I was driving through town the other week.
Guildford's a lovely place during the day, but on Friday and Saturday nights it becomes a hell of teenage drunks falling over, throwing up in the street and punching each other. It's been featured on telly programmes once or twice in such exalted company as Swansea. It got so bad that a few years ago, the council would only approve late licences to certain premeses along a particular road. It's known locally as Ibiza Street.

As I came around the one-way system, I saw a young lad having a blazing row with his missus. It was getting so heated that people were stopping to watch. Just as I drove past, the girl completely lost her temper and started hitting him, whilst crying hysterically.

Two seconds later he abruptly stopped arguing, his eyes crossed and he projectile vomited all over her. He must have been on the Aftershock, judging by the colour.
( Kroney, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:18, Reply)

The Magic Words
J was my flatmate for three years, and she had a constitution of rubber. By this, I mean that, whatever she'd shoved down her throat, into her lungs, or up her nose the night before - and her intake could be heroic - she seemed never to show any ill effects afterwards.

We had decided to throw a dinner party one evening. It had gone remarkably well, and much had been drunk. For once, I awoke the following morning with a completely clear head; I got up, went out, and came back to find J in the living room.

We sat and chatted idly, looking out of the window at the bright early-spring sunshine. J admitted that, for the first time in her life, she had a bit of a hangover.

I can't remember how the conversation went after that - except that it involved me uttering the phrase "lard and fag ash". Barely had the words left my mouth when J looked at me with a look of utter horror. Her face did not lose colour - but it did exchage a pinkish shade for the sort of green that may be acceptable in clothing, but is never a good sign in a complexion. Her body jerked.

The bathroom was across the landing from the living room. It was a matter of a few paces. She only just made it.

And I had found the magic words.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:13, 1 reply)

Rotavirus - no jokes I'm afraid
Just had to have our son in hospital for 2 days on a drip due to dehydration caused by copious vomiting.

Bloody Rotavirus.
(thefuckestuppest cheapened this, on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:00, 4 replies)

Food poisoning
When I first moved out of home 4 years ago, I was suddenly faced with the monumental task of having to actually do things for myself. Things like washing, cleaning and of course cooking. No problem, thought I. This is what grown-ups do. I’m a grown up. I’ll make myself a chicken stir-fry like what those chef cooks do on the telly. Easy.

The result of which being me completely and utterly fucked with food poisoning for a couple of days. As I’m sure anyone who’s ever suffered from food poisoning will tell you, it is certainly one of the more unpleasant ailments one can be stricken down with. For two whole days, when I wasn’t laid up in bed feeling like death itself the toilet was on the receiving end of the fiercest of bombardments from either my arse or my mouth. It was a bit like that south park episode when Kenny accidentally spikes his dad with abortion pills.

The legacy of this incident is that I now have a crippling phobia of stir-fries. Wouldn’t touch one if you paid me to now. Even though I know full well I was only sick because I clearly mustn’t have cooked the chicken thoroughly enough, stir-fries are now so tightly associated in my mind with that 48hrs from hell that to this day the mere thought of one makes me shudder.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:00, 1 reply)

Never, EVER visit the kebab van in Bath.
Even when I got home to London late the following afternoon, I couldn't put anything down - not even water - without it bouncing straight off the bottom of my stomach.

Never, ever again - I felt like I'd done my own bodyweight then some.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:42, Reply)

A bit too much to drink last night
-are you ok
--yeah
-you look a bit pale
--I was throwing up all day, its only the last few hours I've been able to keep water down
-but you are still coming clubbing with us later?
--yeah, what else would I be doing?

I did have to tell the girl that "someone" had spilt a load of andrews salts on their floor.
(teebie jeebie, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:42, Reply)

young and foolish..
15 years old. Summertime. Houseparty. Friend's parents away. I managed to drink a fair quantity of red wine, and all was well until it came to pass out/go to sleep on the floor in the lounge. Soon however, bed-spin kicked in, and the urge to chunder was suddenly very pressing. I ran/staggered across to the patio doors, pulled them open and just about made it outside in time.

