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It was another raucous night at the Mop and Monkey, and although it wasn’t quite throwing out time Bob thought he’d turn in for the night. It was true that he’d had a skinful and couldn’t quite walk straight but it was raining - and what with the alcohol impairing his judgement – he clutched at his car
keys and stumbled towards the exit.
To be honest, he was a bit wobbly and was pleased when two guys very helpfully made sure he’d found his ignition key and supported him either side as he walked towards the door. Bob had a feeling that this wasn’t the door he’d entered the pub through, but it was marked exit and these helpful chaps were walking him straight through. As Bob stumbled out into the cold air he seemed to fall straight into the driver’s seat. Behind him, he could have sworn he heard cheers. What a great place this Mop and Monkey was.
Back in the bar, the video screen had stopped showing MTV, and was now showing Bob’s face along with the virtual reality road that he was about to drive down. The regulars cheered as they realised that someone had fallen fowl of the Mop and Monkey rule – if you’re too sloshed to realise we’re putting you through the drunk door, you’re too drunk to drive, and you deserve everything you get.
As the cold air from the fans hit Bob, he assumed he'd stepped outside. The change of temperature did little to sober him up. Before he knew it, he was in the drivers seat. He struggled to get his key into the ignition (don’t worry, this car will start with any key) the customers back in the bar split into those who laughed at Bob’s inebriated ineptitude and those who tutted angrily. “Imagine if we’d actually let Bob drive home”, they thought.
Over the next ten minutes, the virtual reality car threw problem after problem at Bob. In his drunken state he was sweating as he tried in vain to control the car through fog and rain. He didn’t hear the hoots of laughter next door in the bar as he swore loudly while swerving to avoid a stag, then a dustbin, then a small child in quick succession.
Eventually, as Bob hit a virtual tree, the simulator lurched sideways and threw him sideways into a bunch of duvets, right next to Dave (who still smelled of vodka) where he promptly fell into a confused sleep.
The landlord would have a stern word with Bob and Dave in the morning, when they were sober enough to listen to what he had to say. He was sure they’d pay attention after reviewing their driving performance on the simulator. In the bar, MTV flicked back on while the other customers supped up, and considered that driving home might not be worth the risk.
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+ Good reality show, and nice to show someone too drunk what the reality could have been. |
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//if you’re to sloshed// Sp. 'too'. |
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Ooopsidaisy. Thank you, [nuke]. |
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I'd tie one on just to see how good the simulator was. |
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Far, far more entertaining than MTV. |
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The interior of the simulator should be easily cleanable and impervious to various fluids. Probably best to cover everything in clear vinyl and have a drain in the floor so it can be hosed down. |
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Or not, and the first job of the 'victim' would be to clean up after himself. |
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Well, I'm not sure. Forced cleaning begins to sound a bit like a punishment, and that's not really the idea here. |
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However, you're certainly right about the need to protect the simulator from drunken spillages of any kind. |
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I must say, the idea of being very drunk inside a virtuality where the moving pictures and the accompanying movements do not precisely match up strikes me as a cruel and unusual punishment. The nightbus would be a pleasure by comparison. |
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I kind of like the idea, but it still wouldn't prevent very many people from driving drunk. |
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[wagster] - *shudder*! I'm not sure the nightbus would ever be a pleasure! Is it a peculiarly British experience? |
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I think it's a fairly London experience. The nightbus service starts around 01:00 and runs all night at infrequent intervals. Nightbuses are populated by: |
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a) Friendly drunks who want to tell you how wonderful everyone is |
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b) Miserable drunks who want to tell you what arseholes people are |
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c) Fascist drunks who want to explain how the country's going to the dogs because of immigrants/liberals/black people/white people |
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d) Quiet drunks who are concentrating on not throwing up |
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I have had some great nightbus conversations, but also some I could have done without. |
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The nightbus phenomenon is pretty much the same in Glasgow, except that the fascists are usually replaced with inflatable willy-wielding leathery witches, cackling and leering. |
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I like this, and think a police chase and subsequent fake arrest should be incorporated...you know, just on the off chance that the previous night is actually remembered. |
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Listen, there's nothing wrong with Dave, OK? Unless he's got a drink inside him.... |
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One problem... Now, if you've just got done laughing yer butt off at the last guy who went through the drunk door, are you really going to be gullible enough to go through it yourself? |
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There's a low-tech equivalent, by the way: any car, like my Morris Minor, that has a starter switch separate from the ignition. I have on occasion cursed the thing for misleading me with a semblance of reliability, only to fail to start on the very occasion I'm really not feeling up to staggering home. Then, when I'd sobered up a bit by fumbling under the bonnet, I'd realise I'd forgotten to switch the ignition on before pulling the starter... |
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Fabulous idea, every pub should have one! Laughing at drunk people when you yourself are drunk and have ordered a taxi to take you home!! Very large croissant! [and gold star for using the word sloshed] |
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