I Couldn’t Really Help It, I Was Pissed Out Of My Head

There’s a lot written about the benefits of sobriety. Indeed, I’m personally responsible for contributing towards this ever-growing pile of woolly guff; endless reams of words spewing from laptops all over the world, about how stopping drinking will clear up your spotty skin, and help you lose 5 stone in 3 months, and turn you from debt-ridden scum into a highly respected business magnate overnight. There’s the health benefits, the financial benefits, the brain-sharpening benefits, the depression-killing benefits. Being sober will help you to work harder, to shag better, to live longer, and to look handsomer (it’s a real word, I googled it). People have published books about this shit. They’ve made TV programmes and podcasts. Businesses have been founded, and are now thriving, which focus solely on sharing the good word of sober living. It’s like a magic pill that fixes everything! Everyone in the world of sobriety wants to shout about their new lifestyle, their new look. HEY EVERYONE LOOK AT WHAT SOBRIETY CAN TURN YOU INTO! LOOK AT MY SUITCASE OF MONEY! CHECK OUT MY SOFT HAIR! But let’s not forget, amidst this pink mire of yoga trousers, ultra-marathon runners, and vegan cookbooks, one of the most primal and basic benefits that quitting drinking can bring; the one benefit that is quite often the catalyst for a lifetime of sobriety. That one golden nugget for which we all strive, and which only sobriety can truly bring us…


Any regular readers of this blog will know that I, Jonathan Turner, with almost 4 years of sobriety now under my belt, have got a history of being a drunk dickpiece. I’ve shat my pants in a pub, I’ve hung off the back of a ferry crossing the channel to Amsterdam, I’ve broken many, many bones, I’ve upset people with my nonsensical slurry ranting, I’ve been mean to nice people, I’ve smashed up private property, I’ve driven drunk, I’ve stolen drunk, and I even, once, got so steaming drunk that I sang along to a Coldplay song in a pub – and quite enjoyed it. What evil cuntery is this!? What place of darkness hath booze broughteth me to?

I have a mate from Essex, a living legend of a guy, who has made a decent living from recording and releasing insanely funny and offensive albums, as well as from his relentless bouts of touring the pubs and sweaty rock venues of the UK, under the moniker Kunt & The Gang.

Kunt, as he’s affectionately known to his hordes of screaming fans (mainly fat middle aged blokes), is a bit of a hero, and I first met him when a band I used to be in opened one of his shows in Huddersfield back in 2005. Since then, each time he came through Yorkshire on another tour, he’d usually spend a night at my house where he was expecting a free bed as a welcome change to the usual depressing Travelodge – but instead got ME, a drunken northern bastard, ranting about ‘the state of music these days’ and force-feeding him sambuca until it got light outside.

Given the titles of most of his songs, you’d be forgiven for thinking that my mate, Kunt, has a few issues. Let me give you some examples (you have read my blog before right? You do know about the disregard for good humour and decent taste? Just checking)…

  • Gentleman’s Wash
  • You’re A Pervert
  • Chips Or Tits
  • Use My Arsehole As A Cunt
  • Whose Was That Pube?
  • Sit Down Wee
  • Wanking Over A Pornographic Polaroid Of An Ex-Girlfriend Who Died
  • Feminine Itch
  • Lets Fuck About With Fireworks
  • That’s My Erection
  • My Mum Found My Wankmags
  • Men With Beards (What Are They Hiding?)
  • The Two Finger Test
  • 50 Things You Should Think About To Stop You Doing Your Beans
  • A Lonely Wank In A Travelodge
  • My Bumrape Place
  • Michael Eavis And His Micro-Penis
  • (Shitting On) A Picture Of The Queen

(Google all of these, they’re brilliant. Not at work though)

…but actually, Kunt is a very friendly, kind, and smart guy. A diamond geezer, you might say, if you were from his neck of the woods, which I’m not. We even worked on an album together, but that’s another story for another day (plus, I think I’d lose half of my readers if I told you about it, leaving only about 3).

So… on the subject of ‘getting drunk and being a dick’ there’s a Kunt & The Gang track that really stands out for me, and I’d like to share it with YOU – my respected and valued readers – in the hope that we can collectively take strength from it, lest we ever hear the little devil jabbering away on our shoulders, and feel the need to reach for a cold can of Special Brew. Just think back to this song and say to yourself “Do I really want to be THAT guy?” and put the beer down. Or throw it at the nearest craft ale hipster. Both options are fine.

Here are the lyrics, so you can learn them for karaoke at your nan’s birthday:

My bird was ill the other day so I went out on the sauce
I went down the pub, another pub and then a club of course
I woke up the following day with a naked bird in bed
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

I was pissed out of my head
I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
My bird was ill and so I shagged a big old malt instead
But I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

I was down the pub, I’d had eight pints of Fuller’s London Pride
This bloke called me a fag and so I dragged the cunt outside
I smashed a glass into his face, cos I suddenly saw red
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

I was pissed out of my head
I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
Someone told me afterwards I’d misheard what he said
He was only offering me a smoke
But I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

[Stylophone solo]

I was in my car the other week, I’d had a few cans
I was fiddling with the radio when I ran over this man
On a zebra crossing, so I left him for dead
I couldn’t have helped him anyway, I was pissed out of my head

I was pissed out of my head
I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
It said in the local paper the doctors think that he’s brain dead
But I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

I had a lunchtime meeting in Whitechapel with two bottles of wine
It was two O’clock in the afternoon, I was wrecked out of my mind
I ended up with a prostitute but when she lay down and spread
I couldn’t get a hard-on, I was pissed out of my head
So I smacked her around instead

I was pissed out of my head
I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
[some words]
But I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

I was pissed out of my head
I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
Get off me case, get out me face, you heard what I said
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head
I couldn’t really help it, I was pissed out of my head

There we go. I’m sure we all agree that the chap portrayed in Kunt’s lovely ditty is not someone we wanna be anymore. Although it was fun whilst it lasted (stares off into the middle distance).

