My best birthday was when, on the stroke of midnight,
I became the last of my friends to turn 21. We were all sitting at the bar in the Hard Rock Cafe at Universal Studios at the time, having just had an hour-long argument with the really strict pissy barman (who was sticking to his guns and refusing to serve me anything other than Cokes without showing ID). I whipped out my now-valuable passport at one minute past twelve, and grinned at him - he burst out laughing and proceeded to pour free shots down my neck for the rest of the night. Top stuff. :)

My worst was spent at uni, shitting blood and mucus into a washing-up bowl after eating some ropey takeaway chicken a few days before and contracting the potentially deadly campylobachter bacteria (it's a variant of E-Coli, as I understand it). I was in a shared house with no lock on my ground floor bedroom door, and couldn't possibly keep going to the toilet because it was every three or four minutes and utter agony as my intestines spasmed and recoiled into excruciating knots. I was constantly terrified that someone would burst in as I was squatting naked on the carpet, gurning in pain.

To make matters worse, I'd started going out with a girl I really liked only a month before, and, it being an established but still fledgling relationship, she was doing what she thought she had to by heroically mothering me to death. She really wouldn't fuck off, wouldn't leave the bedside, and so eventually, inevitbly, I was forced to reveal to her that there was a massive stinking bucket full to the brim with vile and ghastly diseased rectum contents hidden under my bed.

In the end, my dad had to drive to Leeds to collect me and take me home. The girl and I never really saw much more of each other after I finally recovered almost a fortnight later. :(
( grey kid is breakdancing to save a community centre, Fri 9 Dec 2005, 12:07, Reply)