"No, you don't understand... YOU ARE SITTING IN IT."
Early last year, my life was a bit of a state. My girlfriend had left me, and I wasn't coping very well. Fortunately I have two wonderful friends who let me move back in with them and begin to sort my life out.

We aren't what you'd call cool. We do, however, have friends who are, and it was one such friend who invited us to a night out at the Bongo Club- a night out that I badly needed.

We drank. Then we drank some more. One of my flatmates, swathed entirely in camouflage, decided it was his sworn duty to scream at the band who were playing that night. At this point, I decided to join the other flatmate outside on the smoker's picnic tables. As we sat, we were joined by two French girls. As he halfheartedly chatted them up, I began to feel that familiar nausea rising in my gullet. I leaned to one side and broke wind.

"Did you just fart on me?!" screamed the girl who had sat down next to me without me noticing. She leapt to her feet with a look of raw disgust on her face. I couldn't really have felt worse if I'd just been caught shitting in some else's toilet cistern.

The nausea continued to rise.

My flatmate continued to chat up the French girls.

Then (and I am relying on my flatmate's account for this part) I turned my head to one side and released an arc of purely liquid vomit that apparently resembled Little Britain's 'racist old lady' sketch.

I felt better. Much better. The French girls were gone, naturally, but we continued our good natured drunken chatting. Then, through the smokey haze, a Romero-esque figure lumbered. Clearly off his tits, he put his hand on my shoulder and slurred: "Got any drugs, mate?" as he sat next to me on the bench.

I looked at him. He looked at me with one eye, and my flatmate with the other. I just couldn't hold it in.

"Mate. You're sitting in my sick."

He looked at me quizzically.

I looked to my flatmate.

"No, he means it. You're literally sitting in his sick."

He eventually left, but I genuinely believe it was more to do with the lack of drugs than any concern for the state of his trousers...
(Generator cannot be named for legal reasons, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 20:24, Reply)

Ich bin ein vomiter
On a campsite in Amsterdam, I jolted awake after an epic night of schmoking, flinging open the door of my friend's van only to vomit over the feet of a startled German family enjoying their breakfast. I think I got away with it though.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 20:11, Reply)

Not really a vomit story directly
However I must say that I love that ever present pre-vom moment where the victim creates, and often maintains for the duration, that claw like hand as they initiate the gagging stage of the spewing process.

Admittedly a subtle detail of this unfortunate, yet hilarious, event when a close friend whities at a house party, pub crawl, etc...*

Cast your mind back, it will have been there when you last witnessed a spewer in action.

* Now I'm (technically) a grown up, these instances are few and far between amongst my friends, but with a couple of stag dos coming up this summer I can only hope to witness, and even photograph, this phenomenon.
(Leenis is cool., Sun 10 Jan 2010, 19:54, Reply)

Super Puker Trooper
A good friend of mine, Alison, is sick every time she gets drunk. This normally starts the morning after. Not just a little chunky burp but 12 hours of constant, can't-even-keep-water-down technicolor yawning. We've long since learned not to plan anything for the day after a heavy session, but as she and her long-suffering husband live out in the stix they often have a fairly lengthy drive after seeing friends.

To avoid having to stop every mile to allow Alison to redecoate the side of the road while her husband holds his darling wife's hair back they now keep an extra large mcdonalds drink cup--"mr pukey"-- in the car so she can simply empty her stomach then simply fling the contents out the window as they go. Hey, it's biodegradeable, right?

Apparently Alison has inherited this affliction from her mother yet they both drink like fishes, regardless of the inevitable consequences. As she says herself, "not drink? Are you crazy!? What would life be without gin?".

No idea why we get on so well.
( pixel_fucker is going to need a bigger brush, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 19:25, Reply)

Pea roast
Now, I still can't verify this story, but the mate who told me it is a right deranged little fucker, and knowing his thought process I believe him.
Now, little gap-toothed fuck Rowan, for that's his name, used to like a drink. A proper fucking big drink. One night he's let loose in the student union, and drinks his own body weight in cheap booze.
Soon he's trying to hold his stomach in whilst he finds somewhere to chunder, and runs to the bogs. Everywhere is full, all cubicle doors are closed, urinals packed, sinks occupied. He does the right thing, according to his rat like brain. Boots the door of the nearest cubicle in, smashing the piss poor lock and "BLEURGH!". All over the unfortunate occupant, who's sat there having a shit.
Next, according to Rowan, he suddenly sobers up. The guy sat there looks quite big, even sat down. Rowan panics, this big fuck is going to lay him out, so he does what any (in)sane person would do, gets in first. Rowan leans into the cubicle and plants what he describes as the only decent punch he has ever thrown. Big bloke goes down. Rowan runs like fuck.
Now, unfortunately Rowan didn't stay around to see what this bloke looked like afterwards, but the idea of a man, vomit all down his top and jeans, slight skid mark where he's fallen off the toilet mid turd and squashed nose, claret all over his face has made us smile many a time.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 18:54, 7 replies)

First New Year's Away From Home
I was a mere 16 year old, soon to be 17 when I accepted my first invitation to a New Year's shindig that wasn't held at my mum and dad's house.