Whilst writing today’s blog, locked in a stuffy office backroom, I was mulling over some of the DICKHEAD-ISH things I’ve done whilst drunk, but haven’t yet had the pleasure of sharing on this blog. I’ll be honest, I’m having to scrape the barrel a bit these days (might have to start drinking again, just to get some more drinking stories for the blog eh?), but just like a miniature frizzy-haired-sandal-wearing-angel sent to help me with my writing, my phone went BLIP and delivered me a Facebook friend request from a lad I haven’t seen in ages. Cheers Zuckerberg you rich weird bastard. Suddenly, my mind has prized open a whole tin of old boozing stories.

The friend request was from a guy I used to live next to (in the mangled party-girl house depicted in this blog). His name is Matt, but in order to protect his identity I’m going to call him Mr Kawasaki (coz he had a motorbike).

Matt, er, I mean Mr Kawasaki (POW! Take that GDPR!) was probably 10 years my senior, and used to come round occasionally with a carrier bag full of beers. We’d literally just shoot the shit until the sun came up, and he was a FAST drinker so his visits usually had blurry endings due to me trying to match his pace.

I’m a bit out of touch with the laws on buying booze these days, but back then there was nowhere you could get beers before 12pm, and this caused us a bit of a problem on one particular night, when come 2am we were still going strong but running short on lager.

“Dude!” Shouted Matt, er, Mr Kawasaki. “I know a place in Halifax that sells beer till 3am! I’ll drive!”

Now… getting into a car with a very, very drunk person isn’t sensible. BUT! I also was very, very drunk, and couldn’t give 2 shits about the potential consequences. I just. Needed. More. BEER. We sped towards Halifax, a good 20 minute trip, and then we sped back from Halifax, and within the hour we had 2 blue carrier bags full of Fosters sitting in my fridge. Peng.

The next time the beer drought hit us we had fewer options, as this time it was closer to 4am.

“I have a plan!” Shouted Mr Kawasaki. “The newsagents down the road has started selling beer, and they open at 5!”

Well, I’m sure you can imagine the scene. Two steaming, sweaty, drunken fucks rocking up at the local newsagent at 5am on the dot, staggering about and knocking things over. The poor guy behind the counter looked disgusted as I grabbed fourpack after fourpack of cold beers out of the fridge, and stacked them onto Matt’s arms, whilst we swore and giggled like naughty schoolgirls.

We approached the counter, and the very-pissed-off-looking shopkeeper, and were promptly informed that he couldn’t sell them to us as it was too early. Mr Kawasaki went straight into AWW COME ON MATE YOU’D BE DOING US A HUGE FAVOUR mode, his animated gestures causing a beer to slip from his grasp and explode against the solid floor.


The 3 of us looked in horror upon the beer-fountain that was pissing all over the floor and the lower shelves of the shop, hosing a load of innocent tins of beans and Pot Noodles, before my highly sharpened ninja skillz kicked in and I dived on the floor, grabbing the wet can in both hands and sealing the rupture with my mouth. Mmmm lovely beer.

“You horrible drunk bastards!” Yelled the shopkeeper. “Just pay and get out!!”

Result! I wanged a twenty over the counter and we were out of there like a couple of Sonic The Hedgehogs, stocked up on enough beers to see us through until lunchtime. At the time it felt like a great achievement, but on reflection I can’t help but cringe a bit at the sadness and desperation of the whole situation, and my willy goes all shrivelled up like a pink raisin.


We soaked your Pot Noodles and Heinz Beans in beer! But we couldn’t really help it, we were pissed out of our heads.

The last memory I want to share about my time living next door to Mr Kawasaki is, in fact, about his Kawasaki motorbike. You see, one Saturday afternoon I was hanging out at home, blasting some music and drinking some vodkas, when Matt popped round to ask if I wanted a spin out on the back of his Kawasaki Ninja. Well, YES, of course I did! I was pissed out of my head! And in fact, despite me having to quickly learn just how hard I needed to hold on due to the sheer power of the thing (oh, and the fact that the funny bastard made me wear a purple helmet), it was nothing short of one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had. The fucker was tearing up and down the famous countryside hills of Yorkshire, weaving in between cars and lorries, and I only wish I’d have been sober enough to fully appreciate the ride. It was like a rollercoaster but BETTER! And this is a nice memory to end on, rather than a dickish one.

However! I’ve rambled on for long enough. The message from today’s blog is a bit mangled and incoherent, but what I’m trying to say is this:


Being a total ringpiece is maybe a lesser-considered benefit of sobriety, but I actually think it’s one of the most important benefits. Any sober person who’s spent a Friday night in a town centre pub after 11pm can no doubt attest to just how idiotic people can become after a skinful.

Although, on reflection, I am still a bit of a tool even without a beer. Maybe quitting drink wasn’t quite the solution I’d hoped for…?

Oh dear.

Maybe the truth is that it’s not drinking that makes you a dick, It’s BEING A DICK that makes you a dick. Drinking just magnifies how much of a twatbangle you are.

New tagline idea for the blog:


Nailed it.

Jonathan xoxoxo


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4 thoughts on “I Couldn’t Really Help It, I Was Pissed Out Of My Head

  1. Emma says:

    Thanks for another smashing blog!
    I’m familiar with Kunt and the gang and I’m chuffed to bits you’ve mentioned him!
    You’ve made my night and my eyes wet with happiness!
    Also to add a bit of a gloat, I am 1 day off 6 months sober and your blog has definitely helped along the way!
    Massive sweary hugs!

    Liked by 1 person

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