The one time I ever remember taking a day off school for sickness
I was about 5, and my mum dropped me off at school. I hung my coat up, all that, and wandered into school assembly, slightly late so everyone was already standing in the assembly room. (This was also the classroom, and the dining room. It was a tiny school).

I hadn't been feeling well, and as I got to the very centre of the crowd, felt my stomach start to kick. I tried to hold it, but to no avail. I threw up what appeared to my small, child-like eyes to be a lake of vomit, completely coating a large patch of floor, where several students had been standing but managed to jump out the way.

There was a silence, and then one of the teachers said I should probably go home. She went to get my coat.

Upon returning, she asked why I hadn't told anyone I'd already been sick in the cloakroom. Which I had.
(Pavlov'sDog is all out of pavlova, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 17:55, 1 reply)

Drinking game ends in demolition
1st Post, be gentle, etc.

Casting my mind back to freshers week of my 1st year of university, the year was 1998 and I was a typical long haired metaller. I was not uninitiated in the ways of beer but new to drinking games. The hall bar had set up a circle of chairs on the stage, with a large black plastic bin in the middle for the purpose of having people play drinking games as a spectator sport. The bin was for when someone inevitably puked. There was some form of prize involved for the last man standing. A few of the people I would soon call friends, myself and some others from our hall went on stage to play.

~~~ wavey lines to mark passage of time ~~~

I was drunk, very drunk and not feeling good. The drinking game was going on around me still but I had little idea what was happening. It was like I was watching it though a wall of water. Then I had that spinning feeling in my stomach that I had come to know would mean I was soon going to be sick. I had a particularly useful ability to projectile vomit when I was sick. I developed this ability to get the nasty process over with quickly and avoid getting it in my hair or on my clothes. I stood up suddenly, and as described by my friend Sam who was also playing the drinking game, produced a very sudden and perfect pressure hose like blast of vomit into the bin. Staggering somewhat, I left the stage, feeling a little better to head to the toilets. Now the journey involved a short walk, where I paused occasionally as my vision swam around, I headed out the bar and into the hall. The toilets where at the bottom of a short flight of wooden stairs.

Suddenly, my vision zoomed in on the bottom of the stairs then snapped back to it's usual state like a cheap effect from a late night B movie. My head swam and my stomach didn't like it one bit. A second blast of hose powered vomit left my body and spread itself down the stairs. I felt better, a lot better, sober even. The stairs, I suspect felt otherwise. Luckily, the bar manager had followed me out as I looked particularly bad and handed me a mop and bucket to clean the stairs. They always had one on standby when doing drinking games. I did a reasonable job of cleaning and then wobbled my way back to my bed.

A couple of days later at breakfast the bar manager approaches me and informs me that the morning after my redocoration of the stairs building inspectors were due in. They mistook the odd smell of the stairs for the wood rotting and ordered them to be ripped out and rebuilt. I was personally responsible for costing the hall of residence one flight of stairs, luckily, the bar manager was also a student and thought it was funny, so he didn't tell anyone. :) I went on to work behind the bar.

Length? About 15 steps.
(Wheeljack, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 17:49, Reply)

Why I don't like fruit
From a very young age, I haven’t liked fruit. I can drink fresh orange and apple juice, but I cannot eat the fruit itself. It’s partly a texture thing, and partly a smell thing. I cannot, for example, stand the smell of pineapple; it encourages my gag reflex to go into an enthusiastic spasm. One night I grabbed a slice of pizza from the bar of our local during the regular Tuesday night acoustic showcase, thinking it was ham and cheese – it wasn’t, and I spent the next five minutes retching like a supermodel and trying to disguise the taste in my mouth by downing my pint as quickly as I could and helping myself to crisps from the bar.

Strawberries, or rather, the smell of them, give me a headache. I discovered this on a strawberry picking trip with my ex and mother in law. I always used to get dragged along on these expeditions, on account of how not liking the damned things gave me a distinct advantage when it came to picking them. In other words, I’d have three punnets done by the time that they had filled half of one due to the “one for the pot, three for me” rule. Being outdoors wasn’t the problem, as the fresh air negated any aroma. No, the headache inducing bit was discovered on a trip home in the car with six freshly filled punnets of strawberries sitting proudly on the parcel shelf. By the time I got home I had the mother of all headaches from the smell of those little red bastards and had to lie down.

