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This is a question Vomit Pt2

It's been nearly six years since we last asked about your worst vomit, so:

Tell us tales of what went in, what came out and where it all went after that.

(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:02)
Pages: Latest, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I do love a good vomit story.
but the best and funniest thing ever vomitorially is that scene in Family Guy where they all take Ipecac and try to hold nback the tide to win a bit of cherry pie.
Google it if you don't know it, Family Guy and puke should find it.
(, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 0:36, 3 replies)
happy birthday!
It was my 19th birthday on Saturday and unfortunately after some particularly strong rum I felt a little bit of sick come up in my mouth...I knew I wouldn't make it in time to the toilet, I did however leap to the sink and let my stomach rip. I praised myself for not vomiting on the floor, before turning on the water to wash it away..,,.shit! I had blocked the sink with chunks of potato and other vegetable matter. The salsa added the appearance of a red blood bath with floating matter. I was at a loss at what to do and so yes, I called my mum up to witness the scene. My mum was dismayed as she resorted to a spoon trying to pick lumps up. Unfortunately me and my friends had earlier booked a taxi, and so I had to leave her there as she called my dad up in despair...ooops
(, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 0:03, 1 reply)
Newbee Barman
I used to work in my local. It was a great job as most of my mates would come by for a chat on non-busy nights, and on weekends the barstaff were allowed to drink, just so long as they didn't take piss and get hammered.
On top of that, every now and then there would be nights, for one reason or another where we would be allowed to get royally fucked.

One of these nights happened only a couple of weeks after I started there: one of the older barstaff were leaving so the bar threw a party. Being the polite, young (18), niave new kid they all thought it would be funny to get me smashed. Which they did.

Over the evening the got me to drink many sambuccas, flatliners and God knows what else and on top of that always made sure my rum and coke was nicely topped-up.

By two o'clock I was smashed and staggered into the back bar to find a couple of the staff and regulars smoking a joint. Back in the day I was a fairly big pot-head so I drunkenly ask if I could have a took. The guy holding it laughed and asked if I could handle it, but thinking I was very cool I took it and had a huge took. "Yeah" I said.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where my memory stops. I woke up the next morning in my house, on my puke-scented bathroom floor, with my boxer-shorts round my ankles. Bad? Well not so bad as finding a blanket on top of me and a glass of water by my side, which could have only meant my Mum had found me in that state and hastily covered it up.

To make matters worse I had to go back to the pub to work that afternoon and still shaking I wobbled up the road towards it. Along the way, starting just before my drive were puddles of vomit that led all the way to the alleyway behind the pub...

Length? About a 10 min crawl, but probably took a lot long when forced to stop to puke every 25m
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 23:00, 4 replies)
It's like feta, honest
When my youngest daughter was fresh-minted and shiny, naught would please her - or me, for that matter - more than a 'pick-up-and-swing-around' ...

Unfortunately, too soon after a pop at her mother's churns resulted in the expulsion of something approximating Greece's annual cheese output.

Fortunately the carpet was saved by my catching most of it - in my mouth...

Needed more olives, I reckon.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 21:58, Reply)
Underwater chunder
So, you can actually spew through a scuba regulator. On the plus side, lots and lots of fishies swim up and chow down on your ejections, on the minus side you have to leave the damn thing in while you make your way up to the surface. Or you die.

Damn, it's just hit me. Secondary. Bugger.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 20:36, 2 replies)
Poor, poor bus driver
When I was a young gothy mynci (about 9 years ago) I was due to get the bus to Bristol on Saturday morning to see my then girlfriend, however I had the obstacle to overcome of going out drinking with my cousin who was down for a few days. I was 16, he was 22 and a legendary drinker (still is). We had an absolute skinful, got barred from my local for being thoroughly disorderly (as well as cousin shouting some very colourful things at the barmaid) and on the way home we had some of the finest soapy rancid hash he had brought down with him from the frozen North.

