...and that's why I don't eat kebabs any more
I did a four-year course at Uni while most of my friends did just three. We'd still get together once in a while, with those that'd left town kipping over at my place wherever they could find space.

On this occasion we'd been to an Irish pub, played much pool, drunk bad Guinness by the barrel and whiskey too, and on the way home stopped at the 'bab shop. I wasn't hungry so skipped it but Scott was in the mood for some sustenance. Christ, it looked horrible (even in my beered-up state) and smelled worse. But he ate it and we carried on home.

All the various sleeping spots around the house were taken up one by one, leaving Scott with the only remaining space -- under the desk in my room, next to the bookshelf. I gave him a sleeping roll and a blanket and crashed out.

In the morning, I awoke to a lethal hangover and the most god-awful stench I've ever witnessed. It was coming from under the desk...

During the night, Scott had changed his mind about the kebab and parted company with it. In his addled state -- in a vain effort to avoid spraying it all over the floor -- he'd reached over to the bookshelf, pulled out the first thing that came to hand and spewed in it. And then closed it, put it back on the shelf and gone back to sleep.

What he'd selected was my photo album -- you know the kind, the ones with the little flippy-over pockets for each photo. So not only was the floor of my bedroom now covered in regurgitated meat-style protein and garlic sauce (and I'm telling you, the smell never went away), I also spent the following day carefully sliding each individual photo out of its sleeve and wiping off the congealed puke in an effort to preserve four years' worth of irreplaceable mementos.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 9:14, 1 reply)

Kebabs...
I remember dropping into my local kebab shop one evening and deciding to order a plate of the chili con carne and rice from the bain marie in the front instead of my usual lamb wrap. The guy behind the counter looks left, then right and leans forward. "No mate, that's not for you, that's for the drunks idiots who wander in from other suburbs and we never see again. You stick with the kebab". Turns out the chili was the same batch he'd been serving for months, just topped up regularly.
Strangely, that place is no longer there...
( difficultchild, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 2:31, closed)