This all arose, I think, from a life changing experience in a primary school dining hall. I’ve been a good boy, and eaten all my dinner. Sat there, with the school regulation plastic apron on (in case of spillages), I’m looking at the dessert which has been presented to me and am steadfastly refusing to eat it. It’s fruit salad, with ice cream. OK, I can manage the ice cream, but the fruit salad is just sitting there, looking squishy and slimy and a really horrible shade of orange. It smells funny, too. I really don’t want to eat it, but all of my friends are leaving the dining hall, and teacher is looking at me, miming putting a spoon to his mouth. What he was really saying was “Hurry up, you little shit, the teachers want to have their dinner in peace without the noise of 100 screaming five year olds ringing in their ears”. I shake my head. He repeats the mime. I shake my head again. The dining hall is now empty. He does the mime again, pleading with his eyes, but determined not to let me leave until I’ve emptied my plate because times are hard and waste is bad.

I look at him, then at the bowl. There’s not much, I can do this. Spoon in hand, and sweating like Gary Glitter with Michael Jackson’s address book, I go in for the kill. Two swift motions ensure the contents of the bowl don’t last long. I look at the teacher; he gives a motion with his head that says, “Well done, now fuck off.” I push my chair back and make for the exit. Which just happens to be situated right next to the teacher’s table.

As I’m approaching the door, I feel that familiar gut rumbling and sudden rush of saliva to the mouth… instinct kicks in, and I speed up, hoping to get to the toilets in time. Speeding up just makes things worse as the contents of my five year old belly just jiggle about dangerously. I’m next to the teacher’s table now. Please, don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be… too late. I can’t control it anymore. I have the presence of mind to lean forward and place my hands beneath my plastic apron, fashioning it into a rudimentary bucket, and… BLOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHH! What seems like gallons of undigested fruit and ice cream and whatever was for dinner ejects itself forcibly, raining down into the makeshift plastic bucket and making a ferocious drumming sound as it does… The teachers are not impressed but owing to the duty of care they have, are forced to get me to the toilets in order to be able to dispose of the offending effluent. So I’m led away, still bent over, still holding my apron as a bucket, sick slopping over the sides, recoiling from the smell, and crying for my mum.

And that’s why I don’t like fruit.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Wed 13 Jan 2010, 16:53, 2 replies)

Close, but no cigar.
I held it for the entire assembly, too shy to leave in front of the whole school, only then to be berated by every pupil & teacher that I tried to barge past in the vain hope of making it to the toilet in time. My efforts were poor and I coughed lumps all over the IT room doorway, coating the corridor that the majority of the school would still need to file along.

The episode worsened when one poor soul slipped and landed in it, covering his freshly washed uniform in my chunky yawn. He floundered and flopped about in my rancid gut custard and was disgusted to the point that he too barked breakfast all down himself.

There was to be no IT class that day; I wasn't a popular boy.
( Moey, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 15:11, 1 reply)

Toking and Choking
Back in the primordial mists of time, when I was still a wacky and zany student, a disproportionately large part of my time was devoted not to the intellectual pursuit of study, but the significantly less noble aim of getting as stoned out of my gourd as humanly possible.

On one of many such mind-expanding excursions, a friend of mine inadvertently stumbled across some particularly lethal skunk, which had the unexpected side-effect of making every partaker of said lethal substance the unwitting recipient of uncontrollable manic laughter.

All it took was one of us to erupt in convulsions of hysterical giggling, and within seconds a room of eight post-adolescent cosmonauts were reduced to quivering mounds of hydroponic jelly.

I must confess, for the first five minutes, this was all rather spiffing good fun, until one of my similarly intoxicated pals started pointing at me and began exclaiming “Oh my god, look at him go, look at him go, he’s turning green!”

This rejoinder was soon taken up by every other member of the group. Whether or not I had quite literally turned green, to this day I know not, but nevertheless the power of auto-suggestion began to weave its insidious spell upon me, and I rapidly began to feel decidedly queasy.

