Upon the table stood a thirty-two inch Alba perching against the east facing wall which stared precariously over the condiments that were mangled, overlapping and oddly placed. A green translucent jug, sticky and overturned, lie between empty bottles of beer and cracked glass. Plates, scattered and covered in scraps of uneaten food. Post-stick notes together and separate, ripped and untouched stuck to deodorant cans and caps of bottle drunk. Tobacco pouches strewed and tawny orange stains littered the laminate wood, that it rested on. The pitter-patter of mouse clicks, keyboard keys, and Xbox buttons hung like wasted decibels only outweighed by the bellowing screams of a kettle. Disks, cards and sunglasses accompanied the collaborative mess almost pushing the boundaries close to falling off the edge. The remnants of takeaways past chewed, spewed and splattered with sauces of red, brown and white in a rustling grease paper box. A consumed peach schnapps bottle held its structural dominance standing triumphant among the scuttling rubbish surrounding it. Pointless receipts and stubby coloured glasses, designed for shots, held up a half full packet of JB like ants couriering their food to their queen. Carved keys, and wallets encapsulated the unending growth of the taxing environment that sustained all walks of life, from ants to moths. The smell of poultry, ash and regret licked effervescently above and beyond the table dissipating further into it’s surrounding. Cigarettes burnt and stubbed into, lids of plastic, tin and yoghurt pots still with foil half covering the only accessible point. Green and continually bending plastic garden chairs tucked under, pushed out and somewhere in between allowed the makers of this wasteland to continue, essentially enabling the tables demise. Once friends they now feared one another, as the scratches and screeches of the chairs moving position startled the compressed fibers that made up the four legs of the table; striking fear, angst and disappointment within an old friend. It had long been since the table held nothing but it’s own weight, it wondered if it ever would.
After coercing our film-loving, plot-illuminating housemate, Meg, into watching the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. We decided that instead of watching this like the sober finches of the Galapagos, we would endure the ninety minute calamity-classic doing a shot every time we noticed a cliché catchphrase like “see ya later alligator” – Ivan Ooze, intentionally compromising pun “I’ve got a bone to pick with you” – White Power Ranger (whilst fighting dinosaur skeletons), and ridiculous music that is played over scenes of no importance at all.
So the rules are simple – a sip, of a prolonged duration for minor instances of cheesy: behaviour, lines, music, sayings, bad green screens – the key is to be understanding of where each incident could be categorically organized into a scale; so anything 5> would be sip and 6< would be a shot! The drink of course is your decision, the shot is always nice to have something between the strength of vodka but stronger than schnapps – not too much and not too little, that’s the dream!
After twenty minutes of rib-tickling, lip-smacking idioms of far too obvious description, a bottle and half of shots has been annihilated. Continuous hand shaking and rhino-mercenary but-kicking has lead me to believe that this is the future of student drinking games. Never before have over-dramatic news broadcasts, and villain-induced witticisms been so damaging to ones liver!
Just to mention: “uh oh, were in trouble” – is genuinely part of the soundtrack. They also have a giant red button which kick’s other specifically similar sized robots in the metal genitals – convenient.
During one scene, you may remember, a rhino explodes into thousand of pieces after being corkscrew kicked so hard – needless to say a lot of alcohol has been consumed. Not even mentioning the collective skating, hand shaking, cockpit-swaying, child-filled mono-railing, glass-shattering building shaking brilliance that the power rangers ensue,
One genuine issue about the film is the fist-pumping white ranger has to be the leader – of course, seems a little racist, considering the black ranger is reduced to being a frog! – well done Brian Spicer! Some may say it was a different time back then, others simply suggesting that being the black ranger surely the crotch is the most appropriate place for him – can hardly imagine the white ranger having an equally sized time down there – ah stereotypes.
So spread the word, drink the dream and think – what would Zordon do?!
I often think that there is much more to alcohol than the night you drink it – often during the hangover period do we reminisce the hilarity of your mates dubious ramblings or fabulous faux pas knocking into, stumbling over and fumbling with other beverage consuming participants which becomes an accolade by it’s own defying right.
The true beauty of alcohol comes with the company of those around you, its an enabler at the very least. Often I’ll hear people say “It’s a sign that you’ve had a good night” – which irritates the hell out of me – so it may comes as surprise to you that I think that the statement has a certain degree of truth.
Prior to coming to Worcester the weekend would consist of, going out Friday and spending all of Saturday (student nights here are mid-week) with the people from the night before – living the absolute dream. Getting a domino’s hangover, conversing, having gloried opinions of people and ideas and watching terrible television shows – Its an angelic feeling being hungover, and almost always undervalued!
The best part of the overture is spending it with people who make you do stupid things, laugh when they should help, abandon one another in the pub, manipulate into buying alcohol, tease about sexual escapades, fight, then presumably make-up and call ridiculous names to.
When my parents said “Hangovers get much worse with age” maybe there is less of an appreciation for the hungover feeling or maybe it is because they haven’t awoken to Charlie snoring in the corner, Angus mangled and face down in bed, Ramron romanticizing an open bottle of spirit, Dave with fists bloodied or Thon with his trouser by his ankles whispering “the Germans are a community of high repute: yours sincerely, Goldeen”. – That is what alcohol is really for.
I like to think of being hungover as a different kind of drunk – when your irritability conflicts with your desire for greasy food and calling people bastard-face seems like an appropriate term of endearment – post-drunk.