So it’s 2am, the bar closes at 3, you’re dead broke and for the last few hours you have been running on the half sack of goon that you pounded at home. Suddenly, like spit in the face, you are awakened to the reality of your situation. You watch, now helplessly aware, as your body attempts to wriggle in time with the repetitive, offbeat electro-bop record which you were grooving sharply too only moments ago. Your lips peel over the words I love you, or mining tax or what Macca did, and you realise that you are having one of the most boring conversations of your life. Your eyesight turns fuzzy, your mouth stale and your discontents wriggle and fidget behind your subconscious. All in all, you need more booze; but the bank account’s empty and all your friends have bailed. I’m here to tell you how to keep those alcohol levels soaring for free so that you can perpetuate the notion of a good night all the way to your hangover.
Minesweeping is a technique that has been passed on to me by some of the scummiest people I know. The premise is simple: when you’re out of booze and in a busy bar, cruise round and take any drink that is unguarded. Whether it is warm beer, straight vodka, a rum and coke with bits of coaster floating in it, you fucking smash it fast and move on quickly.
It won’t take long to learn the origins of the name minesweeper, because when you are a rookie, one in every five drinks is likely to get you a, “Wait, that’s mine!” or more likely, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ At this moment, I find a cocktail of honesty and self-deprecation most effective. Try to explain your financial predicament to your would-be-benefactor, all the while maintaining subservience to his or her physical dominance. This usually results in a passing joke or gruff ambivalence, however if violence pursues I suggest minesweeping another drink for your initial victim – who doesn’t like a free drink?! Plus, it’ll make them feel like someone else is the sucker.
So now you can ensure your safety while minesweeping, I guess the next hurdle is ethics. I have often heard minesweeping referred to as “stealing”, but I prefer to call it “opportunistic pro-active recycling”. If you or anyone you know works in a bar, you will be fully aware of the amount of drinks that get jettisoned and inevitably thrown out throughout the night. How many times have you stumbled to the bar, ordered a round for the posse and returned to find that everyone is either leaving, too trashed or too busy macking, and left the lonely beers to waste? Probably never, cause you’re all scum, but trust me – people do this. Is it a crime to rescue a beer from certain destruction, to allow it to impregnate your body and mind rather than contribute to our overfilling waste? I definitely don’t think so.
As you gain confidence and your ranking as a sweeping specialist rises, things tend to become a little more sinister. The drunker you get, the less you feel like the law’s disciplined bitch and the more you feel like a bandana-clad ninja. I have poached drinks in desperately empty clubs by staking out a victim for five minutes, waiting for that opportune moment when he turns around to grab his drink then sweeping and skulling it before he noticed. If this upsets you, then fuck you – this is the natural world pussy, dog eat dog, survival of the fittest, we are the hunter gatherers of the twenty-first century and if you leave a carcass unguarded while I watch from the shadows in hunger, you’re probably going to go thirsty! Or just buy another drink cause you’re a rich and lazy.
Contrary to popular belief, being a scummy cunt actually wins hearts. I have had the luxury of macking many fine girls after showing them the ropes of the sweep. The ability to provide and survive ignites the most carnal desires.
I have now reached such minesweeping greats that I don’t ever spend money in bars. I get whatever drinks I want, whenever I want, and also provide anyone I know with the same pleasures. I have never been punched, slapped, kicked or thrown out for minesweeping and if you follow my instructions neither will you. Having no money is never an excuse not to party. So next time you’re sitting at home wallowing in financial self-pity, get off the couch, pound some goon then go out and fucking dance.