My hysterical laughter rapidly began to degenerate into fits of coughing, choking and finally, retching.

This rapidly broke the spell of hysteria which had hitherto swathed the room. One by one, my friends ceased their manic laughter to watch the curious spectacle unfold.

Just as the first gobbet of vomit appeared through my pursed lips, miraculously, as if from nowhere, an empty cereal bowl appeared in the hand of my best friend’s girlfriend, the only occupant of the room who had prudently chosen to remain unstoned.

The group watched, rapt with attention, as I serenely proceeded to fill the cereal bowl with lumpy puke the colour and consistency of cold Ready Brek.

As if by magic, my spontaneous fit of regurgitation ceased just as the vomit began lapping the very upper rim of the bowl, filling it completely.

After a few seconds of complete silence which seemed like an eternity, the entire room burst into a round of warm applause, as I took a round of solemn bows, with clumps of soggy vomit clinging stubbornly to my Shaggy-from-Scooby-Doo length goatee, to enthusiastic cheers of “Beard! Beard! Look at the beard!”

I’ve been clean shaven ever since.
(tricyclic_looper, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 14:04, Reply)

Fame at last
I was at a porn shoot giving a blowjob when the dope, crack and Southern Comfort welled up into one enormous barf, which was caught on camera. The picture is now very famous. My mum's real proud.
( petuniadb, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 13:44, 11 replies)

REPOST ALERT
I can assure you dear reader that this is not just your average tale of pissing/puking in the cupboard, shoes, plant pot etc.... But a tale of sleepwalking lessons learned at the expense of my future dignity.

I was 18 many moons ago and I was at my first ever house party with some mates. Up until this point in my life I had never got drunk or stoned and If you know me you'll know that I have a taste for the finer alcoholic beverages in life, beer and vodka can get fucked, I'm a fine whiskey man. We arrive at said house party with cheap booze (skol, hofmiester etc...) with the strictest intention of nicking everyone else's better quality booze. I find some quality whiskey in the garage and decide I'm gonna have a eloquent evening with whiskey, cigars and cheap floozies. But my mate 'sir snikpo' wants to have a downing competition with the expensive whiskey which I advise him is not a good idea but we duly finish the large bottle very quickly and this is where my memory ends.......

The story continues from what I've been told by witnesses testimonies..... Turns out I go on the rampage at this party and thus causing all sorts of havoc. The pinnacle I've been told is when I started juggling eggs blindfolded with own sock and inevitably made a horrible mess of the carpet and my head. Allegedly I collapsed not long after this and my mates were accused of giving me drugs and promptly thrown out of the party. I was then shipped home to the folks who were not best pleased to see there first born in such a state. The old man drags me up to bed to sleep it off and dumps me there, oh and did I mention it was only half ten in the evening at this point.

This is where the fun starts. In my sleepy drunken state I somehow managed take all my clothes off, throw up over myself, piss everywhere and shit the bed. But I had also fallen asleep in this foul pit of stench and disease. Not long later my parents and little bro and sis got the shock of their lives about an hour or so after putting me to bed. I had sleepwalked bollock naked covered in shit, piss and vomit from my attic bedroom to the garden where I picked up the hosepipe walked into the house and then on into the living room where my family were watching TV, and all the time snoring my head off like an elephant with sinus problems.

My father picked up and took me into the garden and showered me and I still didn't wake up. My mother sorted out the bedding while my fucking complete toss rag of a sister documented the whole affair on video camera. The next day I felt like shit but could not remember a dam thing, my mum gave a right telling off while my dad was behind her pissing himself (I think he had done something similar in the past). After many years of searching the video remains elusive and has been locked away somewhere just waiting to show its ugly head at some sort of function that concerns me. bugger!!!!!!!

Never sleepwalked since but i talk a lot of bollocks in my sleep allegedly

No apologies for length cause I'm blessed
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 13:11, Reply)

The lump.
