Return of THE FEAR!

[Black Shepherd Carnage]

 

[El_ogre_del_Dublinios]

new story fresh from the fear zone.

was out there on Wednesday there with  two of me mates, id just moved into a new gaff that day and one of the lads only moved into his new place the week before, which turns out is about an hours walk through the phoenix park from my new place. decided we would have a few drinks that rapidly turned into a fuckin billion. we parted ways about 4 am and i set off on what should have been an hours walk home. it took me 3 hours and i have little to no recollection of that time. the real problem is that, at some point along this journey, i decided to message practically every woman i have added on Facebook the most vile, inhuman drunk horny talk imaginable. i still cant face looking at the messages to see the responses.

i think im going to buy a 20 quid blockia for going on the sauce so i dont have access to the internet while pissed ever again lol.

[Caomhaoin]

That's a sore one alright 😂😂😂😂

[Ealaín]

I have one more worth telling!

This account doesn’t reach the frightening depths of THE FEAR and its nowhere near the caliber of Stout’s accounts but I’ll do my best.

Afew of us from Dublin and Belfast headed to the Rise Above anniversary event in London back in 2008. The gig passed swiftly, I was merry and some of us were more than merry. After the show most of us ended back in a pub a stone’s throw from the ULU, that same pub a few of us were at before the Pagan Altar/ Warning show in 2007, but it’s still in a labyrinth to find in my memory. I was just taking in the moments, jovial and all, looking around and a familiar face pops out from the crowd. It’s that fella from the telly in East Enders, who lives ina pub with the mother and the brother, lo and behold its Phil Mitchell chatting by the bar. “Wow that’s Phil Mitchell. Look!” “That’s not Phil Mitchell” “Its yer man who lives ina pub” Ferglor shouting “THAT’S NOT PHIL MITCHELL” “ YES IT IS” the entire pub is hearing this. Finally, it was agreed after much talk, that this was indeed Phil Mitchell.
He looked right over at the group, I even get eye contact, a very cross look too, just as he is on the show. And I’m considering it wise to shuffle away but everyone is parked permanently in this spot.

A little while later “Here, would you ask for a photo with Bill and Phil ,can you manage that?” “what? ”says I “yeah, you´'ll never know if you don’t try” something like that. “Ah I dunno”  “No, this will be amazing” “hmm”  “It would be the Doomiest photo ever, imagine Bill Steer and Phil Mitchell in one kodak shot, it will be legendary, ah go on”  After much hemming and hawing and time running short, I agreed, but my gut was uneasy . A pal said she’d walk behind me for moral support so that was something to hold onto.

Bill was at the other end of the bar behind us, and right off the bat he agreed, very sound ,he nods, not a worry, grandso ,that’s sorted!  Right, now I have to carry this proposal to the other side of the bar. “Are ye? Are you gonna do it, yeah? yeah, yeaaah?”  “Ok- LETS DO THIS!”  But I need a sip….…and I needed another sip. 

I walked gently on a tightrope towards Phil and his two companions, stuck in the deepest conversation and I get the feeling this will not bode well. Phil totally knows I’m walking towards him, he has been listening to us since he heard he was spotted by us, and I’m to blame. It was a daunting walk, I stand before them, I politely nod a gesture of excuse me, and “Hallo Phil, sorry, eh w-would you mind…”  (I knew Phil wasn’t his real name but I kept calling him Phil)  I am not confident with this situation at all . He barely gives a glance back to me “Yeah I'm  talking, could YOU go away please?” ”O…right…so, I'll  juushtt…. ”  Mortified, absolutely mortified, I gingerly tip toe backwards, turning, wishing I never knew of this shambolic idea which seemed great afew minutes back but barely made it to shore.

I think I offended him, he seems like the sensitive type “What did you say?”, “I said hallo and…” Next I get a hand on my shoulder, “You just got rejected by Phil Mitchell” “FECK”   It would have been worth it if it was the other brother, his head far more interesting to look at, archaic head on shoulders. 
I just stood dumbfounded staring into the void, I turn around and Bill is chatting to a tall fair Elf beauty. One of the Dublin boys goes to embrace one of the Belfast lads sitting down, but the sheer force of the hug flips back the lightweight arm chair in slow motion ,right back down to the floor,  piled on top of eachother, pints pour over. A moment of relief to brighten up and smile, it’s the little things like that.

Before some of us walk back to the hostel I’m told Phil had a change of heart (ah bless him) but he only agrees to pose with the Slomatic lads and Bill, and to this day it is probably hanging in a frame on someone’s wall.
So lesson in all this, follow your gut signals, first impressions do count and that’s the best I got.

