The Big Easy

I lost all my money in New Orleans. No, I don't gamble and no, I didn't misplace my wallet (actually, I did - more on this later). I literally drank THREE HUNDRED dollars worth of TWO DOLLAR beers....IN THREE DAYS. This I believe warrants caps-lock shouting.

Because all of my time there congealed into one big bolus of drinking, I've decided to share my favourite memories of New Orleans. However, as I lost complete control of my quango stick at around 4am, I will leave you with a guest writer who was there, to fill in the gaps.

(Un)fortunately, few pictures survive of the evening and the ones that do don't make much sense. What we're left with is a skewed narrative......

We arrived at the hostel at around 4pm, drinking beers. We decided to attend a St. Louis Slim gig on Frenchmen Street. On the way, we decided to stop off and order wine by the pints. This was no ordinary wine; it was truly the piss of Satan that had been fermenting in his goat bladder for several weeks. During the stop off, one of the guys from the hostel tried to reach behind the bar and pour himself a beer. Obviously, this did not go down well with the bartender who clotheslined him off the stool he was sitting on. To emasculate him further, the bartender bitch slapped across the face and drug him out.

This was all fairly standard New Orleans behaviour as we begun to find out.

Fast forward 20 minutes and we're at the Spotted Cat Club. I'm doing shots with the bassist from the band. One of the girls in our party is on stage playing trumpet, although she's never picked up one in her life. This is where it gets a little hazy, and henceforth the baton gets passed.

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Shortly after the trumpet solo finishes, we move on to the next club where Josh continues his devil-may-care pace. After bellying up to the bar a few times, he finally returns to the group with a pint. A pint of straight scotch.

Finally, drinking at a reasonable pace.

It is at this point that Josh then grabs the nearest girl (read victim) he sees and drags her to the empty dance floor where the zideco music completely takes his brain for the next hour. As the group trails out for the next bar, Josh goes too, leaving a trail of his own.

Credit cards, bits of cash, and oh yeah his wallet were just a few things left in the path.

I pick up his possessions and put them back in his pocket, but as soon as we walk into the next bar he repeats the fumble. A man noting Josh's drunk state then approaches (not knowing that I had taken Josh's wallet moments before) and this is the conversation that follows:

Shady Guy: You know man, you really ought to be more careful with your money many, people might try to take advantage of you

Josh: DRSHGaokgha....YEAH MAN.

Shady Guy: Well I was just looking out for you friend, here let me get you a drink. (At this point he hands him the drink in his hand) You can't really count so give me what's in your pocket and I'll count the change...

Josh: Chugs beer, reaches in pocket pulls out all that is in them-a bit of lint, hands it over and walks away.

A million pints in and still out hustles a hustler.

But its the walk back to the hotel where the real party began. At this point Josh is not so much man as he is drink, so while maintaining ability to bring glass to mouth, he has now left the less important functions, such as walking and thinking to Alice, Flavia and I.

At this point I should note that as you walk along Bourbon St all you will smell is piss and vomit because that is the cocktail that lines the gutter day and night. Upon hearing Flavia shout "Party in the puddle!" Josh proceeds to splash, frolic and soak in the gutter.

The novelty of this was soon replaced, however, with Josh's next drunken conviction-that "New Orleans is THE BEST TASTING city in the world." When I asked him to prove it, he then hurled himself onto the hood of a Jeep truck and licks it.

To complete the mental image, while all of these events are transpiring, Josh was constantly stripping off his shirt and chucking it at me, then moments later looking at his bare chest, then frantically asking what has become of his shirt.

Such ends our first night in New Orleans.

Redcoat's Handy Guide to Receiving a TABC Certification

Hello there! Want to work in a bar in Texas? First, you will have to take a tedious and pointless online course - the TABC. Luckily for you, I have already completed mine. Keep reading for my handy tips and pointers not only for passing the TABC, but for being a a super-awesome Texan bartender! I have included screenshots from the actual course for your viewing pleasure.

Intervention

Refusing to serve someone is called an 'intervention' according to the TABC. Intervention? I thought intervention was the process of confronting an alcoholic (as seen in hilarious fashion here). Because if you're underage or drunk in Texas, you are powerless to your addiction. So much so that as a bartender, you are legally responsible for the wrong doings of every drunk in your bar. And as you work in a bar, that's going to be a fucking tonne of drunkards. The writer of this guide recommends saving now for those pesky lawsuits!