I think this takes place in about year 4. I think that would have made me about 8 or 9 years old. Anyway, I was in class, learning about history. I was sitting next to a girl who I'm now very good friends with, which makes this story something I constantly remind her of. Anyway, it was about January, when we're all a little miserable, and flu-ey. But her, she looked positively death-like. Pale complexion, ruffled hair, sunken eyes, and an interesting tinge of green in her cheeks. As soon as she walked in that day, we all pretty much guaranteed what the first thing she said would be. "Miiiiss...I don't feel very weeeeell...", In the usual sing-song voice that teachers encouraged us to address them in, although it was nothing more than a parody of its usual alleged sweetness this time. "It's okay, Samantha. It'll just be the flu. Sit down next to almightyjoey, and let me know if you feel any worse". So she did.

It's worth mentioning that when I was a kid, I was a little emetophobic. I've since gotten over it completely, but as a kid, just the mention of vomit would freak me out. It started when my dad said he had a bad stomach, and taken some alka-seltzers one day when I was young. Next thing I remember was hearing the man I looked up to vomiting for about an hour, making noises that I would imagine a dying buffalo squeezing its stomach through its throat would make. Ergo, when Samantha sat next to me, I was a little uneasy. It didn't help when she was occasionally retching and "ulp"ing during the lesson.

After a while, perhaps as close as 10 minutes to lunch break, I had completely forgotten about Sam's illness. She stopped making horrid chundering noises, and I was getting quite engrossed in the lesson. Then, I had a cruel reminder. She started to wave her arms frantically under her seat, and made a guttural "Blurgh" noise in her throat. I looked at her (with a freaked out expression, I imagine) and she looked back. "I'm going to be sick" was all she said. Then everything went in slow motion.

Her arm raised. I edged my seat slowly away from her. The teacher turned to us. "What is i--" was all the teacher could say before this flowing, cascading torrent of beige erupted out of Sam's mouth. Right from the "Blurgh", I'd knew this was coming, so I was completely on edge. As soon as her face exploded with tan-hued goo, I dove out of my chair. I don't mean stood up, or walked away from the chair, I mean, I literally leapt out of my seat with enough force that I actually hurt my hip when I hit the floor. When I was leaping, I could hear Sam's gurgling and spewing, as well as the entire class's gasps, "Urgh!"'s and retches.

The next thing I remember was me standing back up, and examining the damage. The desk, and carpet in front of it was completely soaked and stinking. Seriously, this chunder must have shot out of her a good 3 feet. Surprisingly, the class was looking at me. Some were smiling, and some were quite shocked. The latter's expressions worried me, so I looked at my legs, hands, sides and back, thinking I might have been covered in puke. Thank God, I was not. I looked over to my teacher, who pointed at my ass. Confused, I looked at it, and you know what was there? A lone lump of sick, barely even a carrot chunk, stuck to the back of my school pants. How the fuck that got there, I have no idea. The homing missile of school vomits.
(almightyjoey is most likely listening to Electric Wizard on, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 13:10, Reply)

My messiest...
Was in my final year of University. Everything was done. Exams over, coursework complete, all that remained was to wait for term to 'officially' finish, so cleaning and leaving could commence.

One of my housemates had helped organise a student night out for medics, and as a reward, he was allowed to take home a box of white wine that had remained at the end of the evening (surprising, I know.) He kindly offered it to the house, allowing us to dive in and drink as we wished. It was free, after all, and besides he much preferred the taste of proper blokey beer to the fine, sophisiticated taste of cheap white.

Hence, me and one of my flatmates started at it - from 6pm to 9pm we drank about 2.5 bottles each, and were quite merry. My speech was slurred, but laying down most of the evening had masked how inebriated I was. Alas, I felt good enough, and had an early night at 10pm or so.

4.00am. I awake feeling most... unwell. "It's only a hangover" I thought, thereby keeping everything inside. And I did.

4.30am. I feel increasingly nauseous and dizzy, but just about hold on.

5.00am. "Maybe I should go to the bathroom, feel like I might throw up any minute... No, David! Stay strong! It's all in your mind!" I assured myself, and so I stayed in bed.

5.15am. The heavens open. Without even a chance of making it to the bathroom - or even out of my room - I lean over from my bed and throw up all over the floor, fortunately avoiding my trainers.