I hurled red wine on his patio. A lot. And more. Then it turned to green, then yellow. Every time I felt a little better and looked around, I'd spy an empty wine glass or a cigarette end, which prompted more retching.

I stayed on the patio all night, kneeling next to my neat pile of multicoloured vom. Apparently there is still a stain on the patio to this day. I didn't touch red wine for 10 years.
(bobbythebear, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:29, Reply)

I spent all my money on whiskey and milk...
Much like all of us here, back in my student days there was one experience which put me off Famous Grouse for life. No shame in that really, it's not the best of drinks in the world.

Still, back in the dim and distant days of my first year at university, I'd bought myself a bottle to last a month. I'd mastered controlled drinking a full year before everyone else, and I was feeling pretty smug with myself. That was, until three Scouse mates of mine came round, apparently with livers of steel and bravado to match. We ended up necking the lot, along with some Glenfiddich I had stashed for special occasions, such as when the day ended with the letter y. They couldn't remember getting home and had suffered from "fuckin' banging 'eadaches" the next morning and weren't available for lectures. So far, so normal after drinking enough whiskey to floor an angry rhino.

My own tale of woe was no different. I'd woken up with a dry mouth, with the hangover monster dancing a merry little jig in my head, and he'd brought his buddies nausea and cramps to have a little party in my belly as well. I was well and truly fucked, I wasn't getting out of bed that day- leaving the room was out of the question. But, I did have milk in the fridge. Nice, ice-cold milk. That'll settle my stomach.

Yeah fucking right. What went down at the time of being utterly refreshing came back up as Satan's cottage cheese, yellow in colour and lumpier than an old feather pillow. Oddly whilst watching Open House with Gloria Hunniford. Shame I couldn't have vomited in her wrinkled old face, the hag.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:25, 1 reply)

appologies: words.
Being one of these perpetual student types; I am not unfamiliar with vomit. We have more or less become brethren. I once heard tale of a pissed friend who woke up, at the height of bed spins, to the sound of his own vomit. He looked up as he saw it rising out of his mouth picot in the air and come splashing down on his face. My self…? I’m generally and efficient drunk who can generally get him self to the toilet when necessary. Not this particular time though.

I was shit faced going through a period of regularly blacking out as far as my memory was concerned while my body continued to interact with the living world… at one point I helped walk a pissed friend home and looked after her quite well to all accounts. Other times my consciousness as kicked back in as I walked in to a garage door (later to be herded out of the this orangely lit warehouse type thing by men in reflective jackets as I tried to assure them this was on my route home, that night I got steered back telephonically by my housemate who looked up the road name on google earth) or mid sentence while ordering some camel cigarettes. This time, however, when my brain decided to start monitoring my progress; I was in bed.

I say in bed… I was lying at a 90^o angle to the common nocturnal supine position. I had managed to flollop down in an approximation of the recovery position: the majority of my legs dangling off the bed; my arm under my left turned head. My eyes initially focused on my exposed left arm. A shining snail trail of purple mucus and matter greeted my waking vision. The focus slowly changed from short to long. That’s when I saw it. Sat right in front of me was a near spherical ball of matter. No fluid to speak of just a mostly purple ball (I had been making my self dearer friends with the snakebite that night) suffused with all manner of kebab and what ever I had drunkenly stuffed into my gaping maw that eve. It looked at me square in the eyes and mocked my understanding of science. It was a lot bigger than my mouth and was one solid piece.

I dragged my self out of bed stripped the cover off my duvet making sure to carefully wrap this gastronomic oddity inside of the now heavily soiled sheet. I shuffled blearily off to the bath room to make an attempt at cleaning up my slime covered arm and my no doubt disgrace of a face.

I got to the bath room and started to clean the shimmering grime off my arm when I made the foolish error of looking up into the mirror. What greeted me, along with the sight of my vomit stained lips and clogged up beard, was a massive swelling above my right eye. At the apex of which was one of the nastiest little cuts I have seen so far in all my days. I washed up and went to bed resigned to sort anything else out in the morning.

