly to see...He was wearing the exact same top that I own and like(d). It is soiled. No amount of Vanish, OXYClean or Bleach can remove the mark. I shall be giving it a full viking burial tonight.

Peter O'Phile and the Kids Of Doom

Driving at lunchtime one day last week in HEAVY rain, I came across three kids standing by the side of the road, gesturing insanely at the cars passing them. After deciding they weren't desperately attempting to gain assistance for their father, injured in a bizarre fishing accident or otherwise, I realised that they were attempting to get cars to drive through the large puddle in the road beside them. Trying to cool their young heads with some refreshing dirty water. The bus in front of me declined to assist. The car in front of me also refused. I drew a line in the sand. I could not let these youngsters down. I accelerated. Hard.

Hitting a large body of water at 50 miles an hour is never a good idea. Fun yes, under many circumstances. A good idea, no. Approximately 0.5 seconds after my front wheels hit the water and instantly lost all grip, so did the back ones. My car, always a little wayward in the rain, decided on a sideways approach to further progress. I suspect he was trying to help in some crazy, car logic way, but this was to my mind not a good position to be in. Explaining to my insurance company how I had come to kill three children, or worse damage my car doing so did not appeal. After a deft piece of luck and gentle slamming of the steering wheel to full lock the car settled down to a more conventional driving attitude and I resumed my journey, leaving three cheering kids in my soaking wake.

The question came to me later. Were they really trying to get cars to crash in the rain? Has the sleepy suburb of West Bridgford raised three super-intelligent mini-monsters? Are they sitting in their respective three-bedroomed semis as I speak, plotting their next misanthropic deeds, aiming for the ultimate enslavement of Tollerton, Nottingham, The East Midlands and more?

I felt used. I had been outwitted by a group of under 11s.

My smile grew back and I descended into manic laughter. I wished them the best in their torrent of world destruction. My colleauges wondered what I was doing.

Female Loathing in Las Midlands 1

Peter O'Phile Note:
This is intended to be the first in a series of studies into female behaviour under the influence of alcohol.
I fear there will be no answers or ultimate solutions here, but such is life.

One of our greatest drinking performances ever was KP's birthday, November, 2003. One day I may share the other events of this day, those that I both remember and can safely write about without immediate arrest and incarceration, that is. One such event provides our first example of FDI (female drink insanity) in Nottingham. It transpired in our favourite late night haunt, sometime approaching late night.

Myself and GB, taking a leisurely stance against a wall near the bar were discussing the ethics of modern art's approach to death or similar when we were approached by a young lady, we'll call her MB as I don't know her name. The approach in itself was unusual, not in it's nature but in it's occurrence. Neither myself nor GB are what you would call 'attractive people' especially when obviously drunk. The conversation flowed a little like this:

MB: Where's my bag? Can you help me look for my bag?
GB: Lady, I haven't seen your bag.
MB: I've lost my bag. Where's my bag (looking under drinks rest along wall)
GB+PO'P: ...
MB: (Somewhat agitated) Where's my bag? What have you done with my bag?
GB: I haven't got your fucking bag.
PO'P: I'm here with the bag. For the eels...The badger...
MB: I cant find my bag...
GB+PO'P: (Look around aimlessly, pretending to assist.)
MB: (Very agitated) What have you done with my bag? Where's my bag?

At this point, I knelt down to look on the floor hoping this madwoman would either go away or I could find the bag and save the day.

There was no bag.

SMASH!

The mirror on the wall above me fell to the ground next to and around me. It had also arranged itself into much smaller, more attractive pieces. MB had thrown a drink at it, in an attempt to locate her wayward bag. I don't think it worked, as a bouncer quickly arrived and removed her, sans bag. She continued shouting insults about us, bag thieves and bags in general. I sensed she had been spurned by a bag before. I decided to help by picking up the pieces or wet, broken mirror. Somehow avoiding serious injury I was relieved of my duties by the bar staff - "No Peter, leave the mirror there" was their kindly chant. The night, and the drinking continued...

Peter O'Phile Note:
I lost my beloved leather coat in similar fashion in this very bar a few months later. Sadly there was no mirror to smash thanks to MB, and I was forced to walk home in the mid-december cold wearing a t-shirt. This was also the night I fell into a watery ditch, which can wait for another, colder time.

It Starts

Well, using the best essay writing techniques, I'll answer as many of the six little questions as seem appropriate:

Who
Peter O'Phile is a largely fictional entity living in or around the Midlands area of Great Britain.
It can be revealed that he is a mid-twenty year old computer nerd. His interests include beer, vodka/red bull, cars and music, but strangely not computers in any meaningful way.

How
How what? Am I living? I don't know.

What
It'll be a bit like a blog, but not necessarily regularly updated, or in any real diary format. Whatever vague rules exist for blogs don't apply.

Where
On t'internet, of course.

Why
This page is really a way for me to remember and share my experiences in a more anonymous method than I previously could. My personal website was a little close to home, now I can share my dull shit freely. And even swear.

I guess there's nothing left to say. Enjoy or don't, they're both fine choices.