The next morning nothing would stay still, my mouth felt like a stray cat had shit in it and I couldn't put one foot in front of the other without wanting to be sick. In my infinite wisdom I decided to make a pot of strong coffee (about a litre all in all) and have every last drop of it. I guess I'd seen too many films where coffee is the panacea for curing hangovers and felt "ok" enough to go and get the bus with only a few NIN cd's and a screaming headache to keep me company for 2 hours.

15 minutes in and all was not well, my stomach was like a washing machine of bile and coffee and I was sure I was going to be sick, as the bus stopped and waited 10 minutes in the next town I got out and tried to void my stomach to make the journey bearable but it just wouldn't come. After this I thought I must be well enough to endure the next 90 minutes due to the fact I couldn't make myself sick, so nothing else would make me sick. I was WRONG.

5 minutes down the road I knew something bad was going to happen with the saliva being produced in massive quantities and the belching noises that I couldn't control. I ventured from the top deck down to where the driver was and managed to say I needed off and fast, he said he'd be at the next stop in a minute and not to worry, my next sentence I'm not sure what I was trying to say but all that happened was I threw up all over him. In his lap. In his change tray. On the floor all over the door area so no-one could get in or out without walking through my bile.

What could I do then, but run and run quite fast... I ran half a mile to a phone box and rang my dad and managed to get a lift home and then in to Bristol.

I never saw that bus driver again.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 19:56, Reply)
Bed + vomit= dad in tiny pants
Apologies for length, but as a female, i need a good long one sometimes!

It was my last night out as an A-Level student, we had all passed our exams and as naive 18 year olds, ready to go to university, we all decided to have a 'Last fling' ball.

Everyone turned up, we all drank lots of cider and then, at midnight we decided to move into Leicester town centre. Now Leicester is not really the town of dreams, but that night it was our shining star. I fnally got that boy (well he touched my leg and tried to touch my boob but got scared) and we all drank shots and shots of god knows what.

I finally stumbled home, unfortunatly still living with my parents. also, i had the downstairs extension and a cabin bed (matress on stilts).

Halfway through the night i felt it, the vomit rising. I tried to force it back down, rolled over but it came rushing out of me like a geysha of red vom. Allover me, my pj's. my matress, my sheets, my duvet, carpet and the unfortunate cat.

I managed to get to the loo, spent 15 mins vomint red stuff, thinking my lungs has burst. I thought i had got away with no one knowing my disgusting secret, i could put the stuff in the washing machine as it was the kitchen, next to my room. 'Haha', i thought, 'i am an evil genius'. What my pissed mind didnt realise was that the machine had broke and although plugged in, not plumbed into the wall.

In went the vom, in went the duvet, in went the sheets. On went the wash, i went to climb into bed. Turned saw my 6ft 6" daad wearing nothing but a tiny, ball cupping pair of pants, scowling.

"What the fuck are you doing!" he cried as Vomit water poured all over the floor. The left over water had started churning the vomit all over the floor. I willnever forget the sight of my dads balls in those tight pants, more disturbing than vomit water ever was.

PS the sheets had to stay in there for 2 weeks while we waited for a plumber and the stench was amazingly disgusting!
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 19:15, 1 reply)
Mine! All mine!
Years ago, at Bristol Poly, my mate Owen was out on the piss in Bristol. He got thrown out of the Fleece and Firkin, and was sitting outside the pub on the curb when he suddenly and calamitously hurled everything from the whole evening all over and around himself.

Some more-sober people came by at that moment and disgustedly asked him "did you do that?".

In his broad Welsh accent, he answered, proudly, while scooping it all together into a rancid, steaming puddle around his knees: "Yes, it's mine - all mine - and you can't have any of it!"

*EDIT - for the punchline pedant :)
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 19:04, 5 replies)
Damn you gravity, damn you stright to hell!
My son used to have a cabin bed, you know the sort, not as high as a bunk bed but elevated and with loads of cupboards and things underneath. He contracted the statutory childhood vomiting bug but we were not alas aware of this until about midnight when we heard a cry of suprise, then what sounded like someone being slapped really hard with a fish. He had made a bold attempt to reach the toilet but had made it all of a yard then emptied all of the fluids from his body down the three large steps from his bed like a technicolour Niagara that continued to flow long after he had collapsed.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 18:07, Reply)
expensive vomit

This December I was invited to a wedding to take place on New Year's eve. It was a wedding of fancy people held in a big church north of Boston, and the reception would be on the top floors of a skyscraper in the middle of the city. Finding this a rare opportunity, I mustered up the courage to put on pants and leave the house, rented a tuxedo, and headed to the north shore to meet my friends for the wedding.

