It happenned so quickly,
so horribly rough with lots of texture, as it happenned I constantly thought Bruce Forsyth was pulling his arm out of my neck.

Cant remember if it was old curry or off pizza mixed with cold coffee...
( Lord Aerixis, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 19:09, Reply)

Projectile Vomiting
On one occasion my puke left my guts so fast I'm surprised it didn't take my teeth with it.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 19:05, Reply)

Back of a bus, aged 10.
No, I'm not talking about the loss of my anal virginity, but the worst vomit ever. The vomit itself wasn't so bad - it was mostly liquid and the American mustard I'd had on the offending hot dog lent it a delightful neon yellow shade - but the timing, direction and control made it quite spectacular. I vividly remember the initial spurt nearly missing the respective left and right shoulders of the people in front; the second heave landing in the aisle but not cutting off in time to spare my jeans; the third, which I decided for some reason to put into my hand, thought better of, and dropped (long strings of saliva now connecting mouth to hand and thence to floor); and last wretch slapping off the edge of my seat.

The bus was on its way downhill at this point, so the stream quickly splashed its way over the step and pretty much all the way up to the driver's seat, running between the chairs of my fellow passangers.

A dog gave it a taste. People tutted and sighed at my mother. Vomit-flavoured steam rose in the cold winter air. The bus had to be decommissioned and replaced at the next stop, which was all well and good, but nobody up the back was able to get off without walking straight through my puke.

BONUS TIP: If you think you're about to be sick, guzzle down some cold cola. Not only will this trigger it and get the ball rolling, but it tastes ace on the way back up.
(EastAnglianswine can see your willy, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 18:52, Reply)

Mmm, vomit...
1997. Staffordshire university students union (Leek road site). Mate's birthday. Monster spliff before going out (rolled with some lovely red leb). Downed a Kangaroo (cider&black, advocaat, archers, vodka). Looked up, bewildered look upon his face. Sudden panic. Turned his head to his right and attempted to prevent vomit with hand. Failed.

Cue projectile five finger spread in crowded room.

That is all.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 18:46, Reply)

Nothing came out.
My mates and I used to have a tradition on a Christmas Eve. We would meet up in a cafe near the local train station, eat a big fry up to line our stomachs then jump onto a train into Hull, normally getting there by 11am to begin a festive drinking epic.

As taxis back to our home village were massively expensive we would catch the last train back and get into the nearest pub to the station in time for last orders. At kicking out time we would then walk the three miles from the train station to our home village.

The walk in the cold had an excellent sobering effect and for the year in question by the time I had said farewell to the last of my mates to walk past the church to my home I was pretty much sobered up and feeling fine. As I walked past the church I noticed that the midnight mass (or whatever the equivalent that they have in that C of E happy clappy place) was finishing. People were coming out and amongst them were my Grandmother’s neighbours who spotted me on the other side of the road and called hello.

As I opened my mouth to reply a moth or something flew into my mouth and down my throat which led to an immense coughing and choking fit (you know what its like, even though it’s probably gone it feels like it’s still there) which led to me ended up with me bent double leaning on a nearby wall for support barely able to breath.

When I finally regained my composure and turned around I was confronted with the entire aging god bother population of my village staring at me in disgust, tutting and calling me a “disgrace”. My explanations fell on deaf ears and the tale of my none existent vomit was all over the village by Boxing Day.
(Fraz1172 Speak Softly but wear a loud shirt, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 18:33, Reply)