The morning came and so did the hangover. Sweet Jesus did it come. A piecemeal investigation between my housemate and I concluded that I must of collapsed, face first, into a radiator at some point in the night; as he heard a massive thud coming from upstairs in the wee small hours. I most probably should of gone to a hospital, but being the man I am I left it. A few days later blood began seeping under my cornea: Eventually turning half the white part red. I displayed my war wound proudly referring to it as my darth maul eye.

Still... I have absolutely no idea how that vomit-orb fitted out my mouth. This still worries me much.
( arrangedletters, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:19, Reply)

On a school trip to Grimsby...
My mate had been feeling queasy on the coach for a while, and it was slowly getting worse. In order to avoid having to sit in a coach smelling of puke, I was talking to him and trying to distract him, which appeared to be working.

Just as we were getting within 10 minutes of arriving, a wave hit him and I was working hard to stop him thinking about it, talking about anything else.

My last words were "It's only a few minutes now and we'll be parked up and outside", when a Bird's Eye delivery truck drove past the window with a massive photo of plated egg, burger, chips and peas on the side.

He didn't make it.
( Michael Ellis contributes nothing, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 12:05, Reply)

The Perfect Yawn
I'm not a big spewer, and can only recall ever speaking Welsh a handful of times, however, on the rare occasion that I have, I like to think I was reasonably fluent.

When I went ooop north to uni in Sheffield (read ex-poly), coming from daaaan saaaarth, I was introduced to many hitherto unexplored wonders of the world; proper drinking, the butty shop, chips and curry sauce, proper beer, to name but a few. One day, I was (easily) persuaded by my housemates to avoid lectures in the Student Union bar. First in line at 11am, and started on pints of snakebite (cider and lager to the uninitiated) and then went a bit bit posh after 6 or 7 pints and added blackcurrant cordial to make diesel (it's probably called all manner of things - including rats piss - but I was introduced to it as diesel).

I started to feel a bit squiffy and tried to get my head down for 10 mins. As we all know, that's a no-no in drinking circles, so I kept getting prodded and abused. Took myself of to the traps for a sit-down and then felt the world rising up from my gut. I lifted the lid and hurled my ring in a perfect arc straight down the pan. Didn't even touch the sides. Not a drop anywhere other than the pool. Perfection. Tom Daley would have been proud (if he'd been born by then).

Feeling ever so chuffed, I stood up straight and promptly unleashed hell over all 4 walls of the cubicle, the trap and the floor, accompanied by matching sound-effects. A right fucking mess, but I felt a hell of a lot better and carried on drinking my degree away...
(Tighthead, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 11:50, Reply)

a great weekend
My daughter and Mrs both went down with quite a nasty D n V bug this weekend. So I have spent it bleaching the fuck out of everything making drinks and generally cleaning up. The low point was after Mrs Duck suffled out the bathroom wrapped in a duvet groggely mumbled a sorry and went back to bed. The bathroom was hideous, obviously while pooing like a rusty water tank with a hole in it she needed to be sick so bent over to puke in the bath. The result? Puke covering bath toys, flannels ect. Shit up the wall.
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 11:43, 1 reply)

Target Practice required
I'm now a third year Uni student so the frequency curve of chunder action has smoothed out somewhat in recent years. However, this was not always the case.

During my gap year I was a bar man serving sub-standard beer to sub-standard people (pikey fucknuts). When I went off to start my illustrious university education the staff hosted a leaving do for me and we preceded to conduct a tour of duty around the wanky shit hole that is Faversham (Kent).

Stopping off for a curry, wine was ordered (3 bottles of white, 3 bottles of red) until it transpired that no-one apart from Sir Chodesworth himself drank red. Well, for all the Uni students, I manned up and ploughed through the vast majority of this. After a few pints was pretty proud of this effort and was glowing away when I was presented with a bucket full of stereotypical student items i.e. Pot Noodle etc...

Much to my dismay we then went to the local stab hut that is Wetherspoons and, rather than being glassed, I was given a fair bit of rum.

I would love to tell you all what happened then but I simply don't remember....