In deciding to go, I broke from a life of tai chi, sedentary youtube-watching, soba noodles in a water-like broth, and early bedtimes. For one night I exchanged all this for loud music, shiny shoes, skylines, tablecloths worth more than my bed, and of course rich, beautiful food. As I watched the fireworks and snow scattering over the Charles river from 33 stories high I had lobster, properly cooked vegetables, beef brisket that might have been sous vide, too many desserts to count. By my estimate, what I ate that night could not have been worth less than $200.

And, around 4 AM, after retiring to the fanciest hotel room I have ever been in, I violently expelled each course into the hotel toilet in all manners imaginable, with each event flowing persistently into the next until around noon the next day. It felt to me as if I were dropping gold watches and ipods into the basin (but without the connotation of solidity). I felt sorry for the cleaning crew- there was no mess, but the odor was horrific.

Moral- Humble people should always approach decadence with self-preservation in mind.
Length? I couldn't eat properly for 3 days.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 18:07, 1 reply)
Dry vomit
There's nothing worse than trying to bring up completely dry vomit. It takes ages, and you have to coax it every inch of the way. And it fucking hurts.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:43, Reply)
I was about 16
A group of us had been out in Birmingham for a few drinks at Edwards, young proto-goths that we were. I started to feel queasy in the back of the taxi back to Walsall, but by taking deep breaths from the open window and maintaining iron self-control, I'd managed to quell the terrible rumblings. We got back to my friend's house and I was feeling fine, so we got down to a couple more beers and a smoke in the kitchen. About half an hour into this I needed a wee, so I started to climb the wooden hill to the bathroom. About halfway up the staircase I realised that I was holding within me a liquid Krakatoa and I sprinted the last few steps into the bathroom. Fumbling for the light I positioned my face over the lavatory bowl, just in time, as the alcoholic wave began to surge forwards.

However, in my hurry, I had neglected one important factor. The seat was still down.

Liquid vomit hit the toilet seat and jetted horizontally in every direction, covering me and the entire bathroom. By the time my friend eventually ventured upstairs to check on me I was half dressed, wringing out hand-towel after hand-towel full of foul-smelling bile into the pan, terrified that his mom (asleep in the next room) would wake up and hear me.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:33, Reply)
teenager fun!
Now my son is 16 and has discovered the lure of booze. We had a party with a few friends last winter, and as usual everyone bought alcohol...
My son and his mates played the 'ask every adult for a little bit of booze when they're drunk' game very well. Result - four fountaining teenagers spurting maroon gak everywhere.
At one point my son staggered towards the bathroom, vomited, slipped in the vomit and landed at my feet.

He then uttered the words "it wasn't me it was one of my mates". Classic.

He was still grounded though
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:31, Reply)
alright, last one from me.
An american friend of mine is a bit of a pirate. Lovely chap, great fun, doesn't go anywhere without a fuck-off big knife and a sewing kit. Anyway, he has this notion that when you catch a tuna, all the adrenaline from it's failed bid for freedom concentrates in it's heart. So naturally you must cut it out as quickly as possible and eat it. Hmmmmm. First time he did this was a bit of a shock, but a few minutes later he started shouting (more than usual) and dropped to the ground to do some press-ups.

I used to be a veggie. I'm cured now, thank god, but our token sepo decided that a cerimonius act to seal my new carnivore status was in order. So the next tuna we landed would be mine. Goodie.

Few days later, and we haul on a monster. Okay, it's not breaking any records, but it's the biggest I've ever seen and concurrently it's heart is rather sizeable. Now I'd agreed to this stupid idea thinking that I could just swallow and that'd be that. But I'm gonna have to chew this fucker. Seriously, I'm borderline going for a knife and fork. And of course it's still beating. But, my word is my bond, and can't let the side down in front of Johnny Foreigner.