I got some new threads for the occasion and headed over to a friend of a friend's gaff anticipating an exciting evening. As soon as I got there someone handed me a vodka martini, feeling rather nervous I downed it almost instantly and was served with another. Following several more it turned out someone was adding aftershock to my cocktail however being both naive and semi bladdered I continued to down my beverage with great enthusiasm.

After pissing all over his bathroom floor and apparently trying desperately to chat up some girl who I have no recollection of even being introduced to I suddenly turned green with over consumption.

Being in the living room I tried working my way through the crowd to get myself to the toilet it took only a couple of unplanned turns for the vomit to come up prematurely and I emptied my delicate stomach right into his christmas tree. I believe a photo still exists of a drunken me wrapped in tinsel following a good clearing out.

I passed out at 10:30 and completely missed the bells and got a lift home at about 1am.

Luckily each new year after that has been slightly more successful.
(baldylocks, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 18:11, Reply)

Rover 2000
Back when I was a wee Empress, my father had an old Rover 2000 - a lovely dark blue colour, with real leather upholstery. It looked lovely, but (as with any leather-interior car) it could smell a bit ripe after sitting in the sun for a few hours.

One lovely summer weekend we were going to visit some family friends in Somerset, and were invited to lunch along the way by my grandmother, who loved in Oxfordshire; she loved spoiling my brother and I rotten, so had bought in lots of lovely ice-cream for the occasion! My parents must have been feeling particularly benevolent that day, as they let me have ice-cream instead of a starter, ice-cream instead of a main course, and ice--cream for pudding. With some extra ice-cream afterwards whilst they drank their coffee.

We got back in the car and continued on our merry way. I was bouncing off the walls of the little car due to my massive sugar intake, and just couldn't keep still. Moreover, the car smelt like Satan's arse after sitting in the direct sunlight over lunch, and it was really cloying. As we got closer and closer to our destination, I got quieter and quieter - my father suspected that I was feeling carsick, so started driving faster and faster down the winding, twisty country lanes. My stomach was churning desperately, but he didn't dare slow down... we were nearly there, we were going to make it!

With a feeling of relief, he turned into the driveway of our destination; with a feeling of relief, my stomach finally decided to soothe itself, as I erupted in a gloopy tide of strawberry-smelling sludge, the texture of which had more in common with porridge than ice-cream... It flowed over my chest and lap, over the leather seats of the car, onto the floor and under the driver's seat. My brother screamed, my mother screamed...my father swore. The family we were staying with came out into the driveway to greet us, their smiles turning to blank looks of horror as I got out of the car, a dejected little pink-covered chundermonster. My family got out of the car, but the hearty "hello's" and "how are you's" faded into silence at the sight of me. However, their dog had no such qualms and bounded up to say hello to me. He licked my face excitedly, then my chest, then my legs...getting happier and happier every second! Once I was cleaned up he jumped into the car, and yummed up the second-hand strawberry as fast as his little doggy tongue could work! With a sigh, our hostess turned to my father. "If the dog's sick, I think your daughter should clean it up" was all she said, then invited us in for tea and (in my case) a shower.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 16:44, Reply)

at uni....
my 21st birthday happened to land on the unis pup quiz night. As was the custom for 21sts the birthday boy (i.e. Me) was set up a round of traffic lights which was a shot of cherry sourz a shot of jack daniels a shot of apple sourz and a pint of cider all to be downed one after another without stopping or a forfeit shot was given.i just could not down the last pint in one go so i had to have another shot of jack daniels.as it was early in the night before the quiz started i was safe for a while.let me stress that a while.we strolled off to the quiz with the ex ex mrs pheonix who was a right arguable twunt.

The quiz started and we drank and laughed as merrily as pirates after kidnapping a couple of brits.we actjually did quite well in the quiz with the help of the old 118 people.however even with the help we lost.however two other teams drew and as such a competition was held.a member of each team had to go up and down a pint of baked beans ice and fresh orange all blended together in what was dubbed "the smoothie from hell" whoever downed it fastest won the quiz.some bloke won and i said to the ex "i bet i could down that" she replies like the twunt bitch she was with "shut up ya prick no cudnt".next second the dj comes over the tannoy saying we still have a pint of smoothie left whoever gets up here first and downs wins a free drink.up i was and to the front like a white linford christie on steroids nailed the disgusting brew and returned with a double jack and coke.smuggly i turned to ex wench "told ya!" little was i to know that i would recieve my comeupance.