Mexican Night
Rolling back to early noughties, myself and my newish girlfriend were invited around to dinner where the theme was Mexican. Fair do’s thought I, can’t go wrong with some enchiladas and a few bottles of corona. However, the hosts for this evening were the girlfriend’s parents and their two closest friends who wanted to meet me / size me up. I probably should have behaved.
All started off swimmingly, they laughed at my jokes, i smiled at theirs, we all got on well, like a house on fire...the food was great, and plentiful. I was in.
It was then time for the pudding course, and things started to take a surreal turn. Gf’s father returns from garage to inform us of the terrible news that we were out of beer, somehow the 6 of us had gone through two cases in about 3 hours... not bad going for a night out, perhaps a bit much for a cosy night in with the girlfriends parents... ho hum.
“Never mind”, says I, “I’ve probably had enough” trying to demonstrate to parents & their friends that I was the responsible sought, perfect for looking out for their firstborn.
“Nonsense” says Mother “i’ve bought this bottle of tequila especially....” hmmmm..... Suddenly there are shot glasses all round and we are pretending to know what we are doing with the whole tequila shots hoopla... – “One shot tequila, salt, and a lime wedge. Fill shot glass with tequila, grasp the lime between the thumb and index finger of your "off" hand, lick that little pudgy area between the two fingers holding the lime, sprinkle some salt on the aforementioned pudgy area, lick the salt, slam the shot down, and bite the lime. Nothing to it!” says girlfriends mum, who seems know far too much about this for my liking.
After the first shot, girlfriend, dad and friends wife bow out with the usual tequila response.
Then there were 3. 3 shots later there were 2. Suddenly, I am in a drinking competition doing tequila shots with my girlfriends mum. Is this a usual experience?? Not for me. To be fair, I don’t think I gave it much thought at the time.
A couple of shots later, thankfully, girlfriends father stepped in, pointed out that it was 1 am, and declared it a score draw. God bless him.
We started to tidy up and girlfriend suggested that we go and get some fresh air, so that we could, you know, get some fresh air!
So out we toddle into the night, feeling a little pissed, but no matter..... BIG MISTAKE... the fresh air sideswiped me like a truck, and all of a sudden I was all over the place, couldn’t walk on the pavement, kept wandering all over the shop, the wave a nausea going up and down, up and down, up and down.
I need to puke, then I’ll be ok – a quick clear out and all will be fine.... nope, nothing happening, just want to puke, need to puke, have to puke... and it needs to be now. I can’t puke at the parents house, having known them for only 6 weeks, I’ll be as popular as a reggae band at a Klu Klux Klan rally.
Girlfriend decides that i just need to sleep it off, if I can make it until everyone has gone to bed, I’ll be able nip to the bathroom, and no one will know. Walk into the kitchen and gf states to all and sundry that I “feel a little peaky” so am going to bed... smile sheepishly, bid goodnights and off I go.
I last 10 minutes.
That feeling you get, the tickling in the throat, the watery mouth.... I tried to concentrate on the walls, the floor, the tv, but none of them would stay still. Then I got the 10 second warning, when you know its too late, you’re past the point of no return... I legit for the bathroom, knocking a pint of water out of my girlfriends hand that she was bringing to me, as everyone was going to bed.
To my credit, I didn’t stop, and blew my load, straight down the middle of the bowl as I hurled and hurled and hurled some more. Enchiladas, chilli, corona and tequila sludge. It felt like it lasted hours, but was probably only minutes. And then silence. Ah the relief, I felt so much better. I also then got that 6th sense that I was not alone... “are you ok?” came a little voice as the girlfriend stuck our head around the door... she gave me a smile and came in to help me out. She then stuck her head around the door and informed the rest of them that i ‘was feeling a little better now....’
Yes, they had all been listening. Cock.
The response from girlfriend’s father and he went past...
“Welcome to the family....”
(Shadayim ..............., Tue 12 Jan 2010, 17:50, Reply)

First drunken vomit
I must have been 13 or 14 on holiday with my folks in France, staying at my aunts house. Their usual alcohol prohibition settings must have been switched off as they allowed me a couple of lager shandies and even a glass of wine. Unbeknown to them I also discovered that Bacardi and coke actually tasted great and I could down the stuff like it was water when they weren't looking.
Roll forward an hour or so and I was properly pissed for the first time in my young life. I vaguely recollect tumbling down a wooden staircase head over heels before landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom and laughing like a drain.
Roll forward another couple of hours when I sat bolt upright in bed and proceeded to projectile vomit the most foul smelling offal like brown shit all over the unfortunate chap who happened to be sleeping in the next bed. The poor little lad who was a couple of years younger than me clamped his hands over his face to try and block out the smell and proceeded to burst into tears. The stench was unimaginable. Like you'd shat on a dead kippers fanny and left it to bake in the sun for a week.
That room stank for years afterwards.
(Scary Ghost, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 17:19, Reply)

You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a HEEEUUUUURRRGHH!
At college, I had a couple of acquaintances – Simon and Nicky. They were doing the same course as each other and so hung about together a lot. And went to student parties a lot, too.

One party saw the two of them getting a bit drunker than usual, and indulging (unwisely, as it turned out) in a little bit of tonsil hockey in the middle of the kitchen. Tongues probed, bodies entwined, hands wandered; people looked on, slightly bored. Contented sighs and heavy breathing emanated from Nicky as Simon snogged her more and more enthusisatically... And then it happened. Nicky’s last vodka decided that it didn’t want to want to be processed and ejected the normal way and made a determined bid for freedom via her mouth. Which was firmly attached to Simon’s at the time…

The look of startled horror on his face as his he suddenly found his own mouth rapidly filling up with someone else’s vomit was, frankly, both horrific and hysterical at the same time. I’ve never seen someone run so fast to the bathroom in all my life.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 12 Jan 2010, 17:18, Reply)

Chunks awaaaaaaay.
As a youngster I shared a bunk bed with my even youngsterer brother. Being the elder I chose and was the happy custodian of the upper bunk, from which I could rule the room like the diminutive king of a tiny kingdom.