So I go for it. I chew, I tilt my head back to try and help it slide down, meaning that when I do a little pre-vom, I end up chewing on that too. It's a very odd sensation, feeling it's pulse on your tongue. The aspargus and peas I'm more accustomed to certainly don't do that. When the hurl comes, it is magnificent. Annoyingly though, given that I'm on a boat with 5 toilets and 360 degrees of chunder-choice, I'm sick on my arm, my jacket and the deck.

There's a video somewhere, I'll try to dig it up. The heart (what's left of it) is clearly visible, still beating, in the middle of my puddle of fun.

PS. I asked a friend of mine who's a vet and he reckoned that the adrenaline thing is complete bollocks. Any thoughts?
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:23, 4 replies)
A few months ago, I needed a short medical procedure done. Because it was done under general anaesthetic, I couldn't even drink water up to two hours before my appointment time.
I cheated and downed a pint of water about an hour and a half before my appointment, but I was half an hour late anyway thanks to missing the train. Unfortunately, just before I left, I threw up all the water, leaving myself with an empty stomach.
I'm fine (save for glaring at every commuter who has a coffee and a muffin, the smug eating-and-drinking CUNTS) all the way to the clinic, and while we're in the waiting room for an hour and a half, and then I'm given a couple of pills before my surgery. They should take about two hours to work. Brilliant.
So I sit.
And I wait.
Start getting stomach pains. It feels like I need a massive dump. So I go, but before I can get my pants down, I have to turn round and throw up. There's a bit of water but mostly yellowish bile and snot and whatever.
No better, and I don't actually need a shit, so I scuttle back to the waiting room, but the pains get worse and I'm shown into another, empty waiting room. Still worse, and I'm lying on the floor screaming in pain, so the nurses get me a wheelchair and try to rush me off up to theatre.
But I need to vom again. And this time my stomach doesn't hold back. They shove a cardboard bowl on my lap, but the whole room, the nurses, and the friend I'd only known about six weeks (R), get sprayed in my sticky yellow puke.
When I saw R afterwards, she was covered in wet patches and dabbing herself with paper towels after having to wash it all off. She still bought me a sausage roll on the way home though. What a hero.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:19, Reply)
Never, ever again:
The first day at the beer festival was good. So was the second. The third went downhill when they ran out of beer and I had to start in on the lethal 7% scrumpy they also offered. I then went to a pub quiz, bought and drunk a bottle of red, lost the quiz, won a bottle of white as a booby prize and drank that too.

I now throw up a little in my mouth at the very smell of wine.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 17:05, Reply)
taxi vomit mouthful heroism
Back when I was 16iah, a bunch of us went to some nightclub or other where we could get in and became very drunk. We caught a cab back to James' place as his folks were out or something.

James started to make retching noises, to a chorus of threats about having to pay for the cleanup himself if he boked. After a while we noticed James had gone a bit quiet as well as a bit green. His cheeks were puffed out like pob's and he was holding his finger over his mouth as if telling us to all shut the fuck up. He sat like that for the entire journey, and then leapt out of the cab and brought forth a large pile of vomit on the street outside.

He then spoiled the heroism by pissing in a letterbox.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 16:50, 1 reply)
Once dragged myself out of bed, stumbled into the shower and closed the door. Upon being confined with my own stench, I immediately vommited over myself. Which really helped the smell.

*EDIT* Ok just re-read that, and I feel that I should probably also mention that I had been out the night before, it was before the smoking ban so I smelt like ashtrays and arse, and I don't smoke. Without this explanation it just sounds like I'm a fucking tramp.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 16:30, Reply)
Just remembered another...
Not me, someone I know.....

I've never been sea-sick. Come close, diesel in a confined space in very unpleasant, but true sea-sickness? No, thankfully. But I'm told that it is a frightfully unpleasant thing to experience. If any of you have been ill on ferries then you might have an idea.

