Don’t mix your drinks.
Don’t mix with him.
It will kill you one day.
Good advice. Sound advice.
– Elbow
After a few gigs, we go out on the lash because the next day’s a day off. One of the band owes me fifteen euros, and when we get to the first bar after the gig, he offers to buy me a drink. I spot the cocktail menu and cheerfully offer the ridiculous idea of him buying me two cocktails and we can call it even. They all think this is a bit daft but soon they down their steins and before you know it, we’re all sipping on straws with two cocktails each, eyeing up the shots menu.
I think this is possibly the point where it all starts to go downhill.
The Backline tech, Dan, can apparently be dared to do anything — so Lee, the lead singer, buys a shot that looks like a milky liqueur. Whilst Dan is in the toilet, they hide it under the table. He returns a few minutes later only to be dared for a paltry fifty dollars, which he negotiates by the way, to go the toilet and basically produce a special shot and Lee will then go and do the same.
I think it’s fair to say we can all see where this one is going, but to my keen surprise, the boys raise their glasses and Dan actually drinks his. I think he does it only because he thinks that Lee will too but it would probably be worth putting a little stake on him doing it anyway. Gross. Everyone rolls around laughing their heads off and spitting their drinks out by accident. This table is getting messy.
A bit later in the evening, we go to a Vampire-themed bar somewhere in Munich and I have to say, I’m getting a little drunk. I go straight to the toilet because like a lot of girls, going more than twenty minutes without a pit stop after the first call to the ladies’ room is a dangerous game to play when I’m out drinking. Bloody flood gates. As soon as I rejoin the band at the bar, a shot of ‘blood’ is practically thrown into my hand and I obediently neck it. I don’t even think to ask what it is. Given the evening’s earlier bodily fluid-based shot games, I should really ask but I don’t think they’re into bloodletting, or anything equally bizarre, so it seems safe to drink it.
This is the second major mistake I make so far tonight.
You see, I’m not allowed vodka. One shot and I’m the life and soul of my own party with everyone else merely spectators in the bizarre world that my mind creates. And quite frankly, I’m bad enough as it is. In no time at all, I’m dancing on the bar. But, oh no, probably not the kind of drunken dancing that you’re thinking of. I’m not standing on the bar dancing; I’m actually flat on my back with my legs up in the air. Whoops. Not a good look. I’m now presuming the blood shot was vodka-based– cheap shots in cheap bars usually are — but regardless, I’m acting a wee bit reckless.
Somehow I get back to the hotel. I know this because several hours later, I come ‘round to find the tour manager standing over my bed yelling at me to wake up. I don’t know how long he’s been there and even though I can see that he’s yelling, his words are indiscernible in my befuddled state. Apparently he’s had to get the nearest cleaner to let him into my room. Obviously it’s time to get up but I’m unsure of where we were supposed to be going. Since I’m still fully dressed, I just grab my handbag and follow him downstairs.
It’s only when the cold air hits me that I start to really come ‘round, so I just look a bit sheepish and get into one of the cars with everyone else. When we get to our destination, the horrible realisation hits me that I should have brought my overnight bag with all my stuff in it. Everyone’s checked out and I haven’t brought my toiletries, most of my clothes, my sunglasses, books and, shit! My bloody passport.
I tell Eddie this revelation and he just barks at me to get on the bus anyway. I refuse to and insist that it will only take me five minutes and get back in the cab. Regardless, I need my bloody passport. At this point, I obviously don’t realise how late I’ve made everyone already. I ask the driver to take me back to wherever we’ve just come from because I don’t know the name of the hotel. When we pull up, I’m faced with about five or six hotels and have to ask him which is mine. Perfect. This is not going terribly well. In the lobby, I realise that I don’t know which room was mine. Speaking to the busy front desk clerks seems too arduous, so I slump back to the cab and return to the bus empty-handed.
I am in so much trouble. Toothbrush-less and red-faced, I sulk my way into my bunk to sleep it off.
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