The stages of being Oktoberfest drunk.
Our step-by-step walkthrough of what happens while getting absolutely sloshed (or sloshed-on) at Oktoberfest.
When you go to a beer festival – the world’s largest, in fact – chances are you’ll enter some state of inebriation. Probably pretty frequently. We’ve done our fair share of Oktoberfests and far, far more than our fair share of drunken nights. So, we will bestow our wisdom upon you, little Stokies. Because, although you’re probably already well aware of what happens to you when you are drink-drank-drunk, the following steps will 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 to your 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 been well-trained after months of abuse. Maybe it’s because the grease from the pork knuckle you just chowed is making your insides slipperier than a whale’s placenta and it’s just going right through you. Either way, you quicken your gulps-per-minute pace and fight the sobriety monster head-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 to you. Her eyes? You think you hear yourself order another and it’s in front of you faster than you can say schiiiiiiiiiizzennnnn.
Now the ball is rolling. You don’t know why 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 know the words to. That’s okay. As far as you can tell, no one can tell 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 climb the mighty beer hall table. You know that standing here means that you are going to have to chug your beer and you’re more than willing. 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 thrown out of the tent faster than a poo out 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-eyed shadow that shifts from group to group trying to scab a durry. It’s a losing battle. Everyone is puffing away and their packs 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 been happier to see someone, and you know this little ray of sunshine has a pack of Marlboro Golds wedged in their top pocket. A little damp and beery, but still just what you needed. You sit together and your chat takes you deeper than Julian Assange 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 their shoulder. “I love you, man. You’re just, like, the best. I can always 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