We drank the night away and boy did we drink.returning back to hulls things took a turn for the worse.the grumbles of the deep dark pit that is now my pickled stomach were becoming more and more frequent.
"uh oh.....blaghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"says i as a torrent of cheap beer beans and fresh orange sprinkled with lumonescent matter forced its way quite projectily from my gob.
Now im used to being sick from over indulgabce of the old moonshine but that was vile.the hard lumps of fully formed beans clogged my throat activating my gag reflex again and again.but the worst part was that it was ICE COLD!!!urghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
take my advice never do something that invlolves downing ice cold beans.

No appologies for length it set a record of 3m of sick down the hallway.:-D
(pheonix07, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 15:38, Reply)

Stag do vomit
We were on a stag do and the games were starting to include heavy penalty drinks, one of the chief instigators of these drinking games decided that it would be fun to give a mate of mine a nested pint. For those of you who do not know that is a pint full of pubes. Well my mate was wise to the prank and caught the guy in the act. As a penalty for catching him, he was allowed to choose a drink of his choice. Well there was an odd pint sitting on our table nobody knew where it came from it looked like a Guinness with a baileys top. The challenge was set and as a good sport he drank it. He immediately turned green and ran to spew his guts. The groom arrives back from the bar to mention to clear away his last drink as he was sick into it.
(wobbler, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 15:33, 2 replies)

Main and dessert
Once many moons ago me and a bunch of mates went to an outdoor party. It was excellent but that has nothing to do with the story. Upon arrival my mate announces he isn't feeling too rosey. Immediately wondering off to the side of the road to hurl. First time he puked it was quite clearly bolognaise. Then taking a breather he followed it up with some cake. I had no idea that things could be kept separate that way. Very impressive.
(Turbo Blackbeard And then squirry the squirrel went nee nee nee nee, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 15:19, 1 reply)

Not nice in bed
Out in town with mrs spike and her work colleagues one night. They weren't a bad bunch and I got on well with them. We had dinner then hit a few bars. Then the shots got ordered. I forget exactly what they were but we all drank plenty of them and got in a right old state.

Anyway it's time to go home and me and the mrs start the 15 minute walk back to our house. The shots hit her big time half way home and she can hardly stand up. She uses various walls and houses to hold herself up all the way home.

We get home and she climbs into bed. I'm just getting changed and she explodes. There vomit all over the duvet, pillows, sheets and her. (didn't get the mattress bizarrely). Can't remember what we had for dinner but this was bright red and full of little slithers of what looked liked jelly. It was nasty.

I manage to stop her chocking on it (I know, missed a trick there) and then proceed to try and clear up. She was mostly passed out and wouldn't leave the bed. I couldn't work out how to get the jelly lumps off the bed. I sure as hell wasn't touching the stuff. Then I have a brain wave. I'll use a dustpan. Worked like a charm but why I choose to throw it in the shower and not down the loo I don't know.

Anyway, I manage to strip the rest of the bed and get some of it in the washing machine. I throw the duvet over the banister and attempt to remake the bed. She wouldn't budge so I gave up and left her there with a wet pillow and no sheets. Thought I'd better give her something so she got the wet duvet which by this time had dripped all over the carpet.

When I woke her the following morning to tell her I was off out she couldn't work out why the bed wasn't made, what the smell was and why I'd slept in the spare room.

She worked it out when she got to the shower. At least she's cleaned it out by the time I got back. Although I had to do the carpet as her hangover took about a week to clear up!
(thefirstspike, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 14:35, 1 reply)

First year in Newcastle... deary me.
What a treat. I'm from Hull, so the nights out I was used to were acceptable at the time, but once I'd gone to a city that wasn't a total shit-pit, I enjoyed many a quality night on the Toon!

Flash back 3 years to a night called Stone Love, in a club called Digital. Digital is one of those places that is either freezing cold or boiling hot, and getting drunk there varies on these conditions plus others (drinks beforehand, what you drink, eating before/after).

I'd gone to my friends' flat before we went out, where they'd been smoking weed in Luke's tiny tiny bedroom. I was sandwiched between them; I didn't smoke myself, but I was probably a little stoned by the end of it (+ alcohol, probably didn't help).

Halfway through the night, I start feeling a little queasy... so I go to the Ladies' and sit down in a cubicle on the floor, then start being horrendously sick. Blarrrgh.
Now, here's the bit that makes me shake my head at myself. I lay down on the floor of the cubicle to have a nap thinking it would make me feel better. Those toilets are absolutely disgusting by about 11pm and God knows what I was lying in. But anyway, I booked myself a taxi to pick me up in about half an hour. I couldn't have stayed. But I thought - right, nap time. So I set the alarm on my phone for about 25 mins time and resumed nap position on the floor.

... 25 minutes later, I stumble out of the club after being sick again. Get into the taxi. Taxi drivers don't like people being sick, so when I started feeling nauseous again, I thought "Oh no, I can't tell him"......... so I unzipped my jacket and was sick inside it. MMMMmmm.