Days, months and years passed with no ado about anything, until one over-indulgent Christmas eve when sickness stirred my guts and an evening full of excitement and chocolate was expelled from within.

Gravity kept up its end of the bargain and took my vomit directly downwards to where my brother's head was hanging over the edge of the bed.

I've never experienced it myself, but I'm told that there are few worse ways to be awoken that with a face-full of warm, sticky sick; I'll happily take his word for it.
( Moey, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 16:55, Reply)

Tuna. Pasta. Baked.
The floor was warm. I knew this because my whole body started slowly stewing from the moment I lay it down upon the faux-leather cushions that had been scattered there for my benefit. It was a vibrant mix that now stirred inside my insides: beer blending with whiskey blending with wine while tuna chunks swam amongst the pasta shells and cooked themselves into a noxious broth that was always destined to boil over before the night's sleep was complete.

At least twice the grotesque casserole that slowly simmered in my guts dragged me from my slumber and worried me almost to the point of getting up, but a fierce hangover had grasped my mind and opening my eyes was like affording it permission to punch pain deep into my brain. So I ignored the warnings, shifted uncomfortably to fidget my baking belly into a less dangerous position and sought out the slumber that I hoped would chase away the brain pain.

Sunrise provided unwelcome confirmation that my paltry sleep wasn't sufficient to clear my hangover head and the early summer sunlight streamed directly into my eyes as if a divine nomination. The contents of my guts were reheated to noxious perfection and ready to be served up. I had merely to select the location of this diabolical eatery and there would be no chance for complaint about the quality of the fare on offer.

I served up a small starter into the sink that occupied the corner of the room; an unpleasant dish that only served to highlight just how large the main course was to be. Urgency grasped me as I sought out a dinning room for this despicable feast and I made good my exit from the stifling, oppressive heat of the bedroom. Once in the coolness of the corridor I relaxed and enjoyed a momentary respite, but this was to be my undoing as I applied pressure to the hallway door and prematurely plated the foul dish all about the corridor.

For a brief moment relief washed over me; the kind of relief that comes with emptying ones guts of a relentless torment and knowing that your innards have ceased their battle with the monsters of boke. Then I chanced a glance at my arm and saw that the chunks I'd barked were now all over it; and the door it was holding and the floor beneath and the wall beside it. My chunky yawn had slithered through the door gap and begun its descent towards the toilet I'd originally planned to dish it out into, but in a manner that meant I would be mopping it up before it reached that far.

They say the smell lingered for weeks after, that my attempts to clean were so cursory that half chewed tuna chunks and broken pasta shells still lingered in the nooks and lurked in the crannies for the remaining warm summer months. I assumed they exaggerated but I couldn't confirm it for myself; I was never invited to stay again.
( Moey, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 16:37, Reply)

Pigeon street where wings wings beat.
After a raucous night of general drinking and the like I did a big sick outside my bedroom window. When I opened my curtains the next day with a trump and a stretch I saw a pigeon couple joyously and eagerly chomping away on the contents of my stomach (lining included) from the previous night.

Not quite the same sentiment as Mary Poppins I know, but I'm sure the pigeons didn't mind. They seemed pretty cool about the whole thing, and so was I, everyone's a winner I thought. What's a bit of inter-species vomit between species? So I trundled back to my bed, did another stretch and another trump and thought no more of it. I'd done my bit.

Then this happened. The very next day a pigeon did a little poo on my arm. So, in theory it could have been one of the very same pigeons that chomped on my sick, this means it could have quite possibly plopped out my own sick on me. Unlikely, but not impossible.I'm not entirely sure I can think of many worse ways to be vomited on unless you count that time with Les Dennis....oh wait that didn't happen. Hmm.
(fannyhaddock, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 16:15, Reply)

Two for the price of one...
to cut a longs story short, me and my mates used to have very dirty sessions on booze and skunk.....One night I felt a bit ill and whilst taking a sit down piss (didn't want to risk pissing on the seat) I felt a bit sick, luckily the sink was opposite the toilet so fairly easy access. I puked and cleared up my mess but had to lift my ass slightly off the seat to reach the sink. Shortly after this I went home to get some well earned rest after a job well done :\ or so I had thought...

