Food Poisoning and Festivals.
I got food poisoning at the Isle of Wight Festival in 2006. Went to sleep after the Prodigy all fine and dandy, woke up an hour later sweating like I was in a sauna and knowing I was going to let go at both ends in a matter of seconds.

Mrs H00ps and I had zipped up the tent in an intricate "Burglar stumping" manner with zips going this way & that, which only added to the churning in my guts - by which time I was starting to feel very faint indeed.

At last the door was open, and I began to thank whatever deity was looking down on me at the time that I only had about 50 yards and a gate to navigate to the nearest toilet.

Mrs H: "Do you want me to come with you?"

Me: "No, I won't be long, I'm sure I'll be fine."

What Mrs H heard: "Nurgh wurgh blurgn. Mmffiuurn"

However - this was the first point I had been on my feet, up until now I had crawled out of the tent. It didn't go well. Fainted and fell like a sack of spuds after 15 yards. No help was proffered by fellow campers - clearly as I looked like a festival casualty, and must have epitomised lager excess. In my addled state I could hear giggling, the bastards. The worst thing was I'd hardly drunk anything that day, it was too hot. No drugs, just water and (I believe the cause) a dodgy chicken burrito.

I pushed myself to my feet and after falling over twice more I made it to the toilets. Luckily there was not much of a queue and someone was coming out as I stumbled round, so I leaned forward and propelled myself into what can only be described as the seventh circle of shitty hell.

I'm in no doubt descriptions of festival toilets will litter this board, but I shall add mine nonetheless. The mountain of turds and detritus was so massive the summit was mere inches from the seat. The floodlights shone enough light through for me to see this, and accompanied by the stench it made me inCREDIBLY sick. I puked up my toes that night, all the while clenching my bowels for grim death until I was sure I had expunged, so I could spin round, and unleash hell.

The resulting explosion actually shook the seat. A seemingly endless torrent of red hot arse lava that felt like it had barbs in it. I was sat there, soaked with sweat, dry heaving and practically prolapsing in a shitbox.

After what only felt like 5 minutes I had steadied myself enough to leave the cubicle, with the obligatory look over the shoulder to check my work. I have to say I am rather proud of the fact that the mountain of poo was now gracefully adorned with a brown mr whippy, complete with peak.

As I left the cubicle I saw Mrs H000ps, who had come to find me, as the 5 or so minutes was actually 45 and she was rather concerned - more so when I emerged visibly thinner and white as a sheet.

Didn't eat properly for 3 days, but the festival was a belter. And If I can offer any advice, it is bring your own toilet paper. I am forever grateful to the lovely wife for stuffing wads of it in my pocket as I left the tent.

I think in those 4 days all in all I lost 9 pounds in weight. Not the best way, but it beats talking to Gillian Mckeith.
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