[Necro Red]

Fucking gas! Ha ha ha

[Eoin McLove]

Haha,  nice story!

[StoutAndAle]

I wasn't going to stick up another one so soon but I was reminded of an incident at lunchtime by one of the boys I work with.

Staff Christmas party 2007 of a Friday night in early December - the boss decides that no exceptions, everyone is going. We'd had a good year, it was time to show his appreciation.

I hate work Christmas parties and never go. As ye can probably tell - I'm mad to belt as much craic out of a night out as I can but I despise this forced fun horseshit.

Getting ready at home and still grumbling - my future bride tells me to cop the fuck on, make the most of it.

"Would you ring Steve and tell him that I'm sick or something?"

"No - I'm driving you in town and collecting Anne so that we can have a girl's night. Unless you want to hang around here with us?"

"No" and I slink off to get my coat. My new one. A navy peacoat. The one I think makes me look like Jack Nicholson from The Last Detail

Jacket and fisherman beanie on - I'm the spit off of Billy Badass Buddusky.  I'm looking good.

"You know you like a degenerate coal delivery man in that get up, right?" says the queen.

"Buddusky! Last Detail Hal Ashby?" I protest.

"Is that a film?" she asks. "Never saw it".

"Woman - why did I ever even consider marrying you?" I say - in my head. I'm an eejit but not that much of a fucking eejit.

Doorbell rings and it's Pat - a guy I work with that lives a few streets over.

"Ready?" he asks

"Hi Pat, would you believe that he wanted me to call in sick for him?" my missus says as she grabs the car keys.

"Sick?! To a party? You're some cranky bastard" says Pat.

And I can't say that he's wrong.

In to town and the hum of Lynx deodorant and Adidas Sport aftershave off of Pat (single, 40s, lives with his mother, big into watching rallying and wearing the gear, drives a Focus) would knock a donkey.

"Jesus, Pat - you've gone all out with the aftershave" says I

"You have" says my missus "what is it?"

"Sex Panther" says Pat

"Oh right" says my missus who has never seen the film Anchorman and is now clueless.

Anyway - into town in 5 mins. Dropped off at the Corn Store. The restaurant where we're having dinner. There's not a sign of anyone else.

"Sorry there, love" says Pat to the hostess/seater/whatever "we're here for our Christmas party"

"So is everyone else" says yer one, trying not to breathe in the Adidas fumes.

"Oh yeah. Yeah. Em. Company X" says Pat

"Hmmm - oh yes. That's not til 2000hrs though."

Pat looks at me "The fuck are we gonna do now?"

"Go for a pint?" I offer as a solution

"And spend my own money?"

"Yeah, I suppose"

"It's the CHRISTMAS party!"

Before I can call he a fuckin' gowl we hear a roar from about 50 feet away.

"Biys! BIYS! BIIIIIIIYS!" - for those of you not from Cork thats "Boys! BOYS! BOOOOOYS!"

It's Kieran, one of the young apprentices - shouting from outside a pub across the way called The Roundy and he is fucking MULLERED.

"Steve is inside and all the drinks are on him!" he tells us in wonderment. Pat is gone like a hot snot.

"How long have you been drinking, Kieran?" I ask him - lighting a cigarette cautiously in case any of Pat's essence is still on me.

"About an hour" say Kieran "all shots".

"Right" says I "have a glass of water OK"

"You're not my boss when we're outside work"

"Get a glass of fuckin' water."

"OK"

Inside there are people in all states of sobriety. It wasn't a big company - only 20 odd people or so. Steve, the big boss offers me a pint but I tell him I'm OK a while - I have a feeling that this night won't last long. People are pouring drink into themselves.

Over to the restaurant and we're shown to a huge table where we all duly sit down. Dinner takes place and it's a sloppy affair. Fellas drinking Heineken washed down with red or white wine and Long Island Iced Teas. Two of the Polish lads - Jacek and Gregor - have ordered a bottle of vodka for the table. This is downed by the two lads - by the neck of the bottle. Then, with no prompting or hit, Jacek decides that he must arm-wrestle Gregor.

"You are puny man vom Bialystok!"

"Whad you fugging say about Bialystok?!!"

It then descends into Polish and a lot of shoving culminating in Gregor tearing his own shirt off first and then Jacek's - over his head. "Fugging JACEK!" fumes Gregor.