Next day I get a call from my mate who said that I left a real mess in his bathroom. Steve I said I cleared that puke up last night whats up. His response was it wasn't the puke I was worried about it was the liquid poo all up my walls and the back of the tolilet that I have just spent an hour cleaning up that concerned me more!

Yes folks in my haste to puke in the sink i also shat up the walls in a way a cat would if staking his territory and because it went through an eye of a needle i didn't even feel it in my pissed and stoned haze.

I dare anyone to come up with a another story that incorporates midly amusing puke with a sneaky shit story in there too ;)

ah ok there is one just below me ah well...
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 15:16, Reply)

Streams of Whiskey
After a whiskey-fueled 18 year old's party fizzled out and everyone fell asleep in piles on the floor, I was woken by by friend dragging what looked like a dead body into the 'off limits parent's bedroom'. I stood up despite the room spinning like a waltzer to find out what had happened.

On entering the room the smell hit me, there was vomit and shit all over the bed, the contents of the drawers were on the floor and the light shade was in tatters.

'What happened?' I asked him.

'I think I was a bit pissed and had an accident.' came the obvious reply.

'So who is the dead boy?'

'Oh he's not dead - he's just hammered. I thought if I dragged him in here, laid him on the bed and wiped puke on his face he would think he did it and clean it up.'

It did work. And worked on many occasions after this party too.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 15:16, 1 reply)

Purple Nasty Olè!
Whilst at the legendary Worthing Penguins Hockey Festival as any hockey players know, tour, for the majority is a super booze fest and this one was going rather well.
After a good day of funnels, boat races and a spot of hockey we retired to the pub before the night out at a club. Our team had opted for a mexican theme and all were sporting sombreros, ponchos, bandoliers etc. My hombres and I were on the purple nasties and managed to get through a fair few before it was time to go to the club. I was starting to feel a bit worse for wear and had opted for a tactical chunder, however; staring at the big white telephone reciting 'armitage shanks, armitage' was not having it's usual desired effect. 'Taxi's here' shouted one of my mates over the cubicle and feeling a bit better after a bit of retching trotted off to the cab.

Bit of a squash, 4 people in sombreros in a cab but it wasn't far into town. Unfortunately it was a long enough journey for my waves of nausea to return and within seconds I had gone past the point of no return, sitting in the middle of the back seats left me no time to move/speak/ open windows so the only receptical was a sombrero which was duly filled with copious amounts of bright purple vomit. Sombreros aren't particularly well suited to hold copious amounts of carrot chunks and snakey B and the result was a sieve like action, chunks retained, vom juice seeping into my lap.

It's a bit of a blur but somehow I got away without getting busted by the cabbie (god knows how, it wasn't a subtle one!) and we arrived at the club.
We all entered the club enmasse with lots of 'arribas''holas' etc, most of us with sombreros on. I had opted for the 'slung over the back' option, unfortunately some onlookers decided that I should match my hombres, attempts were made to put it on my head which lead to me drunkenly and politely asking them not to do it and when questioned why I meakly replied 'i've just been sick in it'!

On the up side the next day whilst chucking hats arouind it did make for an interesting game of 'avoiding the chunder hat'

Ah, got to love a hockey tour!
(DangerFlange Chamone Mother Hubbard, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 14:05, 2 replies)

My best chunder ever.
Many years ago, when I was still a spotty-faced scruffy urchin, my friends and I performed our usual stop off in Somerfield on the way home from school. We'd normally buy a bag of crisps and a can of Coke and torment the security guard, who insisted on following us like a poorly-trained overweight ninja, hiding beneath spotlights and behind little old ladies.
Once, however, we discovered a job lot of reduced jam donuts. I did what any 14 year old would do and bought a dozen, with a bottle of Dr Pepper to wash them down. I managed to eat 9 of them, saving the other 3 for later.
We continued on our way, and before long my friend was telling us a story about a wet dream (I forget the exact details, something to do with throwing his crispy underpants at the cat). I found this so damn hilarious that I sat on the curb and laughed and laughed and laughed and, eventually, threw my guts up.
Then I laughed some more.
Then I threw my guts up again.
To this day I remember this fondly, simply because it was the best tasting vomit ever. 9 jam donuts and half a litre of Dr Pepper had barely settled in my stomach before I called them up again, and they tasted like sweet, sugary mana from heaven, proving that heaven is slightly smeared in bile. Half a lifetime later, I still plan to recreate the moment if I'm ever hungover around donuts.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 13:36, Reply)

theakston's old peculiar vs wifebeater
I don't get hangovers and I am very rarely sick after overindulging, BUT I have two nemesises (nemesii?): Theakston's Old Peculiar and Stella. I once started drinking with some guys I barely knew at lunchtime in my first year at uni. I thought I could handle my beer at that time but these guys were on a mission. We started with Theakston's and two pints were bought and drunk in only about 20 minutes. I quickly felt the devil rising and bought the next round, drank about a quarter of my pint and gave my excuse, mumbling something about needing to walk off and die. I am still thankful to this day of two things: firstly that my hall of residence was just across the road and secondly that I had a sink in my room.