Minors

People under the age of 21 will sometimes seek to drink alcohol. Luckily, the TABC gives us subtle hints and tips to identify these persons. The picture below is a perfect example. While not mentioning it explicitly, minors caught with alcohol are likely to be:

A. Homeless

B. Dirty

C Anarchists with hand tattoos.

D. Un-American

Underage males may be hard to identify due to facial hair. But don't fret, as identifying underage women is easy breezy- simply stare at their tits! Don't believe me? Think looking at tits can't be part of a paid position? Look at the picture below.

It says to look for "underdeveloped appearance of girls." Remember, when a woman with a B cup or less wants to buy a beer, refuse to serve her with discretion, as her undeveloped chest may be a source of embarrassment.

Minors these days can also be identified through the latest fashions, such as class rings (?) and yes, school uniforms. The school uniform in particular is a fashionable ploy to double-bluff you, the bartender. Don't hesitate to intervene.

Intoxication

You must be able to identify those who are intoxicated. As the limit for intoxication for someone of my weight and gender is around 3-4 bottled beers, 95% of the patrons at your bar will be intoxicated. You might even be intoxicated whilst reading this.

Signs of intoxication may include:

A. Poorly constructed briefcases stuffed with underwear.

B. Looking like a sex offender whilst being trapped in a psychedelic nightmare.

And if you get caught selling to minors, you only get a year in jail and a $4000 fine for the first offense! (side note: You probably get less jail time in the U.K for punching a police officer in the face with a brick).

It's not all bad though. Just think of the hunky members of law enforcement just waiting to apprehend you.

The Worst Place I've Ever Stayed

I am a reasonable man. I don't require fancy furnishings, cable TV or even a working trouser press. Baring this in mind, I can safely say that the North Austin Plaza 'hotel' is the worst place that I have EVER stayed.

To put this into some sort of perspective, the shady motel that we stayed at in Lubbock- a place that has the honour of having the highest gonorrhea and chlamydia infection rate in the country FOR TEN YEARS STRAIGHT - was better.

We were greeted by a a chalk outline of a person at the bottom of a small flight of stairs akin to the murder scene from a film noire. The outline, with its bloated limbs and head looked as if it had been booted off the top step and landed flat on its face. Odd, but relatively harmless I thought.

Looks as if Joseph Merrick's long lost great grandson fell down a flight of stairs

We were on the bottom floor. As I dragged our case of beer from the car I noticed that all of the handles had been broken off the room's doors. Our roof seemed fine enough except for the smell- a mixture of sweat and week old wet towel.

Little Friends

The real fun started when we noticed something crawling across our sheets. After seeing something small and squishing it and having it ooze human blood, it hit me that we had bed bugs. A quick check under the mattress revealed a small infestation of the fuckers. Bed bugs? I thought they only existed in third world shit-holes and cheap package holidays to a'Spaiyn [sic].

We told the woman at the front desk, who moved us to a different room. The look on her face seemed to say "aw fuck, not again'. Sadly the new room was devoid of our little friends. However, it contained a smorgasbord of new 'treats'.

Trucker Love

The first treasure the room held was a series of white stains on the bed's brown blanket. Madison at this point informs me that the motel isn't required to wash the blankets in between customers. It seemed that the only thing standing between me and a night in Billy-Jo's love juice was a well informed American. Confirming my trucker-prostitute scenario, was a large toothpick (especially large for gap-tooths I presume) to the left of the bed.

Family Friendly

'Do you and your family want something juicy and delicious to eat? Well here at the North austin Plaza Hotel, we highly recommend Bikini's Sports Bar & Grill-where tits, fried chicken, tits, tits, burgers and tits meet! So much so, Bikini's tit adorned menu will be the only menu in your room!

[Side note]- Bikini's hilariously describes itself as the 'the fastest growing sports bar and grill concept' - like having half naked women serving food and beers is some sort of new glorious new enlightenment. Furthermore, on the about us section of their website the founder Doug describes his moment of clarity:

While sitting at a bar on the Australian coast... an attractive server approached and asked, 'wanna beer mate?'. At that moment, all Doug could do was smile. Life suddenly made sense to him. He thought to himself, 'This is a nearly perfect combination: relaxing, drinking, sports, girls..."

