Ah.... Happy days indeed.
Some of you may remember the 'Gatzby' nightclub outside of Reading Train station (it's now one of those horrible 'Oz Bars'). Anyway, this was back in my student days, when a couple of pints of strong lager and a few vodkas would be enough for me.

It was my 18th birthday on the evening in question, so the booze was flowing more freely than blood at a Barrymore Pool Party.

It got to about midnight, and realising I needed to chunder, I drunkenly staggered off to the Kazis. En route, I bumped into and fell over a young ladys chair. I knocked her clean out and promptly threw up over her jacket on the back of the chair.

Quickly realising I need to boff again, and with only the crazed determination that posesses the truly drunk, I bravely staggered on to the toilets. Once in there, there was an elderly chap throwing up in to the urinals. Not to be outdone, I joined the one next to him. We decided (unspokenly) that he had won when his false teeth fell out.

It felt like hours had passed, but was probably only minutes before I was escorted outside by bouncers. As we all know, projectile vomiting is hungry work, so I purchased a rancid hotdog from the health risk parked outside the club.

Within seconds the bacteria I'd just ingested needed to make good their escape. Without wishing to publicly embabrass myself, I leant over the nearest wall. The wall was more of a bridge over an entrance to carpark, and parked 30ft below was a nice new shiny Rover 800 (the height of style in those days!).

I had no qualms in letting go of another bucket of sick over the wall, and I'm pleased to report that it was bullseye on the Rover's windscreen / bonnet.

If that was your Rover, then I can only apologise, but in fairness I'm sure a bucket of my stomach soup is now probably worth far more.
( Benny on the Loose; a permanent solution to a temporary problem, Thu 19 Aug 2004, 21:26, Reply)