Managed to get back to my flat with minimum jacket leakage. Put all my clothes in the sink and fell asleep standing up against a shelf. Woke up about 45 minutes later with a massive shelf-shaped welt across my forehead and the realisation that my leather jacket was submerged in water and also covered in vomit.

Is it any wonder that I don't drink anymore?
( d3gu thinks you should buy a Dinohoodie., Sun 10 Jan 2010, 14:18, 2 replies)

AAARRRGGGGGHHHH, Boomerang!!!
When I was a kid my parents took me on a day trip to that snail-quaffing, garlic-munching, horse-eating country across the channel where it’s illegal for a woman to shave their legs or underarm pits.

After twenty minutes or so rocking about in the Channel, I realised I wasn’t feeling too good. The whole ferry experience was leaving me queasy and the fact I’d been pigging out on skittles and M&M’s for the entire journey from home to Dover meant my gut was churning like an industrial washing machine.

My dad took me up onto the busy viewing deck, reasoning some fresh air would sort me out. Within a few seconds of the harsh spring air repeatedly smacking me in the face, I felt an urgent and absolutely fucking terrifying need to spew. Racing over to the railings, I stuck my head over the side and produced a rich, dark, chocolaty Technicolor yawn peppered with brightly coloured, half-digested skittle goodness. I watched the stream of puke sail out over the vast expanse of choppy water.

I instantly felt a lot better. And the people round me suddenly found somewhere else to stand and enjoy the view of shitloads of miserable-looking water.

But I didn't care, I was busy watching, mesmerised, as the strong wind caught the trail of spew and sent it sailing back towards the ferry – it was like watching a stinky, lurid stringless kite caught and tossed by the wind. The spew arched and danced and floated effortlessly, dancing a weird fandango as it went, returning to us, moving with a life all its own. And the speed! It was so fucking fast! It was truly awesome! It moved so quickly I lost sight of it.

Then, after a couple of seconds, twenty meters or so further down the viewing deck my dad and I heard a thick Scouse accent growl: “AWW FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!”

My dad and I both turned our heads and saw a man in his forties wearing a business suit, covered from head to toe in premium quality skittle-speckled thick brown stomach sauce.

“Errr, think we’d better go back down and find your mother,” said my dad.

And we did, never to talk about what happened ever again...
( SpankyHanky, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 13:57, 2 replies)

My first threesome
About ten years ago, I was dating a guy, and we were both interested in trying a threesome. So we did the (almost) impossible and managed to find a girl online. Her name was Violet and she was lovely; not sure how we lucked out. She had long, dark hair, beautifully soft skin, a pretty face, and funbags that most definitely lived up to their name.

So aftermeeting a couple of times just to hang out and "get to know each other", she came round for dinner and a good shag from us both. We had a nice dinner - Jambalaya is the only part I remember, for reasons that will become quickly apparent, but it was a nice meal - and a couple of glasses of wine each. Then afterwards, the inevitable happened, and we got down to the business at hand.

I woke up at about 2 am, sandwiched between my then-boyfriend and Violet, clammy sweat running down my face. Trying not to stand on anyone, I made a run for the bathroom, where I proceeded to relieve my stomach of its Creole-inspired burden. Unfortunately, only the scallops from the Jambalaya seemed to want to make a break for it. I have no explanation for it at all, but I puked perfectly formed scallop lumps, looking just like the originals that had been enjoyed mere hours before. They were rough. They scoured the inside of my throat like sandpaper. After a good few minutes of this torture, I cleaned myself up and toddled back to bed, resandwiching myself between my boyfriend and the lovely Violet and fell back into a deep sleep.

Unsurprisingly, I've never been able to enjoy scallops since. It did not, however, put me off of threesomes, Violet, or ladies in general: they are still fully and completely on the menu :).
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 13:22, 2 replies)

Vomit + Ex Convict = Potential violence
Was at a new years eve party , the dancefloor was booming, the lights were trippy, the crowd were beautiful and i was higher than as kite...

Dancing around , not a care in the world... soaking up the bass lines and becoming one with myself to the ecstatic melodies and gyrating pulses of magic. I was invincible, nothing could ever drag me away from this purity of the orgasmic frequencies... oh bliss! I watched my friends all absorbing the good vibes... everyone was happy.

Then from nowhere i feel a bit 'odd', hmm maybe i should go and get some fresh air... But suddenly the exit looked very far away, like a distant portal hidden in the clouds of smoke, dry-ice and suddenly epilepsy inducing flashes of lasers and lights .Two hundred dancing people stood between me and the doorway to the cool outside, there was no obvious route through them and by now i was feeling those hot and cold flushes that signify the growing turmoil of a stomach not completely happy with whatever it was i'd been guzzling and shoving down my throat.


Hurriedly i dashed through the crowd, with the universal signal of clamping my hand over my mouth in a headlong dash for freedom. Most people understood my plight, but one or two (probably lost in the music) were swept aside by my boney elbows as i bumped and staggered ever closer to the exit.