Holy shit! Doug's experience of Australian tits and beer were nothing less than a religious experience. Move out of the way clothed, unattractive waiting staff of the geocentric world- Party Copernicus is here with tits and beer!

Pictured: party.

Until next time......

Thoughts on leaving College Station

I have finished my year long tenure at Texas A&M University, and as a fitting send off I tried my hand at the ring dunk. The ring dunk is traditionally done at the beginning of senior year, where students have to earn their aggie ring in the most mainly way possible short of strangling a bear for fun- by chugging a fuckton of beer. This metric fuckton of beer, or a pitcher in layman’s terms, took me around 50 seconds to drink.

The first forty seconds were smooth sailing. Well, if burping back into a drink you’re drinking is considered smooth. Around the 30 second mark I started to feel nausea. By 40 seconds that nausea had turned into full blow panic nausea, which is only experienced by weak flyers and those who are lactose intolerant at a frat hazing session. I finished the chug victorious. A bloated, vomiting inebriated victorious at that. You can view the video here

On a more serious note, my year here in Texas has probably been the best in my life. It’s given me opportunities to do stuff that I’d never thought I‘d do. I finally got my own radio show. I saw Vegas. I started to write. And I even managed to convince a girl to have sex with me more than once. This year has also given me motivation to not be complacent in my final year of university. Hopefully I will get around to forming the Victorian society in all its absinthe tea party glory.

I’ve had great teaching this year. On the off chance that they’re reading this I’d like to thank David Myers and John Tyler for helping me to expand the breadth of my knowledge and to realize that higher education isn’t just about drinking and disgusting sex. Your enthusiasm, passion and effort will be sorely missed next year.

Oh yeah, and I also learnt the true value of the beer pong slam dunk:

Redcoat Gets Arrested (Nearly)

I made a prophecy at the beggining of the year and well, last night it was fulfilled. Now I'm a fairly law abiding citizen, I do not get into fights or steal things. But I do like to get inebriated. And if that's a crime, then I'm guilty as charged. Unfortunately in the United States being drunk under the age of 21 IS a crime for some reason or another. I blame the Christians.

I'm not sure if it's the pickup, my jacket or the grainy picture quality but this picture looks amazingly 70s

This small little predicament started when a gangly guy at the bar (he shall now be referred to as 'Gangly') tried to hit on a friend of mine using lines from the freakin' Game. Come on Gangly, everyone and their mothers has read that book. So I did what any normal human being would have done; I laughed in his face. This move had got me in trouble once before where this guy threatened to beat me up, but that's an entirely different story all together. Gangly responds negatively by getting into my face, his hopes of scoring sweet, sweet ass dashed by my daring mocks. I stood my ground because well, I was approaching blackout drunk. Gangly then hollers over to a nearby policeman, telling him that I was overly intoxicated. Firstly, who the hell starts an altercation and then calls the cops over. Secondly, WHAT THE HELL were cops doing patrolling a bar? (Note. apparently, this is normal procedure in the bigger bars/ glorified shacks). I swear if I ever see that guy again, I am going to kick him in the balls from behind and run away. Because you know, he probably has a gun of sorts.



The police officer led me outside, trying to encourage me to bring my beer outside (this would have encriminated me further and resulted in a bigger fine). I declined, and left the frosty Bud on a table.
Now the following diaglogue is completely real and verified by a sober witness (Note: Obviously I had to change some details for legal reasons. I'm not that dumb people.). The cop in question was young, uptight and full of douche.



COP: Ok Mr Jenkins, what's your first name? (I was using an ID I had found)
REDCOAT: James (At this point I was swaying slightly)
COP: And your middle name?
RED: Er Fuck, w.. Fuck Pet..


I can't remember the middle name on the ID. But wait. Now I remember, there is no middle name. The stupid cop is obviously trying to trap me. I proudly announce this with as much swarve as I could possible muster:


COP: It says here 'Benjamin'. Now where are you from Mr. Jenkins?
RED: England. Yeah, wait fuck. Ah fuck. Sorry officer, pardon my French
COP: So wait, now you're telling me you're French?
RED: Ah, no. It's an figure of speech.
COP: What's your address?
At this point I started to become incredibly annoyed. I couldn't understand why my accent hadn't got me off the hook. I didn't know what I was still doing there. I wanted to go home and pass out face-down.
RED: It's in England, what the hell does it matter to you?
COP: You do know this is all being recorded (He gestured to a small audio recorder clipped on to his belt)
RED: Can I have a copy of the tape for novelty purposes?

