The Galleon - Portsmouth's Official Student Newspaper

The distance from Southampton to Portsmouth is 27 miles, the average person walks 3.5 miles per hour, that’s just over seven hours – I was zigzagging.

Recently, I decided to rekindle my sometimes, well often, troubled relationship with wine. I’ve never been an avid fan, mostly due to nights ending prematurely and embarrassingly. Forgetting past experiences, I went to fetch pre-drinks. There was ‘tried and tested’ vodka, there was ‘old reliable’ beer but I decided to flirt with ‘the memory taker’ – wine.

Tonight was to be in Southampton, my first experience of Portsmouth’s neighbour’s nightlife and the beautiful women there; it would be best not to get too wasted. However, arriving late I was made to neck a half glass of tequila before entry was even permitted. I hid throwing up in my mouth rather well.

What followed was a masterclass in how not to drink safely – three hours of pre-drinking being cut to just one. Bottles were drained, cabs arrived, entry into club went trouble free – but then the wine hits me. That’s the last I remember of my night. Sure, other stuff happened; apparently my mates witnessed me attempting piggy-backs on the D-Floor, a little later enjoying a particularly energetic game of urinal swords and the last they saw was me playing high-roller, card in hand, buying strangers shots. As far as my memory goes, it might have all happened to someone else.

My night really began at about half one; as if suddenly teleported to a strange car park, my brain kicks in, still slightly inebriated, I’ve no idea how or why I’m here, or even where here is. My phones disappeared and I’ve no money. But hallelujah – my cash card is in my pocket.

I fall into a cab and ask how much to London. £300. Err – how much to Portsmouth? £50. I’m not that wasted, I go with Portsmouth.

Although I’ve no actual money, I inform my man that I have a card which is the key to much cash, all he has to do is take me to a cash point and I will withdraw the fare. He takes me to a cash point – I know my pin, but my fingers just aren’t doing exactly what I tell them and after three incorrect entries my card is blocked. The cabbie comes to help, the Good Samaritan that he is, he offers to plug the numbers in while I call them out. Perfect, this solves both our problems, if only everyone was as generous with their thinking. Now sober I wouldn’t recommend this; it’s no matter however, the card’s still blocked.

Unconcerned, I assure him that there is loads of money at my house, which there isn’t, and that on arrival he will receive a tip that will set him up for Christmas. He reminds me that with no phone and no keys there’s a distinct possibility that we could get to Portsmouth and he doesn’t get paid. I agree…

Photo by Jessica Melling