A few years ago, a guy I work with took a couple with him as crew on an Atlantic crossing. The bloke was fine, the girl had never been to sea before, but was sure that she would be OK. Not ideal, but he was desperate.

She started feeling queasy about 3 hours into to the crossing and, apart from a few brief windows of relief, was chundering the whole way across. They were constantly trying to keep her hydrated, although I think that they did stop short of the anal hydration method (sounds like a euphemism, a genuine technique, I'm told). She pretty much would have welcomed death a couple of days in.

It takes 2 weeks.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 16:21, Reply)
The Puking Gentleman
I was given a bottle of dave's insanity sauce and, as it says on the bottle, it was insanely hot chilli sauce. We used to dare each other to taste the tiniest of amounts which would turn your mouth into a flaming mess. I can't describe to you how hot it was, if you've tried it you know, if you haven't you couldn't possibly know. At best, I guess it's like drinking the piss from satan's cock.
Whenever we had a new guest we'd test them. It's a man thing. Most men take a tiny dribble and weep for hours, not Mr X (name witheld) he could eat immensely hot food, he really could but he wasn't ready for Insanity.
He placed a large blob, about the size of an old 50p, on the back of his hand a licked it. We stood there in awe as he took it like a man. We then returned to our drinking and smoking. Mr X left the room. Mr X did not return for a considerable time.
In between his exit and entrance (phnar) Mr X has queued patiently for the toilet, during his queuing the insanity struck and he puked a most foul brew all over our kitchen wall. It was apparently worse on the way back then on the way down, hmm burning chilli sick. He then, very politely cleaned up the mess, told us of his foolish ways and disappeared into the night a chastened man.
He was a lovely man that Mr X.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 16:03, Reply)
I used to live in Exeter but go to uni in Plymouth (janners, yay) which meant that for 9 o'clock lectures I had to be up and moving to get the bus for 6, and then leave again pretty much straight after I'd finished to get home again.

So I failed. Shocker.

Fortunately, I got to know some folks who were in halls so I frequently ended up buggering off into the union/pub/bar/club/chippy/kitchen table/floor sequence after lectures, like everyone else. After one particulary raucous outting (I think that we may have been in drag, which entailed some rather speedy, and if I say so myself, very skillful charity shop dredging for an outfit. It's the shoes, you see. everything else is easy, but size 11 heels? Top tip, go for wedges. Anyway....).

Next morning and I'm Hanging. Out. Of. My. Arse. I somehow drag myself to my first lecture and just sort of sit there, swaying, trying to focus on breathing. I'm thinking more about my own stabilty than that of various ships, and I want to go home. So I slink off, stumble down to the bus station (delightful place, charming trampy-company, beautiful ammonia odour). Bus comes, haul myself aboard and collapse in the first seat. Pass out.

Come to, and the motion of the bus has done something to me. Something bad. Bumclouds, she's gonna blow. Cast gaze about, searching for toilet. None. Going down dual-carriageway, can't stop. Hmmmmm, hang on, the front flap of my bag has water-proof pocket! That I NEVER use! Perfect!

2 minutes later, the deed is done, pocket zipped up sealing my shame. I even manage to wipe myself down thanks to the 3 rolls of bog-roll that I regulary nick from my mate's halls (I'm in a flat, they get theirs free. Don't judge me). I slip gratefully back into the welcoming bliss of slumber. Half hour later, driver wakes me up and boots me off, with about as dirty-a-look as I've ever received. He saw it all, and I don't think that he was terribly impressed. I go home, and collapse onto the sofa, to sober up and then moan.

Sooooooo, 2 months later and I'm sat in a cafe with my ex. We're having a lovely little chat, planning a holiday to Cuba. She's booking it and needs my passport details. I have brought it along, it's in my bag. I tell her just to have a rummage while I go and grab the drinks. Life is good.

I get back to the table. She doesn't look happy. To be fair I picked up a bit of a whiff from 20ft across the room. Arse.