I got home at some o'clock in the morning and only remembering waking after probably an hours drunken oblivion, feeling the tell tale signs that my body was eager to witness a resurrection of asformentioned curry. I knew I wouldn't make it downstairs in time so frantically scanned the room for a suitable bunder bucket. In my saturated state I, for some reason, disregarded the handy bedside bucket provided by generous collegues. Instead my brain function went vaugely like this:

"Shit, can't vom on the carpet, deep pile and all, fucker to clean, gonna smell like rancid bum rubbish. Where to go, Fuck Fuck Fuck!! Ah HA! *On spying a single sheet of A4 paper under my desk* This is the best place in entire history to unleash a torrent of vile putrifaction!"

Needless to say this logic was slightly flawed, as you may have guessed. It went everywhere, missed most of the apparently infinately absorbent paper and lodged itself inside the carpet. The only bit of my logic that had come credability was that it stank like bear shit mixed with rotting bacon.

The fucking bucket would have been better. Fucksocks.
(Sir David Von Chodesworth can't find any audiobook transcripts, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 11:34, Reply)

Not mine, but Ronnie Corbett's
Well I think it's his joke anyway. A small man who hates flying is on a plane. The passenger in the seat between him and the aisle is a very large Scotsman with a huge beard. Soon after the plane takes off the Scotsman falls asleep, and the flight starts to get rough. The small man starts to feel ill but doesn't dare wake the enormous Scot. Soon he can't hold it any longer and the small man is sick all over the Scottish guy's beard. The Scot immediately wakes up wondering what's going on whereupon the small man says, "There, feeling better now?"
(Smale is stuffed, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 11:06, Reply)

Misidentified
This also strengthens the argument that men don't grow up, it would also fit the QOTW of pointless experiments and childish things as an adult.
Back when he was about 17, my mate was curious about pasta. He noticed how it behaved in hot water and wondered if it'd do he same in cold water. So he got one of those small plastic foodbags, put some penne in it along with some cold water, tied the top and stuck it out of the way in a desk drawer in his bedroom, the idea being to check on it after a couple of days.

A few months later, he's in his room looking for a pen and opens the drawer, seeing this bag of pasta which smells a bit peculiar. He shut the drawer again with an 'urghh'.

One day, maybe 6 months later, I went back to his house after college as he wanted to show off his latest obscure electronics project. We entered his kitchen and his mum was there washing up. As he was putting the kettle on his mum said, "I tidied your bedroom earlier."
"ok" he replied.
"oh, and by the way, could you kindly not keep bags of sick in your drawer?".
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 9:55, Reply)

Taxi fine? Taxi fine!
After a singularly heavy night out at Spoons in Maidenhead (about the only decent place to go other than the Hob) me and a couple of mates decided that we couldn't be bothered with the half hour walk home so a taxi was in order. Having already had a cheeky technicolour yawn that night to make room for some more drinking, I figured I was pretty safe in the taxi home. Sitting me in thet middle with no window to lean out of was a huge mistake it transpired. Looking distinctly green around the gills as we set off, the taxi driver rather 'kindly' informed us that it was a 50 quid fine if any vom got on his car.

And then it happened. I couldn't hold it in any longer. So I did what every penny piching student would have done: tucked my t-shirt into my jeans, lifted up the neck and projectiled down my chest. Then sat that as if nothing had happened. We got out, paid the driver who duly drove off none the wiser and I proceeded to strip down, clean myself off with my t-shirt whilst my mates pissed themselves by the roadside.
(satanstolemyteddybear Mu hõljuk on angerjaid täis, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 9:33, 1 reply)

A pint of milk - big mistake.
One Sunday, after a very big night on the booze I was supposed to get up with the rest of the family and go for a lovely pub lunch in the countryside.

My stomach had other ideas after my attempts to rejoin the world of the well. I decided as I was very thirsty from my hangover that a nice cold glass of milk would be just the ticket to feeling better again. It went down a treat so I had another and finished a pint. That done I went back to bed intending to let the milk do it's best and get up just in time for the pub lunch. As it turns out, when you drink milk it turns into curds and whey in your stomach and is then duly broken down further. One effect of this transformation is a doubling in volume and I had downed a pint. The next thing I know I'm heaving two pints of the most rancid and almost solid creamy white matter. The pain when trying to actually retch up this stuff was unbeleivable.

