Day 39: the pub gets scary.

So it turns out that it wasn’t my flatmate’s girlfriend puking in the loo last night, but in fact my other flatmate, a young and lovely female who shall remain nameless. For anyone in the vicinity of 23 years old, the odd vom after a night out isn’t alarming or unusual; it goes with the territory. So no biggies there. But it seems that Friday night was a rougher one than usual for our household. Our male flatty (also a lovely chap) had spent a very well behaved evening in, watching the crappy Hangover movie with me. I can vouch for the fact that he didn’t touch a drop the whole time. Then at around midnight he received a call from his girl saying she needed rescuing from a situation she’d gotten into at a bar close by. And of course he went to help. What I didn’t know later on, when I assumed it was his girlfriend puking, was that it couldn’t possibly have been her because neither of them had in fact returned to the house. They had instead taken an ambulance ride to the emergency room and it was my male flatmate who was in trouble. How did this happen? It wasn’t a fight, and it wasn’t excessive alcohol consumption (around four beers apparently, and he’s a decent sized boy). What it looks like was the work of a drink spike, meant for another recipient. Drink spiking is something I find difficult to comprehend. It’s extremely sick behaviour. And it’s scary as all hell. If a drinks drug can floor a rugby-sized man, what might it do to a small female? And what do these people hope to gain from the exercise? Rape presumably, or robbery. It makes me sick. And it’s made my flatmate sick too, sick enough that at one point they didn’t know if they would be able to wake him up. So please be careful my drinking friends, and keep an eye on your glasses. Suddenly being sober as a judge (the kind that doesn’t keep a whisky bottle in the filing cabinet) is seeming even more attractive, and steering clear of watering holes a mighty fine idea.