I'm disgusting.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 15:57, 2 replies)
Party piece.
Before i left home, my brother and I knew a guy who lived in a caravan in his parents garden. We and another friend popped round for a smoke one evening and through the dense fug of the hotboxed caravan, he'd casually mentioned his party piece. We demanded a demonstration, which he duly provided. We were impressed, so he did it again. And again.

You see, his party piece was to take a tin of pre-cooked sausages, swallow one and bring it back up whole.

However the third go wasn't quite as successful as previous attempts.
The sausage came back up for sure, but was no longer whole and was closely followed by that evenings dinner. Judging by the amount of sausage-laden chunder now adorning the sleeping area of his tiny dwelling, lunch too.

Needless to say, we left, laughing like stoned Hyenas. We never found out exactly how he mastered the sausage trick, though rumours were that his relationship with his stepfather was questionable at best.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 15:53, Reply)
two for the price on one
First - party, lotsa alcohol, someone produces a fly agaric (one of the the pretty red toadstools with the white bits on, you know, the poisonous ones...) and declares that they are halucogenic if taken in small quantity. Half a toadstool and about an hour later I am hit by the chunder bus. Jeez, I thought I's ruptured by gut as what fountained into the porcelain god phone was hideously red. When the heaving subsided I realised it must have been the fly agaric dissolving in a vodka lake.

Second - beer festival, sat opposite a dude in specs. Said dude had obviously been a little two festive and went very quiet. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth & beery puke dribbled out. But best of all he obviously had a fair head of pressure as the next heave produced a beery puke fountain up the inside of his glasses.

Happy days :)

No apology for length - I can fire a puke-cannon as far as anybody.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 15:44, 1 reply)
it's amazing what can cover a Fiesta
I have a friend who I first met at art college, we did the usual things like drink and smoke as only an art student could. Normally he could hold his drink but on his birthday we found out that this wasn't always true.

The evening started off fine with the usual amount of heavy drinking and he opening gifts that had been brought to the pub, among these items was a bottle of scotch and and a waterpistol. You should be able to see where this is going.

So after much of the bottle had been consumed it was finally time to leave for a kebab, however the pub happened to be one of those that you find in darkest rural somerset that appear harmless on the outside but are bloody miles from anywhere.

Mr Birthday boy insisted on sitting in the back of my 3 door 950 Ford Fiesta despite the first hint of liquid returning the way it had once gone.

Few miles down the road I casually ask if he's ready to chuck yet, the response was a drunken slur that roughly translated as feck off I'm no lightweight.

A few seconds later I feel something warm running down my neck and screams as he had put his hand up to stop himself chucking and said hand acting as a diffuser due to spread fingers and covering just about every surface of the car interior with sick. He then got out and covered the rear of the car with further puke for good measure.

Having made it back to his parents and crashing there also we woke the next afternoon to a hot sunny summer day, just right for a hang over, the interior of the car was naturally like an oven by this point and if you have ever tried to shift dried weetabix you'll get the idea of what dried vomit is like. Bless his mum, she shifted the worst of it once the car had been fully aired.

It wasn't all shifted as some seemed to be harder than the toughest diamond, still there the next year when I finally came to sell the car.

Length...still there I expect
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 15:06, Reply)
Just a short one from me
but I am contributing, which makes a change.

A friend of mine has the most delicate stomach I know. One night he phoned me up from the hospital; apparently he had been shooting lumpy stagnant liquid from both ends of his body and he was now settling in for an overnight stay.

The cause? He'd had a bit of trifle earlier. Apparently some one had used orange juice to make the jelly (WTF? I didn't get it, but he can be cantankerous so I just let it pass).

This same guy went to a stag-do of his mate's, who owned a pub in Wales, somewhere (I forget). After much drinking (and he was never much of a drinker) he felt his stomach contents making the inevitable bid for freedom. He knew he was gonna get a load of stick if he chundered right there and then and being the meek, wallflower-y kinda person he was, didn't want a bit of it.

He made his way to the conveniences as a bit of sick emerged into his mouth. On his way in, he passed a good friend who asked him how he was getting on. With a mouthful of sick there is only so much you can do, so he gave a nod and made like he was bursting for a piss. Success! He barfed aplenty into the toilet and went back to resume the merriment and no-one was any the wiser.