Oh god.. I felt the first waves of impending nausea, but i kept my thoughts soley on the door, just a little further...

And then it happened. A rather pretty lady, no doubt loved up on party crackers had seen my headlong dash through the crowd and i can only assume she had thought of me in some sort of distress, she stood in front of me and grabbed me and mouthed the words 'are you alright?'.

But i was far from alright...

The terrible stream of vomit exploded from between my fingers initially, into a wretched spatter of recently absorbed badness, but i quickly removed my hand (for it had failed in its task)and then ' I spoke fluent Welsh' in an arc over her shoulder, I just remember a scream and then the sight of horrified panic in her eyes as she realised her folly. *

I staggered / bounced to the exit and dropped myself into the cool air and violently vomited into a discrete bush.

I was fine.. The initial problem was over, i was at peace for now... A few moments of watery eyes, clogged nasal footballer-esque snorts and a silent 'I'm alright now' to myself. Bliss...

'OI PRICK!!!!!'

I turned around to the monster who was steadily gaining ground towards me... A quick check: Skinhead, tattoo's of knives, white vest, murder in his eyes, vomit on his knee...

I gasped, he was possibly the ONLY trouble maker in a dozen miles and i'd been sick on him. My end was nigh and the new year had only just begun...

There was literally nothing i could do, i could barely breath from the vomiting, could barely see from the snot and tears in my eyes and this bastard was just about to rip my head off.

I vomited again, more out of sheer panic than anyone form of self defence, luckily i had the foresight to turn away from the bastard and vented my terror on the bush again.

This must have worked though... I DO think he wanted to kill me, but the idea of getting more sick on him must have given him a second thought.

I turned around and he was gone. I gave it ten minutes before venturing back inside to find my friends. Their concern was evident as the look on their faces at seeing my unbattered form, seemed to contradict the rumours that i had just angered the bloke who had just got out of jail after spending three years inside for violent assault.
Lucky eh?

* incidentally i do not actually know if i actually vomited on the girl, although i have not seen her at any parties since. Hmm...

Length - Chunky.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 11:54, Reply)

Like a fountain
One of the drinking games I sometimes partake in is named 'Drink or Die'. It has this title due to the fact that you must consume through a snorkel and mask - the mask means you can't breathe through your nose, and the snorkel (when filled with alcohol) obviously means you can't breath through your mouth until you finish whatever has been poured into the snorkel.

One evening, we were celebrating some event or the other, which resulted in one of the members of the party being forced to dress in a very fluffy, pink party frock designed for a nine year old girl -- him being a fifteen stone male athlete -- and then partake in an especially vicious drink or die, after several hours of heavy drinking had already passed.

So a can of beer was poured in. Fine. Followed by a couple of seconds, then another can. Then someone got inventive, pouring neat whiskey down the snorkel. It was at this point when I could hear ominous rumblings, but the next person decided to continue anyway, adding a little of his own piss to the mix.

I'm sure that you can imagine what happened next: the chunder reflex was triggered, and without so much as an attempt to remove the drinking apparatus, our hero began to vomit extremely forcefully, resulting in a fountain of sick being propelled through the snorkel, reaching several feet in height before tumbling gracefully back to the floor, and all over the gathered multitudes.

Amazing.
(Merrep, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 11:25, 1 reply)

Open window for ventilation.
My own vomiting CV has been pretty textbook stuff to be honest. I will now and again overdo it and find myself talking on the big white telephone- usually the following morning. For the purpose of a more interesting tale, this is the experience of watching somebody else liven things up a little.

Whilst at university, on one occasion I left the student union and boarded a district line train home. District line trains are big buggers with plenty of room in them. I had a four seat section (where the benches face each other) to myself and from my vantage point I could clearly see the end of the carriage. Sat slumped at the end was a barely concious guy about the same age I was. He had clearly given it both barrels that evening and was in a bit of a state. Nevertheless he had kept some awareness of his condition and had opened the drop window in the door that seperates the carriages. From time to time he would sit upright, then stand before hurling out of the window. This innovative approach was definately working, as his clothes, shoes and indeed the inside of the carriage remained entirely vomit free. A few stations after I boarded he seemed to lapse into a deep sleep.

At this point, a group of three couples boards the train and sits in the same part of the carriage as our hero. One of the ladies is wearing a dress I could swallow without the aid of a glass of water and was complaining about the cold. Her chivalrous partner immeadiately slams the dividing window up and closes it.

You can of course, see where this is going.

Our drunk friend awakens from his slumber a few minutes later and proceeds to repeat his sound vomiting process. Only of course he does so to a closed window with six people sat around it. The results were pretty horrendous- he had excellent velocity and the resulting splashback was also moving at a creditable pace. The vomit is essentially blasted to fine droplets and reaches all of the new arrivals with the effectiveness of a heavy aerosol. There is a moment of silence broken only by the sounds of the train. The protagonist looks down at his splattered front and then around at the shellshocked group of people before brilliantly slurring the legend "it's for ventilation" before grabbing his bag and exiting the train at the station it was then pulling in to. Whether it was actually his station or whether he was simply trying to escape a beating remains unknown to me. He left his startled and cowed victims covered in a light, cloying layer of sick. Perhaps it was as well that I also left the train at the next station as they were starting to liven up and at least two of them showed signs of wanting to vomit themselves.

