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Every Type of Drunk You're Ever Going to Meet

A fun list, for fans of fun lists.

All of these photos are illustrative, i.e. the people in these photos are real people and are not meant to specifically represent any of the fantastical drunk straw men detailed below. All photos by Bruno Bayley, who made us put this disclaimer in.

The Sun, again, with its news. Here it is yesterday: "EVERYONE holds their booze in different ways, but apparently all of us can be placed into specific drunken personality types," The Sun said. "Researchers from the University of Missouri grilled 187 students about their tipsy and sober states."

Okay, I understand: we are all unique and different people. We consume and process alcohol in different ways. Behaviours change, moods change. I understand this.

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Ah, there's a little bit more: "The experts then came up with the four most common drunk personalities—" No. Incorrect. Wrong. The news we are meant to accept without question here is: there are only four types of drunk personality:

- The Hemingway (drinks without really changing personality)

- The Mary Poppins (drinks and becomes sweet and agreeable)

- The Nutty Professor (drinks and "reveals a second personality", presumably a shrinking-then-ballooning Eddie Murphy yelling about how he doesn't owe Mel B nothing)

- The Mr Hyde (drinks and becomes a bad bastard)

We are to forget the trouser-pissers, the kebab goblins. We are to forget the collapsers and the lad who always ends up in a police car.

Now: much respect for science, but no. I mean, I understand that researchers at the University of Missouri grilled 187 students, but no. They have not figured out enough. I ask them: are they, the scientists, a walking content factory, conjuring up an actually accurate list of all the different types of drunk people they will encounter over the course of their lives? They are not. I am. Here is that list.

ONE WHO GOES AWAY AND COMES BACK WITH FOOD

One of the most iconic moments of my drinking career was when I went missing for an hour from a pub we were watching the FA Cup final in and only came back once I'd gone to Tesco pissed and really messily eaten two consecutive Meal Deals while sat on the floor outside it. There is a drunk like me among your group. There is a drunk who, at an undefined point in the evening, exits stage left and doesn't come back until they've got garlic sauce all over their hands and top.

ONE WHO GOES AWAY AND TURNS UP AND WHEN YOU ASK THEM WHERE THEY WENT THEY GO QUIET AND—

—and long story short: they fell asleep on the toilet.

LAD WHO REALLY, REALLY, REALLY HAS TO LISTEN TO THIS ONE SONG, RIGHT, NO, BECAUSE—

This guy's drunkenness only kicks in about 10.30PM, because he's been quiet so far, and then suddenly – with a jerk, his body controlled by forces you can't quite see, the kind of drunk where you rise out of a chair chest-and-ribcage first, dragged by ghosts – and then suddenly he's up at the barmaid, going "Can I plug my iPod in? One song… one song!" Or he's on your bus playing you exactly one Arctic Monkeys lyric video via a staggering 4G stream on his phone, or, worst of all these, he's at a house party and suddenly, chimplike, he has crawled his way to the sound system, and he is pawing at it, and there are great staticky pulses that engulf the room, and everyone looks around at the silence, and then, suddenly, there he is, eyes closed and a single finger gyrating in the air, going, "No, right: you have to listen to every note of this eight-minute guitar intro," and man: this dude gets beaten up like you wouldn't believe.

THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS – EVEN THOUGH THERE WASN'T ONE IN THE HOUSE, OR THE PUB, OR THE PUB GARDEN, OR ANY OF THE NEARBY SHOPS, AND SHE DIDN'T COME WITH A BAG OR A RUCKSACK SHE COULD HAVE BOUGHT IT IN, SO WHAT THE FUCK – THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS, TWO HOURS INTO A SESH, SOMEHOW MAGICS UP AND THEN WEARS A FLOWER CROWN

She is a magician. She is a wizard. She is like Derren Brown, if Derren Brown needed two of his mates to help him get out of a romper to piss.

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BLISSFUL PARALYSIS

My favourite types of drunk are those people who at some point in the night turn into what is essentially a very happy corpse – laughing, chatty, eyes rolled back in their skull, body medically dead – the kind who somehow hit their limit at 7.30PM and end up in a cab doing laps of their building because they won't disclose their actual address as part of some sort of marvellous cabby joke. These people are great because, like enchanted pixies, nothing bad ever seems to happen to them. They don't end up mugged, covered in vomit, shuttling around the tube late at night backwards and forwards until they are taken to lost and found: they just end up in bed by about 9PM, absolutely hammered, smiles on their faces.

LAD WHO IS CONVINCED HE CAN WALK – OR, WORSE, CYCLE – HOME WITHOUT ASSISTANCE, ENDS UP EIGHT MILES IN THE WRONG DIRECTION WITH REALLY SORE FEET, ENDS UP HAVING TO CALL HIS MUM FOR HELP

And then does it all again exactly the same way the next week. Elton John was right about that circle of life shit, he just didn't mention how often in that circle you'd have to, in an emergency, sleep on a roundabout.