5.16am. I throw up over the floor again, and in my trainers.

5.17am. I let my bed covers know how I feel.

5.18am. I see a patch of carpet! No longer...

5.19am. Take that, bedside table!

And so on.

Come 8.00am, I was feeling much better - and headed downstairs to see how my flatmate was.

His room was pristine! I couldn't believe it. He'd maintained his dignity. Not a drop of vomit anywhere. How did he contain 2.5 bottles of cheap wine? Did he throw up at all? Or did he make it to the bathroom in time?

"How did you keep it all in?"

"I didn't", he said, pointing to the washbasin in his room, which was filled to the brim with vomit, the plughole blocked by it. "Is your washbasin full too?"

Of course, the washbasin in my room - why didn't I think of that?!

"Not at all - it's pristine!", I replied (much to his amazement), before heading back to my room, sponge in hand, ready to spend the next 4 hours removing vomit from carpet, clothes, shoes, electronics, bed covers, sheets... everything within splashing distance.

I no longer class white wine as 'sophisticated' and make a mental note of all available sinks and washbasins prior to drinking the stuff.
( johnsto, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:49, Reply)

I once
threw up pea soup all over Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal.
(lanternchikk hat eine schwere Bohlenallergie, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:49, Reply)

Enviro-alcho-mentalism
I was volunteering for an environmental organisation at Glastonbury festival. One particular role involved dressing up as an endangered animal and shaking a bucket. Our festival frazzled brains figured that as the endangered animal thing has kinda been done to death, we would spice it up a little by being pissed off vagrant animals, angry at human's destruction of our homes and dealing with the pain by self medication. I was a slutty tiger, hustling the festival lanes with a bottle of vodka (cunningly filled with water) and makeup smeared face.

It was a hot and bright afternoon, and as lairy acting is not my usual forte, a swift pint of home brew cider was agreed upon to get us in the mood. The cider was a bit hairy but I chugged mine down and then launched out into the afternoon crowd. I growled, I waved my bucket, bottle of vodka and furry bottom at bemused festival goers, all going ok but as we were still in the vicinity of the green fields, I had also gathered a small crowd of confused children. Who were even more confused as out of no-where I projectile vomited that pint of cider right back up and out, thankfully missing the kids but a hand knitted yurt, not so lucky.

I was spewing, laughing so hard I could barely walk while trying to escape the gathered crowd of unimpressed hippies, explaining that I wasn't really a drunk tiger - I'm just pretending (but you should avoid the wind turbine man's homebrew cider) and trying to rinse my face and mouth out with my vodka bottle of water.

Unsurprisingly it didn't go down too well and Trixie the whore Tiger was hustled away and never seen again.
(AmiBambini, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:28, Reply)

There's something in the toilet
In 1990 (20 years ago? Fuck!) I worked here, as a 'tour guide', which involved pointing at old things and lying. I was paid the mighty sum of £2.30 an hour, with which I did what any bored 17-year-old in the wastes of northern Scotland would do: spent it on booze and dead things masquerading as kebabs.

My initiation into the world of pubs, drunks and hangovers started at the easy-listening end: Guinness and whisky. I decided quite quickly that I didn't like either, but I also decided I didn't want to be called a poof for drinking anything else. So down it went.

One evening I was introduced to what my mates called a 'Robert Johnson' - Guinness with Bailey's. This made Guinness much more palatable for me, so I had more than I should. I can't remember how I got home, but when I woke up the next morning I felt like a pig had shat in my head, and I had to go to work.

Off I went on my moped (top speed 29.8 mph) and I expect I was still over the limit, but I got there in one piece but feeling worse because my stomach had been lurching about on the way.

Anyway, I was on duty in the blue bedroom (four-poster bed, watercolours, Victorian/Edwardian furniture). As the morning went on I felt worse and worse, to the point where standing up began to make me want to throw up. Luckily it was quiet, so I decided to lie down. What if I lie down on the bed and fall asleep? I'll get the sack if anyone comes round. I know! I'll lie *under* the bed, nobody can see me there. So I did, and I fell asleep.