Length? Temple to Mile End. Twenty two minutes on a good night.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 10:02, Reply)

15 years old. Drunk on Bacardi.
The headline says it all, but the interesting thing I remember was this. My school friend J and I were out the back of my (parents') house, sitting astride a couple of pool loungers and as mentioned, consuming Bacardi. It's 1985, summer night, Australia. These loungers are conctructed with a hollow PVC pipe frame stretched over with a woven polypropylene mesh type thing, a bit like shadecloth. Small holes maybe 1 or 2 mm in diameter so you can sit on them whilst wet etc. We weren't wet at this time however.

Predictably given this week's subject our evening graduated more or less simultaneously into sudden and serious embarfment. Paralyzed by impending and then actual heavage in the special drunk way, legs astride said loungers, the vomitus neatly fell between our legs on to the mesh fabric, and proceeded to sieve itself. Far out, it was fascinating. Did I eat that? Did you eat...what *is* that?

And in the morning, all we had to do was a quick sweep of the dried detritus off the top and it was like nothing ever....

....oh, hi mum.

Not my best maybe, but certainly first to mind.
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 4:57, Reply)

Watched . . .
Twilight last night.

Enough said
(maggotriddendirtbox fast, feral and sharp as a tack since, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 1:46, Reply)

so
i was on the tube last christmas, when three lads got on at piccadilly circus. two of them were supporting the third, a young asian guy who was possibly the skinniest thing i have ever seen. he was trussed up in a suit with a laptop slung around his neck, and he was so leathered that he was green. his companions were worrying aloud about letting him get in this state when he wasn't really supposed to drink. i was worrying silently about the inevitable.

anyway, the tube beeped to say it was ready to move, so they propped him against the bum-rest that piccadilly line carriages have, and legged it, leaving him to his fate. everyone was eyeing him by now. and at first it seemed as if all might be well. the tube chugged towards west london and nothing happened.

then we got to earl's court, and with a sound like an elephant ralphing, the skinny drunk opened his mouth and liquid red vomit simply poured out of him. it was like a tsunami sloshing down the carriage; everyone was screaming and lifting their feet to avoid the tidal wave of crimson death. the next thing was an almighty BANG as he slipped in his own spew and landed right on his laptop. he rolled around in it for a while until the tube doors opened, at which point he simply rolled onto the platform and we left him to it.

but the smell. the smell did not return the favour and leave us to it. second hand red wine wine... positively unforgettable!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 23:55, 1 reply)

Not mine...but found it on youtube.
Usually vomit videos make me feel nauseous too...but this is just incredible. And unfortunate.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwFCKY__bDo&feature=related

That must have been a long ride afterward....waiting to land...
(juliajuliajulia, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 23:08, 2 replies)

Moggsy hated everyone...
And everyone hated it back...My ex's cat. It was fucking misery wrapped in fur. It had the personality of Hitler/Goebells/Rottweiller on heat and the eyes of "oh, look at me I'm cat"...I like cats normally. The fur, the cutesy-wootsy-woo...But this fucker...I hated the thing...I hated the fact that every time I tried to sex with my ex, it would walk up to the futon, and sit by the side...When you're eating, you don't want see the wrong sort of pussy...

Anyway...Her housemates had to live with the thing, and hated it as well...

Euro 1996 was a marvellous time in Nottingham...

And the ex hated football.

Her housemates, didn't...So whilst she went for a bike ride whilst the game was on...

And the cat sat on the top of the TV. Quiet. Unflinching. Unannoyingly.

Then it start to gag. And gag. Retch. Gag...

And it looked at us in a semi-sarcastic "You know I'm fine here"...

And Giles and I looked at it and said "we're not fucking helping you"...

And it gagged. And retched.

And puked up blood, shit, grass, food all down the front of the TV.

I turned to Giles.

"Pub?" I asked.

"Pub" He replied.

2 hours later, Hazel walked in..."Ahh, Moggsy's been sick all over the TV".

In unison, we replied "Really?"
(beatpig understands subliminalesbianmessagaying., Sat 9 Jan 2010, 23:07, Reply)

It all began with the vomit:
Ever the cheapskate, I went out drinking upon one fine Saturday night with the addition of a 500ml plastic bottle full of finest sambuca. Drinking would be cheap! Or, at least, that's what I intended. It all went rather wrong when A got hold of the bottle. He downed half of it at once following about seven pints. It took about ten minutes to hit, but it was spectacular when it did. He went from slumped on the pub table to full sprint toward the bog without appearing to pass through the intervening stages of movement. When he hadn't returned after twenty minutes (during which everyone else buggered off to the club down the road) I elected to check on him.