'ONE MORE ROUND! ONE MORE ROUND! IT'S ON ME. MY ROUND! ONE MORE ROUND!'

There is a magical unspoken moment at the end or near-end of a night out where – silently, without consultation – everyone decides that enough is enough; this is the last one; next goal wins; I'm getting an Uber your way actually if you want to split it.

Apart from one lad, the guy who currently has a single hand clamped around your arm, two fingers in the air to call the barman over, and he's just ordered four shots and two pints, and he's whispering to you – whispering so close that you feel it in your ear when he spits – "One more, lad… we'll stay out for one more," and this is where the night dies. This is where it winds away like soap water down a plughole; you are naked and shivering in the empty bath of this night, and he knows somewhere nearby that'll be open – he's sure of it – and you walk around the streets until you see a strip club. It's cold and you didn't bring a jumper, and it's £10 in and he's covering it – and there you are, sobering up already somehow, watching in reverse every bad decision you have ever made that has bought you up to this point in the reflected Swarovski of a bedazzled G-string.

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And then when you finally get home – pissed, not-pissed, both tired and awake, £60 down, work in two hours – you get a hammered, hammered, hammered WhatsApp from him going: "Great night, that! Great!" And then, with a clunk of dread, you see the "… is typing" notification: "Remember how I mentioned Bucharest! I just ordered us two flights!"

You just lost £350 more and a week of your annual leave. You cannot escape this. You are his best friend now. You are his best friend and you are going to die, together, in Romania.

THAT ONE WHO JUST SMILES A LOT

In 2001, So Solid Crew asked us a question: "Ha, ha, ha. What you laughing at?" And, in many ways, they were asking a question to the future. They were asking drunk people: what are you laughing at? They were also setting up a platform that would lead to three of the members going on The Games and one member going to prison for murder, so. The moral of the story is we cannot always trust what So Solid Crew have to say.

GIRL WHO TALKS IN CIRCLES WITH HER EYES HALF CLOSED AND THEN LATER SOMEHOW MANAGES TO DRINK VODKA AND CRY AT THE SAME TIME???

I recently spent two hours at my own house party listening to a friend of mine tell me the exact same anecdote maybe 15, 20 times in a row and I've got to say: that was not a well-formed anecdote even at all and I did not enjoy it the first time.

LAD WHO JUST FLIPS AT A CERTAIN POINT IN THE BANTER DISCOURSE AND GETS REALLY FUCKING MOODY AS A RESULT OF IT

6.30PM: Alright boys! Mine's a Heineken. Hehe. DRINK IT DOWN, YOU ZULU WARRIOR! DRINK IT DOWN, ZULU CHIEF, CHIEF, CHIEF!

6.45PM: [Extremely loud burp] Your round!

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7.07PM: [Notices fellow drinker on the phone to his girlfriend] HE'S GAY! Haha, only joking. HE'S CHEATING ON YOU! OI, ROB, ARE YOU GONNA SHAG THIS BIRD OR AM I GOING TO DO IT FOR YOU! Ha ha ha!

7.59PM: [Flicks you directly in the bollocks] Bollocks! Ha ha ha. The bollocks game. We all did it in uni. No, you can't flick me back!

8.45PM: I know karate

9.03PM: [After an extremely tame joke about his mum being a slag] You fucking what, mate? What? No, take that back. No. Fucking not on, that. Fuck you coming out and being a twat for? No. You've always been a twat, you. I don't know why. [Voice slightly breaks as though he's about to start crying, but he pulls it round and doesn't, ultimately, cry] It's just you're always a twat, that's why! No. Fuck off. Fuck off! You're all twats, anyway. Defending him. You're all bastards and twats. Fuck off. Fuck offffffff!!!

LAD WHO REALLY WANTS TO TALK ABOUT SOMETHING HE HEARD YOU SAID ABOUT HIM EIGHT MONTHS AGO, WITH AN OPEN HAND QUIETLY PRESSING – JUST THE FINGERS, JUST THE FINGERTIPS – INTO THE HOLLOW OF YOUR CHEST

"No, because, right, no, because: I was only saying because I heard, like, what you said about me — and no, it's OK, I know you didn't actually say it — but I heard you said it, so I thought you said it, so I'm here like: 'Did he say it?' And you've come over here and you've said you didn't say it, and like— no, mate, no, you're a top chat, mate, to have the balls! To have the balls to come over here and say that to me. No. I appreciate it. That's balls, that is. But you do understand, right: I proper wanted to twat you, to death, somewhere between 30 to 40 seconds ago."