I woke myself up probably only a few minutes later with the urge to throw up. Looking out from underneath the valance, I make eye contact with the first visitor that's been round this morning. He looks at me blankly. "Er...I lost some money under here," I say weakly. I get out from under the bed and the room starts spinning uncontrollably, followed by my stomach. I have to go.

On the 2nd floor of the castle there is a nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian bathroom. It's part of the tour so it's never used as a bathroom. It's the nearest thing to receive the rising contents of my stomach. I kneel before the porcelain throne, with my foot on the door (there's no lock) so no-one can get in. Here it comes - the worst bit about being sick - the waiting. I am salivating like a dog with a hot sausage. Oh god, this must be how Robert Johnson died. Here it comes - WHAM. A massive spasmy gush of black stuff - and again. Christ. I am going to die like Robert Johnson and Elvis. Then - it's gone.

The damage is an extensive tarry black splat in the previously nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian WC. It's like a lumpy mix of soil, bitumen and treacle, and it stinks like cat shit. Thank fuck it didn't go on the carpet (who puts carpet in a bathroom? Victorians, that's who).

I wobblily get up to flush. Flush, I said. FLUSH. I pump the handle. FLUSH YOU FUCKER. There's no flush. It's a show bathroom only and there's a sign on the door saying so. Nothing works. FUCK. There's no water in the cistern. Bollocks. I turn the taps on. Dribbles, no good. The stink from the treacly sick monster is spreading.

I rush to the nearest water source, the staff kitchen on the 3rd floor. I come back with a teacup full of hot water.

The visitor who saw me under the bed is just coming out of the bathroom. He looks at me again. He clearly thinks the nightmare in the pan has come out of my arse.

It takes me half an hour to clean it, relaying teacupfuls of hot water. I have never touched Guinness since, but I have listened to a lot of Robert Johnson.
( Mighty Nibus who dares gins | @nibus, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:20, 2 replies)

Should old acquaintance be forgot....
It was the last day of term, Mrs Corbo therefore wanted to celebrate a few weeks off teaching. She chose to do so in the form of a Burns night, I was the designated driver.

4 hours later, at 70mph, the haggis festering in Mrs Corbo's gut was launched.

Have you ever wiped 4ft streaks of haggis vom off the side of a car at 3am?
Have you ever removed a door card to pick out haggis vom from the electric window mechanism?

Corbo has.

Poor Corbo.
(Corbo, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:16, Reply)

the curious journeys of puke
After a night of merry worship to Dionysos I was sitting in my train home, when suddenly an undeniable urge to recapitulate my liquid intake of the past hours caught me by surprise. Now, unlike many people who actually pronounce “hachooo” when they sneeze or the respective sound when barfing, I prefer to puke in silence. Only a quiet splash was heard, and seemed to go unnoticed in the various noises of the cart.

The brownish red colour of my puke, which for some reason did not worry me at all that evening, was nothing to look at really. Still, I could not divert my gaze off the smelly liquid as the train accelerated, and inertia drove the warm puddle underneath the seat in front of me. Just in time however, the next stop came to the rescue. That meant, that now the vomit was propelled into the opposite direction, and soon was gone from my observing view.

Again, I was surprised to hear no cry of horror from the seat behind me, and decided, this was the time to steal away from the scene.
Quite unexpectedly, I had no trouble standing up or walking straight. As I passed the seat in front of me, I could actually see the brownish red soup I had left heading right for the shoes of a lovely young lady. As she had noticed my stare I tried to give her a flirtatious smile, drawing her attention away from her feet.
It was then that my body decided to surprise me yet again, and I hiccupped another mouthful. Taken aback from this savage attack, I wasn’t able to contain it all within my spacious cheeks. A good portion was running down my chin, dripping on my shirt and surroundings. Needless to say, my attempt to wipe it off with a gesture that seemed to be saying “oh, something must have come out of nowhere and landed on my face. How come?” did no good.

In need to get rid of the rest, still deposited in my mouth, and also quite ashamed I got off the train, when I noticed that this had been the last train for tonight. So I had to find another way home, but that is a different story to tell.