The 'whey' was basically feta-brine and stomach acid. The 'curds' were a strange semi-solid yet foamy substance not unlike cottage cheese but with MUCH larger pieces.

It would hardly flush as the curds were floating.

Even though I sicked everything into the bowl without spillages the entire bathroom smelled of an unclean dairy on a hot day. For the next two days all I could taste was stomach acid and rancid dairy.

I didn't make it to lunch.
( TheFinch is getting to grips with the complex plane on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 9:10, Reply)

Burnley 1987...
And so - in the company of a chap from my village, Chris and a cnut from college [called Nigel], we jollied along to the first College Disco Night of the year, held in salubrious [for Burnley] nightspot "The Cats' Whiskers" which you can easily imagine being full of badly-dressed 30's somethings trying to pull on a Saturday night...

At this point in my education at College, neither my peers nor myself had found a reliable drinking hole where we could buy booze with impunity, and while aware the afternoons, playing pool and abusing the jukebox [although this did come pretty soon afterwards - and much fun The Talbot was too...]

History lesson aside, we 3 rocked up to the door to find that the clubs' management had rather mercenarily changed their entrance policy. Of course, lots of tickets had been sold to under 18's but only the 18's and over were being let in...

Curses! Not being of the required age, we decided between us that we couldn't let the evening come to an early end and headed off for a Curry, and all the booze that came with it. And the booze was, Pernod [and strangely], White Wine.
Pernod and White Wine is a funny combination of drinks for lashing it up. Doesn't taste so bad on the way down but had catastrophic effects for me when heading in the other direction.

The Koohi-Noor Restaurant in Burnley, just by Burnley Mechanics Institute is perched about 1/2 way up a rather steep hill road. Out of it we duly poured ourselves once the Curry and drinks were done, and proceeded to head back down to the centre of town [at some speed, in my case, don't know why...]

At the bottom of the hill, my need to purge my bladder kicked in, and the only available receptacle available too me was the letterbox of some 80's Mens' "fashion" store [remember, it's Burnley - Fosters was a big deal up North in those days...] Sorry folks....

After this, my memory is rather cheesy [full of holes], but the upshot of what happened next is that Chris and myself accquired a cab back to my village, a distance of some 8 miles. When not far from home, I decided that [this being a Black Cab], it'd be a good idea to use up some of the smokes I bought by lighting them and throwing them, dart-like, at Chris. After I'd been talked out of doing this, there was only one more thing left to do. Curry and Booze had come with a Return Ticket, and were now cashing in on the second leg of their journey. It seemed perfectly natural to me, once I'd pulled myself out of the gap between the seat and the door that I'd managed to collapse myself into, to lean over to my right and deposit the contents of my guts into Chris' lap. Repeatedly.

He was shocked, more than angry. But being a big chap, there was lots of target to aim for.

By this time we'd arrived in our Village, the cab driver was throwing a blue fit, and feeling rather relieved post-purge I happily set off home, claiming I was going to make a coffee, and would Chris like one?
(caescarna Hell's Roomba, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 8:20, Reply)

When I was younger I'd boak quite a lot.....
and spent a period of about 5-6 weeks when I was around 9 that I would regularly fall ill on a friday, be ill all weekend, then be fine for school on monday. It eventually ended when my mum decided to keep me off school on the monday even though I felt ok, and it never happened again.

Anyways, it was during one of these little bouts of nausea that I spewed the turnip terror. I remember laying in bed with a cold damp flannel on my stomach (for some reason) and a basin by the bed. Feeling that familiar heave, I leaned over expecting to sick up the soup I had managed to force down earlier.

What came out was a massive mound of what looked like mashed turnip with bran flakes sticking out of it. How my tortured guts had managed to turn chicken soup into this foul, steaming pile of horror I will never know. It felt like the thing was climbing out of my guts rather than being forcibly ejected.

