Horrible men share their vilest lads night out shenanigans
Don’t drink and drive guys (Picture: Dave Anderson for Metro.co.uk)

Left in isolation, the vast majority of men really aren’t so bad.

On our own, we desire nothing more than to play FIFA, feed, and fantasise about your friends.

metro illustrations9 total bellends you’ll definitely meet at the pub tonight

But when we gather en masse, ‘suited and booted’, chock full of ale and Bensons, a different vibe emerges.

A typical lads night out is ghastly. A revolting, immoral mess that would be compelling were it not so obnoxiously vile.

Here, three blokes share what ‘the squad’ get up to, given half a chance and one too many brews.

NSFW, obviously.

We convinced a girl she’d crapped herself

drinks on the floor
It’s only going to get more messy (Picture: Getty)

By Rick P

One night the lads and I met some young ladies at a Wetherspoons.

As I recall, they worked in telesales.

This one girl in particular really took a shine to me, and seemed keen on the idea of me going back to hers.

We necked a few pints, then a few shots, then scoffed some crisps, and afterwards had a bash at the quiz machine.

One thing led to another, as these things do.

She hinted I sneak out the pub with her. But reluctant to abandon my mates, who’d stuck around drinking and making faces in the background, I asked my ‘date’ if she minded the guys piling back to her gaff. After a few more bevvies, obvs.

No problem, she said, through gritted teeth.

Eventually we all stumbled into a couple of Ubers, via the offy, back to hers.

The lads set up camp in the living room

Me and the lady (I wanna say… Jess…!?!) drunkenly retreated to her bedroom, and had no doubt very mediocre sex before both passing out.

Then horror.

I awoke to discover I’d drunkenly shat myself in the night.

Horrible men share their vilest lads night out shenanigans

What to do?

In a flash of what can only be described as genius, I used the girl’s own bedsheets to smear my faeces on her comatose arse, and up her slender back.

Mercifully she remained asleep, so I snuck out, tiptoeing over my slumbering pals in the lounge before fleeing into the harsh light of dawn.

Later that day I received a barrage of calls and texts from the lads.

It appears that sweet young telesales lass awoke shrieking, convinced she’d disgraced herself in front of ‘a really nice lad.’

My mates did nothing to convince her otherwise.

Sorry, Jess (?), if you’re reading this.

I gave a blowjob for the team

Rear view of two men walking affectionately. One of them has his hand on his partner's buttocks.
(Picture: Getty)

By Colin G

’Twas the tail end of a two-day bender.

A couple of lowlife sesh gremlins and I depart our rancid gaff seeking fresh air, and a pint of cold draught lager.

On arrival at the boozer, we fall into conversation with a thick-set American lad and his charming Estonian companion.

Turns out she’s travelling, he’s just a random gay dude from her hostel.

We all drink like mental bastards, then hatch a plan to go back to our pad.

One of our number flakes out home, pleading ‘work tomorrow’ or some bollocks.

So two straight friends, a hot girl and a gay guy hop in a taxi.

One straight friend does well chatting up foxy Estonian girl.

Other friend, doing the decent f***ing thing, plays wingman.

metro illustrations
(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

Gay guy gets the wrong idea. Emphatic hitting-on ensues.

Back at the flat, one friend enjoys a lively Estonian pash while the other, feeling tipsy and experimental, allows the gay guy to fellate him.

Only for about two minutes. Nothing happened. It was just to shut him up, if anything.

But still, two minutes is plenty long enough for etiquette to demand reciprocation.

I drunkenly wrecked my parent’s marriage

Horrible men share their vilest lads night out shenanigans
(Picture: Getty)

By Jez C

My friends and I grew up in rural Shropshire.

There’s not a lot around – the nearest pub is about 12 miles from my home.

One bored Saturday, aged maybe 19, I texted a few mates from the surrounding villages and suggested I drive us into the local market town for a few jars.

Not having my own transport back then, I took the initiative and snagged the keys to my old man’s vintage Benz.

Mum and dad had just departed for a business trip to the far east, and would have no way of finding out. The perfect crime.

My chums and I proceed to drink the town dry, with no real plan as to how to get home.

Last orders were called. No taxis would take us, so I decided to drive everyone back to mine for an afterparty.

Zooming down a country lane, glass of red in one hand, mate holding a ciggie to my lips, I fluffed a treacherous hairpin bend.

Smash.

Fortunately we all escaped unscathed – well, apart from my richly deserved broken hooter.

A good samaritan in a nearby house saw the crash and rushed out to help.

Turns out it was one of my dad’s old school mates.

Dad was telephoned, just as he’d disembarked from his flight to Hong Kong.

Suffice to say father wasn’t too pleased as he proceeded, along with my mum, to board the very next plane home.

Apparently him and mum had a massive argument on the flight. He blamed her for my ropey upbringing, she blamed him for leaving his car keys out.

Either way, they divorced the following month.

So yeah. Don’t drink and drive. Or go out drinking with blokes, ever.

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