( BringYourOwnParachute Meet me here on, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 11:22, Reply)

yesterday
i did a poo that smelled of sick
(little lord muthafuckin fauntleroy, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 11:17, 5 replies)

The Perfect Crime
Like most supermodels, I actually quite enjoy chucking up.

The part I hate is the clean up afterwards. You’re usually tanked up, the rooms spinning and you feel like you’re on a white knuckle ride at Disneyworld, you’re still dislodging the last chunks of belly batter from your throat and nose, wondering if a lump of carrot has somehow made it into your brain and you’ll die horribly within the next thirty-five minutes.

When I moved into my second house share in London I found myself in my new local, The Abbey on Kentish Town Road. Drink. Chat. Attempting to make a good impression on my new housemates, sizing up the possibilities of a potential fuck-buddy. (None: loads of blokes, a fat bird, and a really fit girl whose boyfriend was an expert in Tai Kwando and had a thing for hitting people who dared sneak a look at his girlfriend’s burgeoning funsacks).

So, I spent four or five hours getting to know everyone while renewing my intimate and unrelenting relationship with that fizzy, fair-headed temptress, Stella. Then we all went back to the house and disappeared off to our own rooms. I was knackered and went straight to bed. A little later I woke up, rushed to the impeccably-kept bathroom, wretched and spewed.

Then I turned the light on to assess the damage.

Oh, dear...

In my drunken state I’d managed – somehow, fuck knows how – to pebbledash the walls and floor in desiccated pepperoni pizza with a lager firming agent. I’d managed to puke everywhere except for down the fucking toilet. My new housemates would not be pleased. Not at all. Swaying about a bit, I ventured to the kitchen, found a mop and bucket, and set about cleaning up the mess. Took me fucking ages. But I did an impeccable job. Even managed to mask the smell of puke with bleach and Lynx Java so well I’d have happily kipped in the bathroom instead of my own room. When my work was done I tottered off to bed and slept like a baby on temazepam.

Next morning I get up, wonder into the kitchen. A couple of my new housemates are in there, they shoot me a twin-barrelled dirty look. Something’s not right. I try and make small talk, no joy. Then one of them, a lad named Paul, says: “Look, if you’re gonna make a mess in the bathroom at least have the decency to clean it up. We know it was you. The rest of us would never leave the bathroom in such a state.”

Hurt, I start to protest: “Dunno what you’re talking about, mate.” I’d cleaned up so fucking well you could’ve performed surgery in there, FFS!

Paul puts down his coffee and beckons me to follow him into the bathroom. I follow. Paul opens the bathroom door. The sparkly cleanliness of the place leaps out – it was so bright you had to wear shades to take a dump.

“See – no mess, nothing wrong here,” I protest, feeling a little pissed off.

Then Paul, soundlessly, raises his hand, forms a pointy finger, and... points... up...

I follow the finger to the ceiling...

Well, fuck me – I never knew vomit could travel vertically and actually stick in place so well. It looked like someone had got Salvador Dali in to do a bit of random avant garde artexing.

I tried to think of a way out, an excuse, some clever, devious Machiavellian mechanism to make myself seem amazing and incredible and somehow make Paul appear like a thick, moronic pleb. I thought long and hard until the silence was unbearable and uncomfortable, the two of us gazing up at the ceiling from a Saw movie.

Then I sagged “I’ll go and get the mop,” I said.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 10:48, 2 replies)

Horses
Fact: Horses are not able to vomit.

snipurl.com/u2duy (NSFW for some)

[They can only make really long buggers with their elongated faces]
(unicornflakes, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 9:49, 8 replies)

camping during my teenage years
really meant getting drunk outside then passing out in a tent. On one occasion this also included an early morning lesson in the difference between solid and liquid , specifically when Andy passed out and spent a restless night tossing and turning in it, his vomit was liquid but when he woke up with a spikey hair style and crusty face , the two inch plug of goo he pulled out of his nostril was solid .
Happy days
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 9:39, Reply)

Student days
No, this is not one of those "i got totally ratarsed and spewed blue puke lol" posts. This is a tale about MAGIC MUSHROOMS.