By some miracle I crossed the ring road, by this time I was well and truly puggled; that amount of booze had never hit me so quickly on an empty stomach. I stumbled in to the lift (hopefully) silently muttering to myself "pleasedon'tpukepleasedon'tpuke". Ordinarily I am not so self-conscious, but opposite me but one on our floor was a rather cute female student who I didn't want to see me make a complete cock of myself.

I got to my room. Made it! I then proceeded to kick a chair next to the sink, managed to put some music on and coughed up my kidneys, pushing my half-digested breakfast down the little holes in the plughole so as to avoid overspillage. When I had finally purged the system, I just lay down and slept until ten that night. Nice.

I put that one down to drinking at lunchtime on an empty stomach, so did I learn my lesson re: the old peculiar? Obviously not. Flash forward a year and I am now sharing a house with two women, one of whom was the cute female who was opposite but one to me in halls, and by then my girlfiend. After a dinner of sausages and a trip round the corner for a quick pint of old peculiar, we retired to the house to finish the evening off, so to speak. I was not quite in to the vinegar strokes when I felt the bile rising once more. I had to get off the job and downstairs to the toilet asap. Too late. I found myself projectile vomiting down the stairs while naked, and it went everywhere. Thankfully our housemate was out for the night with her drug dealer boyfriend so I was able to clear up without too much hassle. Strangely enough the girlfiend was not keen on finishing off where we had left it...

And so we come to Stella. Fast forward a few years and I am getting married (to the cute female opposite me but one in halls). Tomorrow. So both families meet up at the wedding venue the night before for a nice get-together. Nice. I only had three bottles of stella and felt ok, until we got back to the brother-in-law-to-be's shared house. Before I went to sleep I had to vom, and promptly blew out his toilet with my spew. And the best/worst bit: I spent the whole of my wedding day only being able to smell vomit. A load must have got up there somehow and despite my frantic nose-blowing, was going nowhere. Classy.

Length? Bloody long stairs and an average of 2-3 cm chunks of sausage. I also vowed that day to chew my food a bit better...
(mersault, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 13:18, 7 replies)

Christmas 1989
Being the young and dumb types at the time, my friend Paul and I went out for Christmas eve shenanigans and the prospect of finding some nice ladies to celebrate with.
The "we'll pace ourselves and not get too battered" game plan soon went out the window and by the time midnight came, we were in a state that would have made Oliver Reed shake his head in shame. We decided to go home (the pubs were closing and no one would entertain the notion of giving us any more drink) so we went for a taxi. Paul decides he needs to relieve the pressure in his bladder, which was probably the equivalent to a steam locomotive at full pelt, and so wanders (staggers) around the corner of the taxi rank to the bogs.
After about 15 minutes I'm wondering where he's gone to, so off I go to find him. I call out to him but there's no answer in the bogs and he's not at the urinals. I open the door to trap No.1 which is empty, likewise door No.2. Door 3 however reveals a sight that's permanently burned into the inside of my skull.
Paul is sat on the throne, trousers and pants round his ankles, into which he's thrown up the entire nights intake. Nothing has gone outside of the underckracker recepticle and the smell is just unbelieveable. There's no way he'll get a cab home now, so I have to ring his folks to come out and collect him, and get a right bollocking from them for being in such a state.
It didn't end there for him either, as the next morning after having to sleep in the bath and feeling like he's being skull fucked by King Kong, he's off with the family for Christmas luch at his grans. He makes it through the main course, albeit looking a bit green when out comes the pudding. "Would you like some brandy butter?" his loving gran enquires, holding said butter right under his nose. Apparently he said something along the lines of "gwaark" and the hurled right across the dinner table. Tidings of comfort and joy, my arse.
(boltneck sacrificed a smurf to Cthulhu on, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 13:17, Reply)

My Top 4
There are just too many to describe what with Noroviruses and the drinking exploits of teenagedom but here are a few of my top ones:

- Freshers week with very stingey and reclusive flatmates resulted in Chicken Tikka McCoys and Merlot flavoured chunder spewing aplenty, compounded with lavatorial purpose confusion whereby my trousers were round my ankles (not really necessary for puketime) resulted in knocking myself out on the toilet bowl twice for a total of one hour. Managed to confine rejected stomach contents to bathroom though.