He rejected my request.

At this point I pretty much blacked out. A witness mentioned how I called the cop a fag under my breath after accusing me of being French. Luckily, he chose not to arrest me for it-- Thanks first amendment! But I did get slapped with a $480 fine. That very $480 could have paid for my trip to Arizona (ASU! ASU!), ten bottles of premium whiskey or TWO of these:

That's an outdoor kitchen to you uncultured baffoons out there

I also got to go to the municiple court house, a place filled with reprobates. Actually, playing match the person to the crime was sort of entertaining.

New Semester, same old.

I've been back in Texas for a week now after a month long refreshing stay in London. Which was nice, as it allowed me to have a month off of the grease and pig snout diet I have come to know and love over here in Texas. Seriously, I would take a nap after a particularly greasy hamburger and wake up with a face caked in a reflective sheen.

I will also miss my classes from last semester, as they were a mixture of highly interesting and downright hilarious. I have already mentioned my creative writing class before, but I failed to mention the fact that towards the end of the semester, we had to review each other’s stories. A favorite game of mine was to read the story and match a name to the face. The weirder and creepier the story, the weirder and creepier the person involved. And believe me, there was creepiness.

It also got pretty brutal towards the end where previously watered down critiques gave way to abuse and mockery. Obviously I preferred the latter, chiming in as often as possible.

Unfortunately that's all I've got for now. But I promise to keep churning out blog posts despite the fact that my laptop is missing the 'o' key and turns itself off with the slightest of movement. And I still don't have health insurance, so hopefully I don't get hit by a pickup truck in the next couple of days.

Oh, and one final post script. My radio will be returning extremely soonish, so stay tuned (literally)! And as a taster, check out The Strange Boys. They're awesome.

Well, it's been a while. No, its not because I've been lynched, tarred and feathered and left to roast in the baking sun; but rather the "O" key on my keyboard is broken and I have had a metric fuck-tonne of work to do. Oh yeah, and I went to the new Dallas Cowboys staduim, which effectively shat upon all other stadii I have ever visited. More of this later.

Firstly, I have to report something a saw posted on numerous walls in the library; R-word awareness week.

What retarded photoshop skills

Yes that's right, it is indeed a campaign to erase the word retarded from our vocabulary. What a ridiculous idea; I am already fully aware of retards. Ok, that was a cheap joke; but this campaign bothered me on deeper levels. For starters, the whole campaign just reeked of trivialization and patronization of the disabled. I mean, why spend large amounts of time raising awareness of a term people already know as being mildly offensive (hence its use as an insult) when you could actually be working with and for the disabled through charities and such?

Philosophy aside, their site - http://therword.org/ is full of unintentional hilarity. The first paragraph sets a scene where two guys in Walmart were overheard saying “I don’t know why they let people like that live.” on the subject of a disabled 8 year old. Well, what where they expecting? This was in WALMART for christsakes, where the average patron has at least two teeth missing and a brain swiss cheesed from too much moonshine.

They then go on to badly miss the satire in Tropic Thunder, compare the usage of the word to the Holocaust and lynchings and then, finally, to play their trump card... MENTALLY DISABLED BAREKNUCKLE BOXING IN NONE OTHER THAN TEXAS. At that point, my mind just gave up and I laughed at the absudtity of a good ol' organzied 'tard fight.

Also, It's funny that the R-Word movement would gather momentum particularly in Texas, a state which has no trouble whatsover in executing them! /end cheap jokes.

The mighty Aggies play at the Cowboy Stadium

Yes, I went to go watch A&M get completely dismantled by the inbreds of Arkansas at the brand new Cowboys Stadium. Let me start by saying that tailgating (pregame drinking and bbq) is always fun. Yet some people take tailgating to new levels- one group had an entire pig smoking on some ridiculous contraption.

It also must be noted that only in America could the worlds largest HD T.V be put in a sporting arena in such a way that most people are watching it, rather than the live action happening down on the field. Don't believe me? Look for yourselves;