A few minutes later the sick was discovered, yet due to the bogs being empty and my mate's mild nature, the Phantom Sicker was never revealed.

Apologies, that was actually alot longer than I first intended.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 14:39, Reply)
Not mine - a mate (no really)
Lee (RIP mate) was a bit of a legend - we all heard about his exploits in the pub, but this one never came out until after he'd died:

He'd been out on an almighty bender, pulled some woman and walked her home, only to be given a peck on the cheek and a 'thank you', then have the door slammed in his face.

And so off home he trundled, only to be overcome with the rumblings from his stomach as he got to the river bridge. Leaning over, he copiously vomited onto the soft green grass, then realised that at the same time, his arse had gone out in sympathy, filling his trousers with shit.

Turns out, in his drunken stuour, he decided to shed his (brand new) trainers, jeans and boxers there, and just get home.

And so to the next morning - Darren (Lee's brother) answered the door to 2 coppers asking if Lee lived there, "Yes mate - why?" he curtly replied.
"Well, we've found his trainers, jeans and shorts by the river bridge - all covered in shit and puke." said dibble.
"How do you know they're Lee's?" says Darren, not budging in the defense of his l'il bro.
"Cos he left his wallet in the jeans..." came the smug reply.
And so Lee was roused from his pit and sent to clear up his mess - oddly enough, he just threw everything away rather than wash it through and use again...

The thing is - the river bridge is a good mile from where he lives, and he'd have had to go through the centre of a CCTV riddled town to get home - how we all howled with laughter at the thought of him running through the shadows, pulling his t shirt over his bits for modesty...
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 14:16, Reply)
My tale
Concerns the former Mr Prawn mixed with several pints of ale on a work night.

After attending the quiz at a pub somewhere in darkest Sidcup, we retired back to my rather small flat. After lights out, Mr Prawn's stomach started surfing on the technicolour waves of vomit currently swirling round in it and he decided he'd better make a run for the loo.

Alas, he didn't make it, though I didn't find this out until 6:30am the following morning when I got up to have a pee and a shower. It looked like he'd attempted to redecorate my flat in a rather interesting shade of bile green and brown with some added carroty texture.

As there was no way I was going to clean up the mess without adding my own to the mix, I woke him up and handed him a cloth with the strict instructions to get the flat back to its usual shade of magnolia.

When I moved out of the flat a couple of months later, I found a small brown stain on the wall which had been hidden by the sofa and consequently missed in the clean up post purge. I'd like to end this tale by saying I left it there as a monument to him, but I wanted my deposit back in full so ended up wiping the wall down and having to touch it up with some paint.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:48, Reply)
I have just returned from Christmas holiday in warmer climes. We were driving along sea front, it was late afternoon on New Years day I looking over the bay watching water lap on to the sandy beach, as the sun hung lazily in the sky. I turned to my partner to tell him how beautiful the view was, to tell him how much I love him and how I never wanted this to end. Only to see an elderly woman vomiting out of the window of the car in front, some came back and splattered our windscreen.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:45, Reply)
My 18th
How could I forget this!

Without boring you all with the details, my 18th was the fairly standard array of overdrinking down our local, the Nags in Monmouth. The thing that set my 18th apart was my dirty pint...not what was in it (the usual 20 quids worth of shots topped up with my mates beer and then a shot of Baileys poured through it to curdle very nicely) but the drinking. Yes I downed it in true manly style. But that wasn't enough for the onlookers. No. I had to eat the curdled bits. Which I duly did (seemed like a good idea at the time)

I cannot remember after this point. Apparently in the night I threw up...all over myself. Now I was at a boarding school at this time (let the jokes start) so it wasn't my bed. In the morning I had to shower, taking in all the sheets and bedding with me. A couple of my mates helped me sneak the mattress out: you see my epic chunder had soaked through the entire thing. We had to skip it in the end and pinch a fresh one from the basement to hide my shame.
(, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 13:44, 2 replies)

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