- Gastroenteritis struck when I was at work, Christmas Eve 2004. Cue me trying to precariously aim into bowl and basin respectively in train toilet with malfunctioning door, perfectly exposing more than reasonably necessary to the Essex public. Perfected the 'puking between legs whilst on the crapper' manoeuvre.

- Yet more overindulgence of rancid cocktails involving Dooleys Toffee skank resulted in blowing chunks impeccably aimed into a drain in host’s garden. Bathroom was obviously engaged with all the other alcohol poisoned partygoers. Ahh the memories!

- Gastroenteritis again last summer. Highlights were having two mongtastic kids dutifully point out that I had just barfed in the middle of busy Bromley High street, and getting to taste a manky lamb kebab and yoghurt sauce in reverse several times whilst trying to make my way home by bus/walking/crawling.

Am practically teetotal now.
(The Little Fawn, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 13:06, Reply)

shrooms + tequila = no fun times
hey guys, this is my first post.
Twas 6 years ago and me and my friends celebrated a birthday with a bit of a pub crawl and umpteen shots of tequila. went back to a friend of a friends house to crash when some bright spark decided to bring out some of the welsh Hills finest (no, not tom jones) for some Hallucinogenic fun and games. I boshed way too many mushrooms and partied away. All I remember is sitting down and closing my eyes for what seemed like 2 seconds. I promptly started to sense that familiar wretching feeling. I covered my mouth but my legs were being controlled by someone else so couldnt get up to rush to the toilet. thus the sick only had one place to go- I covered my mouth with both hands but somehow the sick went behind me and there was a perfect outline of me drawn on to the wall. this freaked out the flat owner who started screaming- not good if you're tripping- I can remember thinking the only sensible thing was to set the room on fire. i then just sat the kitchen corner for a few hours having the worst experience of my life. police turned up, there were fights with the neighbours and all I could think of was that my soul was in that sick imprint of me and it needed to be burnt. luckily I wasnt capable of clapping let alone lighting a match. Havent done shrooms since.
(discowho?, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 12:48, 2 replies)

Happening now
Being sick while typing away at your computer's keyboard can hsijeicowieijijhbjsbckajc////////////////////////////////////////////////
( petuniadb, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 12:33, Reply)

Thinking about Iris Robinson having sex with a teenager.
johnmoynes.com/2010/01/12/the-most-evil-thing-the-germans-ever-did/
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 12:02, Reply)

Guinness.
I was drinking with my friend D. in one of our regular haunts. Another friend, W., arrived just before 'time' was called and bought himself three pints of draught Guinness before taking a seat at out table. We talked and supped; but it wasn't long before Scowling-Arse, the barman, was wandering about encouraging people to, "drink-up" or, "do your talking while you're walking". We weren't in any particular hurry to leave; after all, there had been around four and a half pints on our table before W had added his to the collection. Scowling-Arse was hovering around us, dropping hints like hot rivets; he cleaned the over-sized ceramic ash-tray that dominated our table and treated us to that special scowl - the one that says, "don't you dare dirty that up again". We were immune to his miserable behaviour, secure in the knowledge that it was our god-given right to be the last ones out of any establishment we cared to grace with our presence. Eventually things got a bit ugly. D. and I were down to the dregs, but W still had a full pint of Guinness in front of him.
"Either get that down your neck or it's going down the drain." challenged Scowling-Arse. W. looked at him contemptuously, stood up and literally poured the beer down his open throat in one go, before handing Scowling-Arse the empty glass. D. and I were impressed; but W. had one more trick up his sleeve: flexing his knees, he opened his mouth and puked the beer smack-bang into the centre of the ash-tray. Large as it was, it still wasn't big enough, and the vomited ale overflowed, across the table and down onto the carpet.
"Happy now?" asked W before walking out.

Personally, I was very impressed - not only was the regurgitated beer totally 'sans carrot', but what remained in the ash-tray slowly formed that familiar Guinness 'head'.
(minimalist ..., Tue 12 Jan 2010, 11:26, 2 replies)

Orange Lucozade
I had a stomach bug on the day which I came home from my first year of University, and I was shitting and puking every 10 minutes like a hyper Cocker Spaniel. Well, as my parents came to help me move some of my effects, as well as many other like-minded parents, my darling mother bought me some Lucozade of the orange variety. I knew I could only drink it once that my stomach can hold anything other than 10 minutes worth of my own saliva.