It was never explained why I fell ill either. I assume it was psychosomatic, although I can't for the life of me work out why I'd do that to myself at the weekend rather than a school day.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 5:15, Reply)

I don't have many vomit tales starring my good self
as for some reason, I have been blessed/cursed with a strong stomach. Sometimes I'd love to hurl my guts to relieve stomach aches or hangovers, but I very rarely do.

My mate's different though. He's got better recently, but a couple of years ago he was a total lightweight when it came to drink, and almost always ended up boaking his ring towards the end of the night. I've seen him spew up large clumps of doughy pizza, horrific guiness filled bile and once, he even made a little design on the road after a few beers.

The best ever, though, was on a night out in glasgow. As the night drew on, the bar closed and I found myself on my own. Both my mates had disappeared, as it turns out one of them had managed to make it about haf a mile to George Square with a young lady he was determined to get to know better. My other pal had simply gone outside to phone him and see where he was, which is where I found him. Surrounded by a group of terrified yet spelbound onlookers. He was having a loud telephone conversation that went something along these ines.

"Alright? *HEEEEEEEEEEUUUUURGH* Where are ye? HWWWWOOOOOOAAAAURGH* *cough* *cough* Eh? I canny hear you..... *BLOOOOOOOYUUUURGH* what? Oh aye that was me, I'm bein sick *FLLOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEURGH*"

Right in the middle of the street. With about 20-30 people standing gawping at him. The amount that came out was easily twice what he had put in too, I'm sure of it.

We then nipped accross the road and had chips and curry sauce.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 4:50, Reply)

Knew a bloke named George...
Lovely chap he was, from Cork originally but wound up in Sydney for a while. So we're out drinking, George offeres to get the next round and wanders off... never to be seen again. After about half an hour someone comes running out of the loo screaming "Call an ambulance, someone's been mugged!" There's George, laying on the floor surrounded by blood, his front teeth missing, out cold. The ambos come and cart him off, everyone's distraught "Who would do such a thing? He's a lovely guy!! Some bastard must have king-hit him!" The next day, however George comes to in the hospital and reveals all...
"I was getting a bit leathered so thought I'd duck into the bogs for a tactical chunder. Just as I was leaning down closer to the bowl so nobody would hear, I slipped. Last thing I remember was going teeth first into the edge of the toilet bowl..."
( difficultchild, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 2:36, Reply)

Oldie but a... goodie? Not exactly...
When I was about 12 and my grandparents were over for a visit, I started feeling a little unwell, so I headed to my room for a little lie-down in hopes that I would feel better. I didn't. So I decided to go out to the living room, just to let my parents know I was ill (no, I'm not sure why either - was probably hoping for sympathy).

Now my grandparents were truly lovely people, and they in no way deserved what happened next. I opened the door to the living room where they were sat around a table with my parents, said "I'm not feeling we-" and proceeded to projectile vomit on them. I will never forget the looks of absolute horror on their poor, startled faces as my chunder made its stunningly accurate trip, like some kind of puke-guided missile, to take up residence on their clothing.

My parents quickly pushed me out of the room and I staggered back to bed, via the bathroom, so I'm not entirely sure what happend in the aftermath. I know that some of the sick ended up going down the grate in the floor, with long-lasting results (it's damned hard to clean out an air vent, it seems). And my grandparents never mentioned it. Told you they were nice people.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 2:19, Reply)

fun and board games
after a particularly heavy night on the piss, i was escorted home by 4 burly blokes, who had to physically lift me in and out of the taxi. they deposited me on my front path, just in time for my mother to open the door and watch, disgustedly, as i crawled over the step and up to bed. i tried to stand up, only to find that my bedroom had become a centrifuge.
feeling more than slightly nauseous, i collapsed onto my bed. feeling that the cool wall would make me feel better, i wedged my head between the side of the bed and the wall, which is when my stomach contents decided they wanted out. not a drop touched the wall, every bit went down the gap, to land under the bed and all over my lovely monopoly box. having emptied my guts, i passed out.
next morning, i woke to the disgusting smell coming from under the bed. feeling more than a little green and knowing that i'd never be able to cope with my own vom without producing more, i called my sister and offered her every penny i had in my purse to clean it up for me. she did. she even cleaned the rest of my room and washed my clothes.
nearly 20 years later, i've still got that monopoly board. the box is stained, but i keep it for some strange reason. i don't know why.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 2:09, Reply)

