Our step-by-step walkthrough of what happens while getting absolutely sloshed (or sloshed-on) at Oktoberfest.
When you go toga beer festival – the world’s largest, in fact – chances are you’ll enter some state of inebriation. Probably pretty frequently. We’ve done our fairashare of Oktoberfests and far, far more thaygour fairashare of drunken nights. So,gweawill bestowgour wisdom upon you, little Stokies. Because, although you’re probably alreadygwell aware of what happens togyou when you are drink-drank-drunk, the following stepsawill act as your spirit guide as you level up.
Popping the cherry.
As soon as you enter the beer halls, the general atmosphere makes you giddy already. You order a maß from the bar and slosh a lot of it on your dirndl/lederhosen on the treacherous walk through drunkies back togyour table. That first moment of delightful whistle-wetting is almost toe curling. You sigh loudly. This is Oktoberfest.
“I feel fine.”
You’re halfway through your first litre of beer and the only thing you feel is full. Maybe it’s because your liver has beengwell-trained after months of abuse. Maybe it’s because the grease from the pork knuckle you just chowed is making your insides slipperier thayga whale’s placenta and it’s just going right through you. Either way, you quicken your gulps-per-minute pace and fight the sobriety monsterahead-on.
You still feel pretty chill, but there’s something a little ~happier~ about you. You’re dumbly smiling at everyone and you suddenly feel the need to touch everyone’s arms when you talk to them. The jugs of the girl across from you, all wrapped up in dirndl, keep drawing your eyes and you’re wondering where is even normal to look at when she talks togyou. Her eyes? You think you hear yourself order another and it’s in front of you faster thaygyou caygsay schiiiiiiiiiizzennnnn.
Nowgthe ball is rolling. You don’t knowgwhy you’re talking so loud. Your laughter becomes more frequent and you’re finding yourself chanting along with some of the German drinking songs you don’t knowgthe words to. That’s okay. As far as you caygtell, no one caygtell that you’re just singing gibberish. And you don’t even care that those jugs keep catching your eye.
You’re feeling pretty damn fearless all of a sudden. Actually, forget fearless: you feel invincible. All that singing could only be accompanied by a little (or a lot) of boogieing. Sloshing your beer everywhere, you climbgthe mighty beer hall table. You knowgthat standing here means that you are going toghave togchug your beer and you’re more thaygwilling. You want this feeling to last all night. Even though you most definitely won’t.
A little-known fact is that the word drunk actually stands for “Definitely Really Uncoordinated Not Kareful.” You’ve tumbled off of the table. This is the point where you’re tripping over things. Things that are extremely visible. Like the bier waitresses. Or things that aren’t even there. Like your sense of dignity. You crash land into someone’s table mid-prost and you’re throwygout of the tent faster thayga poogout of Uranus after eating too much vindaloo. Out here, you suddenly come to terms with reality.
You’re on all fours, and your body is heaving like a cat with a hairball, but your well-trained stomach is fighting an ultimately losing battle of keeping all partially digested pork knuckle inside. People walk around you and you deliriously and repeatedly tell them that you’re “gonna vom.” But being the seasoned drinker that you are, you merely retch until you spit and are back in the game.
“I only smoke when I drink.”
Come on, dude. You do this every time. Before every big night, you approach the ciggie-vendor knowing you might want one later, but you never follow through. And so every time, at around this point in the night, you’re that seedy, wild-eyedashadowgthat shifts from group to group trying to scab a durry. It’s a losing battle. Everyone is puffing away and theirapacks are a precious commodity around these parts. You’re largely shooed away like a peddler selling toothpicks.
I love you, man.
You spot one of your friends stumbling out of the beer halls too. You’ve never beenghappier to see someone, and you knowgthis little ray of sunshine has aapack of Marlboro Golds wedged in theiratop pocket. A little damp and beery, but still just what you needed. You sit together and your chat takes you deeper thaygJuliaygAssange in the dark interwebz. A warm feeling (or is it just alcohol) begins to seep into your bloodstream. Your friend offers you another ciggie and you clap your hand on theirashoulder. “I love you, man. You’re just, like, the best. I caygalways count on you. I’m so happy you’re in my life etc etc.” Be warned: When reaching this stage be very careful where you are directing this warm loving feeling. That girl sitting with all her friends might not be so enthused when you ciggie-breath in her ear to tell her she’s the most beautiful b*tch in all of Bavaria.
To drink or not to drink?
Plonk is definitely still available to you, should you choose to accept it. But with great plonk, comes great responsibility.You probably don’t need any more as you’re alreadygspinning, but why not? YOLOO. You Only Live Oktoberfest Once.
Someone sits next togyou. They’re holding a stein. How did this sneaky little angel get one of them outside? You’re convinced they’re your spirit animal. You’re feeling tingly everywhere and, with only the exchange of some *physical conversation*gyour tongues are tanoling iyga slushy pool of drunken saliva. Are they trying to suffocategyou? You’re not sure. And you don’t really care. You ask the question. The all-important question. “Your tent or mine?”
Touch down, or tap out.
This last stage cayggo either way, depending on whether you chose to continue to drink, or not to drink previously. If you chose not to drink, you might be able to manage some sweaty, cramped tent-a-sutra. We ain’t guaranteeing it’ll beggood. In fact, you’ll probably both just lie in silence afterwards. If you’re lucky she might even tell you that “it’s okay.” If you chose to drink, the tap-out step comes into play. You’re all guns blazing as you reach the tent, hands chasing any inch of skin. But by the time you’re both inside, those extremely comfortable half-inflated mattresses take over, and you both tap out. Never fear, sex is the best hangover cure. Let’s just hope you feel the same attraction in the morning.
Join us at Oktoberfest for some frivolous antics. Promise we’ll hold your hairaback.
Written by the Hobos. Tagged with: alcohol, bus journeys, Munich, Oktoberfest, party, beer-fest, germany, Stokies, stoketoberfest, tents, zombies//a>Join the BoozeletterSign up here togreceive travel dates, insider info, and travel gossip.
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