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THE THREE INTERCHANGEABLE LADS WHO OPERATE LIKE A SORT OF CERBERUS IN SPORTSWEAR, WHO STAND IN SILENCE IN CLUBS TOGETHER, WHO SILENTLY DO SHOTS TOGETHER, STAND AND MUTELY INHALE HOT WET PORTIONS OF CHEESY CHIPS TOGETHER, QUIETLY BEAT THE EVER-LOVING SHIT OUT OF A KEBAB MAN TOGETHER AND, YOU CAN ONLY SUSPECT, ON THE GRAVE AND RARE OCCASIONS THEY PULL, SILENTLY HAVE SEX TOGETHER, A REALLY INTENSE QUIET FOURSOME OCCASIONALLY PUNCTUATED WITH SOME HALF-BANTER ABOUT HOW BLACKBURN ROVERS ARE DOING THIS YEAR

Sometimes in life you find the yin to your yang. Sometimes in life your yin-yang combination finds a third half, called Kevin. Sometimes the three of you can only truly mind-meld – only truly interconnect soul and mind and body – when you're five pints of Amstel into a session and there's some Serie A on in Walkabout.

THE PERSON WHO GETS SO DRUNK THAT YOU – THEIR GUARDIAN, THEIR ANGEL – HAVE TO TAKE UP A BELOW MINIMUM WAGE JOB IN CARE JUST TO LOOK AFTER THEM

I have a theory that it's possible in some cases for your brain to remain un-drunk (or at least relatively sober), but your body to get extremely drunk: your skeleton gets drunk and your ligaments get drunk, your jaw and tongue get drunk, and essentially you just turn into this quite floppy flank of meat that can only say, "No, I'm alright, honestly!" while your mate hoists you under each armpit and drags you to the toilet for a slap in the face and a piss. These people – floppy drunks – have an extreme tactical advantage compared to many of their fellow drinkers because they never have to pay for their own taxis home, because one of their mates always gives £30 to a cabby and goes, "Get them home, will you?" in a tender way. They have an extreme tactical disadvantage compared to many of their fellow drinkers, though, because the chance of them very publicly and drunkenly shitting themselves is much, much higher, so. Swings, roundabouts.

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THE ONE WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHAT A PROBLEM THEIR DRINKING IS BECOMING, NOT JUST TO THEM BUT TO EVERYONE AROUND THEM, EVER-SO-SUBTLY FRACTURING EVERY RELATIONSHIP THEY HAVE, JUST SLIGHTLY, LIKE BREAKING AN AXLE, YOU KNOW IT IS BROKEN BUT YOU CAN STILL RIDE ON IT, THEY ARE THE SPIDER AT THE CENTRE OF THEIR OWN WEB BITING AWAY AT EVERY STRAND OF IT AND HOPING SOMEHOW NOT TO FALL, THE ONE WHO ALWAYS WAKES UP BLEARY-HEADED FOR WORK BUT DOESN'T KNOW WHY, THE ONE WHO IS TIRED, ALWAYS, PUTTING ON THAT LITTLE BIT OF WEIGHT THEY CAN'T SHIFT, THAT TRUNK WEIGHT, THAT MIDDLE WEIGHT, BUT THEY STILL GET A THIRST ON EVERY LUNCHTIME, DON'T THEY, WHEN THEY WALK PAST THE PUB AND SMELL THAT UNMISTAKEABLE SMELL, OF WADDED DOWN CARPETS AND SPILLED LAGER, THEY JUST GET THE URGE FOR A PINT, JUST ONE CAN'T HURT, MAYBE A TOP, A CHEEKY TOP, A TOP IS BASICALLY A SOFT DRINK, AND THEN THEY GET HOME ON A MONDAY AND THINK: 'HEY, IT'S MONDAY – TINS… TINS CAN'T HURT, CAN THEY? TINS – TINS WITH DINS. THE GUY AT THE CORNER SHOP KNOWS ME BY NOW… IF I'M A QUID OR TWO SHORT HE LETS ME ROLL IT OVER TO NEXT TIME, WHAT A FELLA, WHAT A LAD,' AND THEN AFTER TINS YOU WAKE UP AGAIN WITH THAT BLEARY HEAD, AND SO THE CYCLE CONTINUES, UNTIL THEY DON'T REALLY KNOW WHAT WAKING UP UN-GROGGY FEELS LIKE, SUCH A LONG SLOW CHANGE THEY NEVER REALLY SAW IT COMING, AND GOD LOOK IN THE MIRROR: FUCK, GOD, YOU GOT OLD, THERE, DIDN'T YOU? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? THE SKIN SALLOW, THE SKIN GREY, BUT IT'S FINE, ISN'T IT? BUT THEN YOU GO TO WORK AND SOMEONE MENTIONS THEIR HANGOVER AND YOU SAY, JUST A LITTLE BIT TOO LOUD, 'I DON'T GET HANGOVERS, ME!' AND EVERYONE GOES QUIET A LITTLE, BECAUSE THEY KNOW YOU DON'T, BECAUSE YOUR LIFE IS A HANGOVER; YOUR LIFE IS ONE ACHING RECOVERY FROM A LOW-LEVEL TRAUMA YOU KEEP INFLICTING UPON YOURSELF, AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT BUT YOU—

Still, another pint can't hurt, can it!

@joelgolby

More stuff from VICE, more fun lists:

Here's Every Type of Annoying Person You're Friends with On Facebook

What Your Facebook Profile Photo Says About You

Talking Politics with Drunk Toffs at the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race