Soiling charge £30? No thanks
During my third year of uni, I lived across the road from The Cricketers in Swansea. Without being the best pub in the world it was good enough, and being less than 30 paces away makes most quality considerations moot. And on Fridays, they had a deal on Beck's - £1.25 a bottle and my favourite beer at the time. Easier to drink than Dom Perignon dripping from Monica Bellucci's ladybits.

Two weeks into the term, on a lazy Friday afternoon, I decided that I really fancied an all-day drinking session. So I collared my housemate and got him to the pub. It was 1pm. We drank. He had a lecture at 3, so I collared his girlfriend and we carried on drinking. Various people joined us, drank, and left. I kept drinking my bottles of happymaker.

Now as fun as all-day binges are, they are surprisingly hard to keep up. Have some food and immediately your body wants to shut down, digest and go to sleep. Have no food and you'll probably pass out and/or get alcohol poisoning. My solution? MDMA in convenient pill form. One at 6 o'clock, to perk me up. One at 8 o'clock, to properly start the night.

I cannot remember anything from 8.30 onwards.

Next morning, I wake up in my bed, head pounding, stomach feeling horrible. I look around in confusion and think "wait a minute... I'm sure I was in the pub." After a couple of minutes of racking my brain and feeling my aching body, I stagger out of bed and into the living room, where two of my new housemates are sitting. "Erm... Can anyone tell me what the fuck happened to me last night? I have absolutely no clue - last thing I remember I was in the pub..."

Hannah smiles.

"Beth brought you back here at about midnight. She had to wake me up to get you in the house because you couldn't walk! She said you went to a club and lasted half an hour before passing out in the middle of the dancefloor, so she brought you home. You were sick in the taxi, then you shouted at the driver, Beth got you out and couldn't get you in the house, so she left you on next-door's lawn while she got me. We got you to your bedroom door, you stood up and told us we could both 'fuck off now, I'm fine' and then went to bed."

I took a few seconds to digest this.

"Erm. I'm sorry. Did Beth pay the driver for the cleaning up?"

"Oh no, she said she didn't have to pay the soiling charge as you were only sick on her."
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 1:13, 5 replies)

Sea Sick Blackivar
There are many who speak of the calming effect of the ocean, I am not one of them.

My nautical experiences have seldom ended with the contents of my stomach remaining where they began but usually, it has to be said, I am the only one who has to deal with that.

However, one summer back in the mid eighties, my parents decided to make the trip to France, obviously these being the days before Ryanair and Easyjet they elected to get to the continent by boat.

It all seemed to start well; we had arrived at New Haven in plenty of time, the seas were calm, it looked like it would be a easy, pleasant hop over to the continent. Buoyed by the prospect of a ferry-trip free of gut-wrenching lurches I tucked into a round of egg, tomato and onion sandwiches that my mother had made.

Half an hour in to the voyage and the boat is hardly rocking, the English channel is virtually a mill pond, my stomach, however, was unconvinced. With each minute swell (and by minute I mean the princess and the pea would have difficulty registering it) my innards tightened. I could feel the back of my throat begin to sweat, my cheeks were beginning to flush, very soon I was going to retch.

I bolted for the nearest toilet but as I raced down a corridor the spasms increased, my fight against my reverse peristalsis was a failure - but I wasn't going to give up without a fight. No, as the acrid burning liquid rushed up my throat, I jammed my hand across my mouth determined to hold it in until I could make the loos - that was the theory.