I found him, totally unconscious, curled around the toilet in trap #2. Vomit everywhere. His shirt, his shoes, his hair, the floor, the walls... You get the picture. Unwilling to leave him to be forcibly ejected from the pub I enlisted the help of another friend and we carried his (fortunately light) slumbering body out of the pub and dropped him onto a bench. I brought my car around and installed him in the back with yet another person enlisted to hold a bag in front of his face.

We had intended to simply drop him off at his front door, but bugger me if he wasn't still out of it. We hauled him out, dropped him in his mum's rosebushes, and searched his vomit-stained body for his key. Finding said key, we hauled him into his house and installed him in his own toilet. At this point he chose to revive slightly and asked for a glass of water. He didn't tell us that his psychotic dog was in the kitchen. We found this out when it woke up and went for us, causing us to levitate onto the kitchen table and call for help, which eventually arrived in the form of his mum.

The point of this story? I would say that the whole episode took about 45 minutes, start to finish.

During this time, he did not stop throwing up for one single second.
( MatJ LOOK, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 22:22, Reply)

Somewhere in New York City
Is a cab driver who hates me.
On holidays a few years back I'd been out drinking with some friends and at the end of the night was lucky enough to have impressed a girl I'd met so much that she asked if I'd like to come back to her place.
Off we go, into a cab, which starts heading uptown. About five minutes in she leans over ("here we go!" thinks me) and threw up all over the floor.
Fortunately she did it very quietly so about a block later I just tapped on the partition and said: "Anywhere along here thanks driver!" and we got out. He drove off, another cab pulled up and off we went again.
By the time we got to her place I'd realised she was way beyond making any rational decisions so I just dropped her off and went home.
Good thing too, she later told me she threw up in her bed.
( difficultchild, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 22:14, Reply)

I ate some marmite cheese yesterday
those mini baby bell type things. It was like someone had been sick in my mouth. Delicious.
(trickyric, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 21:21, 4 replies)

Moley McMole and his 21st birthday...
I have a great friend who I've known since way way back. Best man for my wedding, mates for 20 years, etc etc. I've always called him Fish, however his mates at uni all called him Moley due to his skinhead hair and massive fists. 6'3" in old money and 220lbs meant that not much stood in his pursuit of debauchery and coming from a navy family meant that even at the tender age of bugger all he was trained up to master the art of beery goodness.


wavey lines and it's 2003 and Moley is out and about for his 21st celebration in Bath...

I joined him as they were heading out to start a hopefully epic pub crawl. "They" were the uni rugby team and will doubtless feature in other QOTW. First pub and Moley breaks the seal with a dirty pint. Basically, a pint mixed from all the shots behind the bar and whatever else the barman could fit in the glass. Already the colour of vomit and smelling dubious as well, Mole necks it in one and runs outside to get some air. With cheeks filling he swallows and shudders and heads back in for more...

... an few hours later...

Fourth pub is now full of people egging Moley on as he tries to chug a schooner of stella. This descends into a back and forth duel as the stella goes down his throat, and up again, and down again until, weeping gently, Moley finally gets it all down and collapses on the pub sofa.

Time to go up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire, I think at this point and, ably assisted by another mate, Jimmy the Screw, we get him reasonably upright and head off to find our car to drive back to Moley's house. FWIW, I'm teetotal so am always designated driver.

Staggering through town like a group of zombies we finally fetch up against my 4x4. Parked in one of the nice areas, we are right in front of an up market restaurent with many couples sitting in windows seats to observe the cold paupers outside. A grinning Mole is propped up against the window as I try to unlock the car and turn to find Moley unleashing a sordid river of horror into the window, mere inches away from the faces of the on-looking diners.

Jimmy grabs him and we man handle him into the front of the car. Once we had him strapped him he turns and announces he feels rather ill and may puke. A little late to be telling us but hey, as long as he is empty now. Sadly, it was not to be. With a gurgly cry he turns and like a scrofulous Linda Blair proceedes to bring up yet more foamy badness. Not a drop hit the pavement, not a drop went into my car. No, the whole fucking lot went down the doorgap and into the winder mech where it sloshed about and clogged the drain holes up.

Amazingly, despite his near terminal alchohol levels he gave us perfect directions home. Jimmy and I got him into the house where upon he lay down in the hall and passed out in an expanding pool of yet more beery chunks. Jimmy looked at me and in silence we hauled him out of the house and back into my car where we strapped him to the roll cage with his head out the back and hauled ass over to Jimmy's house where at least we could keep an eye on him.

Morning broke and with it the hangover from hell for poor Moley McMole. His face when he came down as we were having brekkie is forever etched in my mind. Bless his cotton socks but the first thing he did was apologise for all the best and crack open another stella as he sat down.