During the following evening I decided I was perking up quite nicely, after all it was a 24 hour bug and I knew I'd be shut before long and I was tired of having a vomity toothpastey aftertaste in my mouth [and all through my nose]. I was now eyeing up my newly acquired 1 litre bottle of Lucozade and I knew the drinking of which was imminent. I took the plunge and had about a 1/3 of said bottle in my first sample. After taking the bottle from my lips I felt the Lucozade filling my stomach and settling. After letting out a tremendous belch, I sat back down in my bed and continued watching a DVD of I'm Alan Partridge and drinking my Lucozade feeling very happy with myself that I was getting over my recent ailment and I can indulge in sticky, sugary drinks once again.

A few episodes of the cringe-worthy Alan Partridge later, I began to feel distinctly unsettled in the old stomach region. This began to gradually get worse and I thought I'd stand up, and see if it was because I've been lying on my back for at least 2 hours with a stomach full of sugary liquids. As soon as I stood up I felt the old familiar creeping feeling in the bottom of my stomach and had to bolt for the communal toilets [nb. living in Halls of Residence]. En route to the females toilets [It was a male section of the block, and the toilet always been used by blokes] I began the inevitable vomiting. After leaving a few small puddles I burst into the stall and vomited violently on and off for about 30 seconds until my stomach was nice and empty again. The taste of Orange Lucozade coming up after spending about an hour in your stomach is very much the same as it was going down. Just flatter, warmer and mixed in with a small amount of acids and saliva. It was actually quite pleasant and after a spout of vomiting, your stomach feels so much better.

After a flush of the toilet, I decided I needed to empty myself in another fashion and proceeded to take care of the other runny end due to all the forcing. When I was taking care of my business, the door opened and my heart sank. I was sat on the pot, just with a pair of boxers round my ankles, with a layer of sweat, stinking of hot sick and general illness.. Last thing I wanted to do was talk to someone, and the lads down this block had a general trick of standing on the adjacent toilets seat and have a look over at people doing what-ever needed to be done with their phones ready. Anyway, it appeared to be a lady as I heard her clear her throat and rattle about a bit turning on the taps and reeling out the towel on the machine to dry her hands. It appears she was only washing her hands.. I was relieved as she opened the door on her departure.. And I heard her say, with a hint of shock in her voice, as the door was opened to her assumed spouse "It smells lovely in there! A right citrusy orange!"..

Little did she know, the little puddles on the floor were puke and a matter of feet away was a guy on the pot after bringing up 1 litre of Orange Lucozade shivering like a shiting dog.
(Jon_LTD Treat the world like a head!, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 10:51, 2 replies)

The Rock and Roll Lifestyle
While at school, a couple of mates and I decided to form a band. The reality of this meant little more than occasionally letting ourselves into the music block at lunchtimes and making a bit of a din. Clearly, this would not be an option over the summer break, which meant we needed somewhere else to practice for nine weeks or so.

My parents presented a partial solution to this problem when they announced a family holiday in Scotland. I pointed out that I had coursework to write, and so couldn't possibly go. They accepted this. I rang my bandmates and told them the good news. I had the house to myself for a while. They should come over one night for a practice session. Hurrah!

Of course, little happened in the way of musicianship. Wine, however, was taken. It was a fun evening, but we eventually decided to call it a night; I had been a good enough host to prepare beds for my mates.

Around stupid o'clock in the morning, there was a knock on my bedroom door. H was standing there holding what looked like a sack of some sort. "I've had a bit of an accident..." he simpered. Having lost the evening's wine, he'd gathered up the bedclothes to act as a reservoir, and was at a loss as to what to do next. He stood on the landing like a sicky Santa.

Obviously, I also had little idea of what to do next. The obvious solution? Chuck the chuck onto the patio and worry about it in the morning. Which we did. And all was well.

However, I'm glad that my parents' garden has plenty of trees in and around it. Without them, the neighbours' view over their cereals that bright summer morning would have been of my mates holding a blanket out like a flag while I used a hosepipe to get rid of the toxic mixture of takeaway, Shiraz and quite a lot of bile.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 10:45, Reply)

Roasted Peas, Anyone?
This is the only decent puke story I have. Well, I say decent, the memory of it still grosses me rightthefuckout.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 9:26, Reply)

sea legs
Meself and a bunch of mates from uni took a month`s sabbatical to do an interrail in Europe. I`d never been on anything more seagoing than the woolwich ferry before.
The weather forecast at Harwich was a bit rough.
We`d got on the ferry early having gone for a beer in Harwich( that`s a stunning place for pubs near the docks) and I needed a pee. As I entered the gents I could hear "shit,fuck, bastard" and a guy was washing a teeshirt and himself in the sink,covered in puke. You alright mate? "no i`m fucking not"

Turned out he`d poked his head over the barrier to look at the guys retracting all the gangways as we were casting off and someone on the deck above had puked gallons and the wind blew it all over him, just on the swell in the harbour.

