Russian Standard.
Where exactly is the single stiletto placed, when you wake up in such situations? I mean, is it strapped to your junk, or stuck up you bung?
Skyy. Mmm.
The cheapest, nastiest shit the supermarket outside of the alcoholics anonymous outreach centre decides to stock.
It's vodka, I'm not buying it to taste it, I'm buying it so that when I wake up in the morning in some asian families front yard, naked, wearing one pink stiletto, covered in someone else's blood I'll have some general idea as to what might have been the cause.
I don't like to plan ahead. Then as the sounds of the shrieking Chinese woman whose lawn I've now infected with the various unintended bodily leakages that are par for the course with this kind of binge gently filters its way into my consciousness along with the shouts, cries and the other assorted sights and sounds emanating from this up scale suburban neighbourhood I always seem to find myself in; I can be met with a nice surprise while I'm running past the concerned neighbours just itching for their chance to come down to the house that Blue built and berate my very existence ... giving them a nice sack shot in the process, which is always nice.
But lets just say that the two examples you have felt it right to share with the other interested parties have had their days in the sun, so to speak, on a number of different occasions.