Moley, we salute you!
(71 hour Ahmed wasn't working at, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 21:15, Reply)

Shit and stuff
So my son shat himself. Not that strange, considering he is only two years old, although pushing three. We were playing outside, and I failed to notice in time. As we get in and start removing the outer layers of clothes it becomes much less unnoticeable.

So we start changing the diaper. Him on his back, fairly content and oblivious to the smell and foulness of his doings. The amount of shit would have made a silver back gorilla uneasy. Or on a human scale - enough to desire immediate undo of fathership. He is covered in shit. Shit running on the inside of his trousers even messing the socks. Shit on the back all the way to his neck and both his willy and his navel are covered in brown filth that unfortunately reminds me of the lasagne we had for lunch.

I refrain from running away by utilising all my strength and by using as little oxygen as possible. My son is chatting away, but all I can see is a babbling turd. I face my fears of throwing up. However, had I thrown up at this time, it would probably have ended well and no permanent wounds would have damaged the family structure.

As it happens he has a stiffy - small kids have that for no particular reason and its not really a big deal. Unless off course you have to clean it, because it is brown and it should be pink. I take a deep breath. I carefully clean it - leaning over a little bit to see if I got the bits under it. I don't want to bend it - hell I don't even want to touch it. He starts pissing. A full manly piss that would make me strangely proud if he did it in the garden. Away from me. Particularly so, if he did not do it in my mouth.

A cascade of lasagne escapes my stomach and thunders through my mouth. My gut reaction is to straighten up and back away. Unfortunately that results in me throwing up bulks of digested mince straight on my sons face. So he throws up and starts screaming - a dampened and frightened scream with sounds of bubbles. A sound that will haunt me until the day I die.

I take a further step back and look at the horrors caused by inside human stuff. I step on my wife's feet - she had tiptoed into the room to see how I managed and apparently stood there for a little while. I don't do many diapers and she wanted to see how we managed. Her two favourite boys. But as I am standing on her toes she does what one does when one wants to walk back but ones toes are stood upon.

She falls.

And grabs me from behind.

So I fall. On top of her. Still spewing.

The back of my head hits her nose violently and her nose explodes in a fountain of blood. The nose is broken and we both have a concussion. Not that anyone cares at this point in time. We are busy.

Busy throwing up.

Busy bleeding.

Busy crying.
(ThorTheBear Always remember to pillage before you burn, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 20:33, 13 replies)

the last time I threw up
it really didnt do me any good, though careerwise it was probably the best move I ever made.

yours,

J. Hendrix.
(tjn whizzing on the electric fence of life, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 20:24, Reply)

Sick Secrets
As a general rule, I hold my drink very well, and do not engage in sexist thoughts or behaviour. However, I don't hold a bellyful of red wine quite so well when subjected to about an hour of hot, humid, smelly, and particularly rattly tube travel. Even with some nice stomach-lining chips. I can also become, unfairly, a little anti-men after an evening of hearing my male colleagues laugh about cheating on their girlfriends, then being unwillingly frotted by random perv on aforementioned tube. This combination of events resulted in me staggering off the train at Euston, making it across to the other side of Eversholt St before realising I had scant seconds before spewing, and using those scant few seconds to make the choice between aiming for a handy bin or for the classy Secrets "international table dancing club". Redecorated the front entrance, doormat, and the shoes and lower trousers of some of the leery mouthbreathers in the queue. *Favourite*sick*ever*
(Turangalila, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 19:55, Reply)

"IT GLOWS!!"
One night i was sat in the pub with my friends having a few drinks. I'd just finished work and wasn't in the mood or dressed for a club and my friend J had been recently dumped and decided drowning his sorrows was more fun. So the two of us stayed behind and the others went on to the club leaving behind a few of the glow sticks they'd brought along.

Not long after they'd gone, J started to cheer up and the drink began to kick in. Of course when this happens conversation goes to the usual bollocks that only makes sense when you're tipsy. It's then that J and I became aware of the left behind glow sticks. J began to question whether or not you would glow in the dark if you rubbed it on your skin. We broke one open and put it on our hands. Of course we'd neglected the fact that it wasn't dark so it didn't quite work.

Then the conversation turned more towards eating it. Could you swallow the contents of a glow stick and would your shit glow when it came out?
Of course in our drunken state we ignored the fact that the stuff is toxic and had removed the nail varnish from my fingers so J necked it.

I'd say it was about 5 minutes before J began to retch. He jumped up and ran to the gents. I waited a few minutes and he didn't emerge. Waited a bit longer and he still didn't come out of the mens. I was about to ask soemone to go in and check if J was ok (for i am a lady) when he emerged from the toilets. He looked a little shaken as he made his way over but he had a huge grin on his face.

"IT GLOWS!!"

So there you go kiddies. If the toxic stuff in glow sticks doesn't kill you then your vomit will glow.
(stitched, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 19:31, Reply)