As we got out the weather worsened to eventually force 9, and you started hearing really odd drim-drum-drum noises which stopped after the announcement that the stabilisers had been turned off as they were coming out of the water!

I have a photo somewhere of a horizon at 30degrees and the intrepids all at an angle with beer level out on the deck with it pissing down.
"ah English".
We all had our sea legs thank god.

Holland was due in at about 5am, and at about 11pm they had a film on in the cinema ( about at the centre of mass and rotation) the film was Blue thunder, so there is us lot and about 6 others in a 100 or so seat place.

Hmmmm It`s about a police special attack helicopter, about 5 or 10 minutes in there is a helicopter chase with loops in. OH DEAR!
There were some funny noises from people then and only myself and phil from our party were left in an empty cinema, the seats were quite comfy for a kip ( we saved dosh by not booking cabins) at about 3am we got chucked out and saw the trails of puke all over the carpet.

There was vomit everwhere or the smell of it.

Nice.
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 4:51, Reply)

not coming
sorry I was not coming out of both ends, it was coming.......BIG DIFFERENCE11111111
(evilck, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 4:14, 4 replies)

25th Birthday
Went to my favourite Irish pub in Saint John, NB for my birthday. The night began with single Rusty Nails ( scotch and drambui ) and ended with the band buying me some of many doubles I had downed . After a great night of Dancing and singing and much merriment I returned home. Soon after I was praying to the porcelin god to kill me. I was coming out of both ends, and in the process managed to burst a bunch of blood vessels in my eye. I remember thinking that 25 was not going so well that far!! It was almost 10 years before I had another Rusty Nail!
(evilck, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 4:13, Reply)

Seafood
Back in the early autumn we booked a rather last-minute holiday in a delightful little cottage in Normandy. We've been to northern France a few times over the last few years, but never got around to seeing Mont Saint-Michel, so I was quite keen that we'd get there this time.

Our cottage was right on the south side of Normandy, so it was a fair drive up to the coast, but we arrived to a rather blustery but otherwise fine day. Wandered around the town for a bit, and finally decided that some lunch wouldn't go amiss.

There isn't a lot of choice for places to eat in Mont Saint-Michel, and what is there is a bit pricey - up to that point we'd been good with the spending money though, so thought we might treat ourselves. Another thing on the to-do list was the 'assiette de fruits de mer' - a massive plate of mostly recently deceased sealife which I was keen to try. Theirs was a particularly impressive platter - it looked like enough for a family of five or six, and it was all mine.

Of course it was actually mostly shell and other inedible bits, and very fiddly to extract some of it, but eventually I was done - we paid and made our way back to the car park for the journey home.

We stopped at a supermarket on the way home to pick up a few provisions, and that's when I knew - the seafood was not staying down. I wasn't feeling properly sick, just sort of... odd. I looked around for a toilet - nothing. At this point we had about forty miles back to the cottage - little roads through little towns with very low speed limits.

Now I'm funny about being ill - I hate people making a fuss of me. I also didn't want to alarm the other passengers - Miss Photon and her little sister - so I decided that the best plan was not to mention how I was feeling. We returned to the car, and I started driving, watching the miles count down agonisingly slowly.

The closer we got, the worse I felt. I could feel the burbling - I knew it was going to be bad. I'd started feeling clammy with fifteen miles left - somehow I'd managed to just about convince myself that I didn't feel ill, it was just a figment of my imagination, then I'd go over a bump and the illusion was shattered. Five miles to go, and the sweat was trickling down my neck, and I knew it was going to be close. Very close.

We made it, just. I was out of the car, through the front door, grabbed the washing up bowl (chundering into a sink is a rookie error) and got to the bathroom with less than ten seconds to spare before my digestive tract performed some mathematically interesting transformations. I genuinely wanted to die for about twenty minutes - apparently the noises echoing around the cottage were quite horrific - and finally emerged an hour or so later, feeling very fragile, but otherwise a lot better. I was just about back to normal twenty-four hours later.

We had to buy a new washing up bowl - couldn't get the smell out of the old one.
(Photon wasting your time since, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 1:42, Reply)

Phone Sicks.
My girlfriend just rang me from uni.
Shes was very drunk and i could tell she was going to be sick, because her breathing got heavy, so i asked her to hang up the phone before.
She didn't.
I heard it all...
There must have been Loads of it.
Im blaming this QOTW for tempting fate.
Length? about 2 mins of puking and 2 mins of retching
(Margatemug, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 0:36, 2 replies)