Steve - is alerted from cracking on to some cougar looking lady by half the table chanting "Oggy oggy oggy!" and the other half telling them to "Leave it". The boss man gets in between them, stops in and sends them on their way with an ominous "We'll discuss this on Monday!" ringing in their ears as they depart.

Steve asks for the bill. He's had enough of this shit. After having a series of minor strokes as he views the total cost, he settles up and we all head outside. He asks me for a cigarette and as I light it for him he queries;

"Are you off the booze? I didn't see you drinking at all"

"Didn't fancy it" say I - gasping for a fucking pint and knowing that I can now ditch all these pissheads and go to my local.

"Only had one myself - might slip away with the more sober lads and have a cheeky one somewhere if you feel like it?"

As I mull this over I hear from behind me;

"You would in YOUR HOLE!"

It's Pat. He beckons me over.

"Kevin here" he begins - pointing at Kevin one of the newer lads - "Kevin here says that he'd have sorted out Gregor in 20 seconds"

"I fucking would an' all" says Kevin "I'm big into me martial arts"

"He'd have bate the head offa you in 10 seconds, kid"

"No. I'd have had him. I have given him the Sweet Chin Music like Shawn Michaels. The roundhouse."

"You would yeah" laughs Steve.

"Right, fuck ye! Fuck the lot of ye! Ye cunts" says Kevin.

"Prove it" challenges someone. Possibly Steve.

"Right" says Kevin stopping down to take off his shoes and socks on a cold and wet December night. I notice then that he is bollixed because he can't stay straight as he kneels down. "Stand there, Steve" he says to the boss indicating an area by the edge of the path.

Kieran, the locked apprentice, starts singing "Sexy boy, sexy booooooy"

Steve is now bewildered - telling Kevin to leave it off.

"Stand. FUCKIN'. THERE!" he points - adding "I won't fucking hit yeh!"

The next thing I know - Kevin, the new lad has started his Sweet Chin Music rotation, he's up off the ground, like Jackie Chan cross with a Tatyo bag caught in the wind, he's nearly fully around and BANG! he only fucking lands it perfectly!!! Unreal. We all cheer.

Steve is still standing - looking impressed and shocked.

"Christ - I think that I'm after breaking my leg!" whimpered Kevin holding onto Pat.

The thing is that Cork's Heartbreak Kid didn't notice that if Steve was 12 o'clock, there was a pole-mounted stop sign at 10 o'clock and he creased it.

Never been a Christmas party since.

[Eoin McLove]

  nasty. Work and booze... bad idea!

[ResidentOfBok]

Some amazing stuff - feel the need to do my part.

Here's one from 10+ years ago so I've come to terms with it. I'd been living in Montreal for a few months, and gotten to know the local metal-friendly watering holes. One evening in the early Winter (Baltic cold) a local French-speaking friend who was into metal invited me out to a place called Cafe Chaos. It was a small dive bar place, but with a dedicated metal DJ on weekend nights, so I figured that would be good craic. Show up and it's a fairly quiet affair, just a few people singing along and having some polite drinks on a small dancefloor, lots of garbled Quebec French being spoken that I couldn't make heads nor tails of but generally a good time was rolling.

A few weekends before I'd made friends with an Aussie lad who was great craic. He texted me and I told him to head along to the bar. He shows up and we're really getting into it now. He has next to no interest in metal, but he played along to my now well-oiled metal-loving friend giving him plenty of "You're Australiannnn, so you must know TRENCH HELL and fucking D666 - ouais!?!" Not a notion, Aussie mate just smiles politely as the beer flows.

Turns out the bar has a bunch of cocktail specials on the go. My interest is piqued, as I usually never have cocktails. Slowly, people filter out of the place, until it's just myself and my Aussie mate sat at the bar. I'm doing a lot of shouting requests at the DJ - who is playing along with lots of Priest. I'm slowly working my way through the lot of these cocktails. Did I mention that the bar stays open and in full swing until 3am?

I started to get properly buckled, but have a clear recollection of chucking back a pinkish cocktail with whipped cream on top, before we finally bundle our way out the door with the barman essentially kicking us out.

You know that saying, "I was grand until the cold air hit me?" Well, when the temperature is minus 15c, it seemed to supercharge the alcohol in my bloodstream, which quickly suppressed what remained of my brain cells. It was supposed to be a 15 minute walk to my mate's apartment (way too late to get public transport back to my apartment and I was in no state to take a taxi), but this quickly became a ridiculous journey.

