He lit a cigarette. His glass of whiskey lit a cigarette. “I can only truly love my dead best friend,” he said, “but not in a gay way. Women wouldn’t understand. They’re too gay.” Both of the cigarettes agreed.
"I looked at my hand and my little finger was gone – the bone was sticking out. It’s the weirdest feeling; one second you’re fine and your little finger is there, and the next second it’s gone. It shoves reality up your backside. I was in so much pain and shock that the first thing that hit my head was the beat and the bass. The bass was hard, so I just ripped off my top, wrapped it around my finger and tied it up as tight as I could and skanked it out for half an hour. My mentality was, ‘I’ve only been here for an hour, I’ve paid £10 for this night, I’ve lost my little finger – am I seriously going to go? Nah, I’m going to skank until I can’t skank any more.’ After that, my mate dragged me down to the paramedics."
Friends later told him that a “bunch of stoners found [his] little finger and were playing catch with it.”
now THAT’S what i call a party