Which drunk text are you?

A comedy of technological errors

The Underage One

You’re 17. You’ve finally made it in to your local club underage. It is a rite of passage. Maybe that mate in the year above sold you a spare ID, maybe your mates brother lent his to you. It doesn’t matter. The bouncer saw it, didn’t tell you to piss off, and didn’t notice your distinct lack of facial hair/completely different bone structure/gender.

The gin, liberated from your parents drinks cabinet, is starting to hit and you’ve suddenly become Bill Gates. Everyone you meet must be bought a drink in the name of this historic night.

An hour later and you’ve been kicked out of the club for being sick on the bar. Luckily your mate Keith is looking after you. He has to text your parents though. You’re a mess. Any resemblance of consciousness is rapidly declining.

“Hi Mrs Smith its Keith I think … needs a lift home.”

20 minutes later you’re greeted by your pissed off mother. No doubt this night will be used passive aggressively against you for some time.

Call mum


The Voyager

You had to leave pres early to get to the club. The queue is still huge. Its freezing and you didn’t bring a coat; no money for the cloak room seeing as this ticket cost nearly £20. You’re greeted by a bouncer who has the charm of a psychopath.  The 70cl you polished off as the taxi driver impatiently waited for you has begun to hit. You’ve been on the dance floor less than ten minutes before your mates have disappeared. You make a stumbling pilgrimage from the dance floor to the bar to the toilets to the smoking area back to the dance floor. You’ve lost track of time and hope of any regrouping. It’s time to send a text:

“Where are you?”

This one goes out to Sarah and then eventually on the group chat. Its quickly met with a response of:

“Smokers 10 mins”

You patiently wait at the arranged rendezvous point. 20 minutes and 3 cigs later there is no sign of any of them. You give up and return to the Bermuda triangle that is the dance floor. Eventually you bump into Steve at the bar. The relief is evident on both your faces. “I’ve lost everyone” you say simultaneously. After a quick drink you return to the dance floor safe in the knowledge that Steve is behind you. However as you look back he’s lost within the sea of dancers. This process has the potential to be repeated times over before resolution.

“I’m at the main dance floor…”

The Casanova

You’ve had a few drinks, the senses are inhibited, the libido is rising. The club is increasingly becoming less appealing compared to the prospect of casual sex. A booty call is going to be sent out.

“u up?”

Maybe its sent to an old flame, or a Tinder match, or that cute one from your seminar. Regardless there is no reply.

The night goes on with sexual frustration becoming more unyielding by the minute. The end of the night signifies one last roll of the dice.

“wanna spoon?”

The recipient has been asleep for the past 4 hours. They do not wake. Don’t worry, God loves a trier.

The Taylor Swift

You’re in bed; you can’t get them out of your mind. Feelings are spilling out quicker than the last treb you nailed. The events of the night have simply been too provocative. Irrationality is rising quicker than that time Kim K lost her diamond earing in the pool.

“I miss you” “I hate you” “I love you” “How could you?” “Come over” “We need to talk” “Send nudes” “Fuck you” “You can’t ignore me forever” “I’m done with you” “You’re going to regret this.”

Send any or all of the above depending on the level of psychoticism. In the senders mind these are scriptures moving enough to sway even the most stubborn of hearts. They will cut through the clouds of past miscommunication. There is no doubt that they will bring exactly the desired result and soon you will both ride into the sunset together.

The sender is wrong. Of all the texts in this catalogue, this instance is filled with the most next day remorse. Why the fuck can’t you unsend texts? What was I thinking? Maybe they didn’t send properly? Maybe they haven’t seen them? How awkward is this going to be? Should I send more? These are all the mo(u)rning questions you ask yourself as ignominy drapes over you like in a suffocating blanket.

The recipient of no drunk text ever


The Taxi One

You awake with a gasp of breath. It seems the afterlife didn’t claim you last night, although judging by your head right now you wish it had. You try to recollect the evening past. You draw a blank beyond the third round of tequila. The fear rapidly sets in. The possibilities of stupid shit you could have done or said are almost infinite. Your phone lies heavy in your hand. You quickly view everyone’s snapchat story to try and piece the evening together. At least it’s not as bad as Becky, looks like she really fucked it last night, you think as you watch the Scorsese of street pissing unfold. It seems by some sort of miracle you haven’t sent any compromising messages. Wait a second though what’s this text to budget taxis?

“thnks Hassam ur my knight in shining armour”

Yes it seems your love for the ‘legend’ of a taxi driver you had last night required a text. Can’t fault you really, he played some bangers on the way there and didn’t even mind that you stole next doors taxi and spilt half your drink on the back seats.




The Unlikely Friendship

It started by finally looking at that unread message you left about reading for the seminar last week. With a lull in the flow of pres you decided to indulge in a little private investigation on her profile. In your intoxicated state, she seems so different to that girl who was asking about essay structure for the fifth time during lectures.

A friendship with this girl must be struck up. Queue a series of poorly constructed ice breakers descending into intoxicated drivel as the night passes by. Somehow you’ve ended up sending her 12 Snapchats and invited her to afters in the full knowledge she’s having a library ‘power night.’

The next morning harbours a feeling of bewilderment as you ponder why you were so keen to foster a friendship between the two of you. Her profile this morning offers no excitement, no intrigue, no edge, you’re fully convinced she could, in fact, be a decedent of the colour beige. There is no way you complement each other. She’s chalk you’re cheese, she’s apples you’re oranges, she’s a drizzle you’re a storm. You’re probably going to have to swerve next weeks seminar as you receive an invite for ‘nibbles and quibbles’ from Laura; her weekly philosophy evening.

Still better craic than Laura


A Note From The Author

I believe I am culpable of pretty much every single text on this list. My phone has become merely an extension of my stream of thoughts. With the addition of alcohol it seems that there is an unavoidable tendency to disseminate any and all intoxicated thought regardless of embarrassment factor. I would like to give thanks to both trebles and the three network for making this article possible.