There were several detours into a snow-covered apartment construction site. My mate was shitting himself as he wasn't sure if there was a pit or something I was about to launch myself into, as I had climbed over the fence and was just running around the place giggling and shouting. He finally coaxed me down off the swings in a playground, and got me back to his gaff, but not before the stealing of a big fuck-off election sign that was dragged up the stairs to his place.

I arrive back to warmth, and like a total prick, elbow him aside, make a beeline to his room, and pass out, diagonally, fully-dressed, fucking dead to the world across his bed. Mate settles into the couch.

I wake up the next day. You know when you're instantly awake as your body's warning signals are all flashing - and despite a massive, pounding headache I launch myself towards the bathroom. I don't quite make it and instead carry out a Godzilla-style lazer vom from a full standing position, as those cocktails come back with a vengeance. My throat is shredded, and with tears streaming down my face, have to clean up the mess with flimsy toilet paper. Exit and the candidate on the election poster is just staring at me with these dead eyes. "IT WAS YOU, YOU BROUGHT ME HERE!"

All I can think of is getting home. So I stumble out into a cold, extremely busy city - jammed with Saturday afternoon shoppers. It's like that scene in the Matrix where all the plugged-in people in the city are being aggressive to Neo. Vision is still super blurry, so maybe I'm the one smacking into them. I make it down into the metro. Every stop on the way home is agony - feels like the motion of the train is coaxing more bile and horror out of my system. Eventually I have to bail out, so get off a stop early, exit the station, and instantly barf at the entrance, where the steaming mess will coagulate, turn to slush, and everyone will have to walk through it on their way in.

Sweating like a lunatic, I stagger the few hundred metres home, climb into bed, and have fever dreams of bugs all over the walls. I was supposed to go see Acid Mothers Temple that night. Instead, I was in a very, very dark place, jumping at any noise outside. There was a small slit of bright light that was shining under my bedroom door as I was in lying in the dark, and it felt like I was being sucked bodily sucked into it. Took a few days to feel right.

The bar closed a few months later and a lot of people were lamenting this great watering hole closing, but I felt like the scene of a terrible crime had been rightly shut down.

[Caomhaoin]

I remember you describing the 'Godzilla vomiting' on the old forum 😂😂

[Slaughterday]

  stumbling down a busy street on a hangover is horrific. There's a lot to be said for being hungover on a pissy bank holiday Monday with nobody around.

[Black Shepherd Carnage]

Stumbling up through Greystones hungover/coming down, having gotten off a train from town around midday on a Saturday or Sunday, after crashing on a couch or mattress somewhere, in your 30s, all the way through the village and especially past the Instagram smiles in jogging clothes sipping oat milk lattés outside The Happy Pear and feeling like some kind of unclean vampiric leper slipping and sliding to avoid the aristocrats, knowing at any second someone might literally kill you by saying "Hello." Fun times, miss that so much.

[son of the Morrigan]

Fear and loathing in Greystones.

On the subject of vomit - At a wedding years ago, absolutely twisted needless to say, I drank the water out of a vase of flowers in the hotel bar for a five Euro bet, then, just to put the cherry on top, I proceeded to eat most of the flowers.
The girlfriend at the time, who wasn't much of a drinker, had driven to the wedding and much to her delight I got sick out the passenger window on the way home.
the next morning I found myself in an awful state of chassis, trying to clean the perfectly fan shaped puke and petal stain off the side of her car while she berated and abused me.
Take it from me, if you stick a daffodil petal to a car with gin and tonic vomit and leave it overnight, that fucker is cuntishly hard to get off the next morning.
To add insult to injury, while I was scrubbing and scraping away I got a text off the lad who bet me the fiver to gleefully inform me that he never paid me the fiver and had never had any intention of doing so in the first place. Cunt.

[El_ogre_del_Dublinios]

.
Take it from me, if you stick a daffodil petal to a car with gin and tonic vomit and leave it overnight, that fucker is cuntishly hard to get off the next morning.

when i was 16 i spewed all over the inside of me aul lads car when he was picking me up from a gig, trying to clean up the crusted remains of a chicken burger and cans of cider the next day was brutal lol

[Ollkiller]

.
Take it from me, if you stick a daffodil petal to a car with gin and tonic vomit and leave it overnight, that fucker is cuntishly hard to get off the next morning.

when i was 16 i spewed all over the inside of me aul lads car when he was picking me up from a gig, trying to clean up the crusted remains of a chicken burger and cans of cider the next day was brutal lol

Never leave the puke till the next day. A million times harder to got rid of it. And mixed with cider, the perfect concoction.