It seems what I had actually done, was reduce the area in which the vomit could escape therefore increasing the pressure propelling it from my body. The egg sandwich/hydrochloric acid mixture shot from my mouth arcing into the air, it traveled a good three metres before splattering against the leg of a man who unwittingly and no doubt regrettably had chosen to wear shorts that day. He was not pleased. I honestly believe my father thought twice before he laid to claim to me and chaperoned me away.

For the sake of my fellow passengers I did not eat for the rest of the journey.
(Blackivar is falling with style, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 23:30, 2 replies)

There was a boozer
And the boozer was in a cellar in central Leeds.

In the mid-late 90's Leeds was rolling in financial sector money and I was amongst it. I never saw anyone light a cigar with a £50 note but we had big salaries and reckless profligacy. I'd say it was the best time of my life.

In some ways it was - I was savvy enough to invest and that's made me comfortable today. In some ways it wasn't - that's another story.

This cellar bar. It was the best boozer in Leeds. It had a DJ called Manny who would play you what you wanted, and if he didn't have it he'd get it next week. Big on Jazz funk, still the only DJ I know with the original version of "Groovin' with Mr Blow". Occasionally broke into hardcore ska for kicks.

Vomit - yes. For on one fine Friday evening we rolled up there. One of our colleagues, Bernie, had taken the day off to get gloriously drunk and met us in the depths.

Bernie was ever so drunk. Very, VERY drunk. But Manny is playing his stuff and you can't help - if you have a pulse - to jiggle up and down a bit. At the best of times Bernie was a bit dull but he always had a sense of rhythym.

Gentle oscillation was quite enough to stir the unspeakable contents of Bernie's guts and we watched as his palour faded into a gentle puce. Then lime. Then he gagged, retched, and shot a polychromatic tiger onto the dance floor.

Bernie wasn't a gentleman, but some atavistic gene made him put his hand to his face as his ill-begotten repast erupted from his intestines. Four fingers against your gob during a Krakatoa vom explosion has the effect of spraying the contents of your guts eveywhere. Watch a farmyard muckspreader and you'll get the picture.

So what do we have here then? Probably one third of a small dance floor sprayed with the erstwhile contents of Bernie, who is wiping his hand on his nylon trousers, feeling unburdened, and ready to dance the night away.

We're in a cellar bar, let me remind you. The lighting is dim, the music is kicking, there's a lake of vom on the the floor and who should come towards us but the office slapper. Will strip for a few quid, or a few drinks, or just if she feels like it.

This time she's making for the still recovering Bernie. Presumably he's looking vulnerable in his panting, handwiping, getting-his-breath-back crouch.

And it's dim. And she skids in the lake of vom and goes flat on her back in it. I told you that Bernie wasn't a gentleman. Perhaps he was, because he offered her the lately-wiped hand and hauled her out of the lagoon with it.

Comparatively for us, it's early. We've got a pool of sick to dance around, office slapper with crusty bits drying on her back to fondle and Manny laying good sounds down. Get in!

The cellar bar is now a strip club. I've lost touch with all the participants of the above except one. Good times, eh?

x
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 23:27, 1 reply)

You aren't a real parent
until your child has vommed over you. I've spent a large part of this weekend cleaning my nine-month old son's sick off his clothes and mine. In spite of his stomach bug, he's still smiley and cheerful the rest of the time.
(lolwhites, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 20:48, 4 replies)

Educational.
I was told that full-fat Coca-Cola was a good anti-emetic.

Based on today's evidence, that is sometimes not so.

But it does make your sick brown and fizzy.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 20:42, 12 replies)

Epic Echo Effects
...my wife went out to a hen night on the same night as I'd gone to the stag night; the couple were friends of ours from uni.

We both got atrociously, fiercely, tremendously, arseholed.

I got home at 3am to a roaring noise from upstairs. Thinking something terrible was happening I raced upstairs in full-on Superman mode only to find wife throwing up in the en suite with epic echo effects.

The effort to get up the stairs meant that I tripped two stairs from the top, got the top step in the face and threw up down myself and on the stairs; I crawled up to the top and found myself lying on the floor in the hallway wanting to die.

Thanks, b3ta, for allowing the confessional!
(Medical_Male Say aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 20:35, 1 reply)