During a period of October whilst in my student dossing about period a number of us - friends of a chap I'll simply refer to as Mushroom King - did what many many people have done in the past, and I'm sure will do for years ad infinitum. We took magic mushrooms. A lot of them in a very short space of time. MK knew a place where they grew and he went and picked thousands of them. Every day he went and every day he returned with another box of the little fellas. And every day we boiled them up and made tea with them.

By day 6 of almost solid hallucinogen abuse things were starting to get a little strange as you can imagine, even when not directly under the effect of the shrooms the edges of reality were starting to become a little frayed - although we were young and we figured we could take it.

Each day I would venture to my friends house, where the mushroom merriment took place - think of it as a temple - the uninitiated were inducted there, usually causing small amounts of vomiting, whether it was the hallucinogenic properties or the fact that traces of cowshit were making their way into the tea I dont know.

Anyway, back to the 6th day - by this time I was heavily enjoying the effects so as normal i made my way to MKs temple. I stopped on the way at a kebab shop to pick up a large portion of donner meat and chips. Eating this en route, I arrived at the house pretty much at the same point as I finished my feast. On knocking the door and being ushered in, a cup of the potent brew was thrust into my hands, which i eagerly downed. For anyone not familiar with shrooms, the effects take a while to kick in, your body has to digest the tea of course, so after finishing the cupful I decided to pop out to the local garage to grab some fags and a drink for later. Whilst there I started to come up on the shrooms, which was a whole crazy experience in itself in an all night garage but I digress.

On the short walk back to the house I felt an odd sensation in my stomach. Not deep down, but right at the top, the bit that feels full when you overeat. Of course by this point I wasnt in my right mind, so the odd sensation, not pain, just strange, made me start to laugh. As I'm laughing, I start to vomit - i'm in the street, alone, maybe 50 yards from the house, laughing and vomiting. The real problem, is that the vomit is pretty solid since I hadnt long stuffed myself. Chunks of chewed but virtually undigested meat and chips are coming up my throat and I'm still laughing, the horror being that I cant breathe and I'm still laughing, the laughter not composed of normal human laughter but whoops of noise as my body desperately tries to suck air into its system and cant, wracked with body pains which spur my laughter on more, my throat is blocked with a solid mass of food and i start to panic, my brain screaming as my body still tries to laugh, i'm digging in my throat, pulling out chunks and rolling on the floor purple faced, digging, digging, heaving, crying, laughing, screaming. Finally, after an eternity it subsides. I'm taking great gasps of air as the blockage is finally cleared with heaves and scraping the food out of my throat.

Shakily i got to my feet and headed for the house. The trip proceeded as it normally did, and afterwards I went home. I'd like to say that was the last time I ever did shrooms. But the next night I went back for another cup.
(kebabking - salad and garlic mayo pls, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 9:35, 6 replies)

Best & Worst
I have two short stories to tell.. First time poster, be gentle!

One concerns the time I consider my 'best,' memory of vomiting and the other my 'worst.'

My worst experience began, as I'm sure these vomit stories so often do, with a party. Not just any party - a 17th birthday party with an open bar. It was in a shitty pub in one of the Medway towns - Gillingham perhaps - and was upstairs in a function room which had seen better days. I can't recall whose birthday party it even was, I can just recall that a bunch of my mates from school were there including a bloke called Jon. Jon was a nice bloke but had been bullied about his weight at school and had a number of family issues including an alcoholic father. Jon turned out to be an alcoholic himself and so suffice to say he could knock plenty of booze back and the rest of us would not be able to keep up. For some reason I ended up at the bar with him and we started matching drinks.

At the time, for some reason, Aftershock was all the rage. I'm sure you are all aware of these foul concoctions which at the time were 40% and came in three varieties - blue, red and black. We started punishing these pretty heavily interspacing our conversation with typical teenage angst and discussing who we would like to fuck and then confessing undying love for half the people we knew who wore skirts.

Another mate's Grandad had kindly offered to pick us up from this party to take us home and the time soon came around where we had to stop propping up the bar and make our way back to the barn. I was feeling pretty fucking drunk but at this point was still relatively aware of my faculties.

On the way back I was starting to feel a little worse for wear. For some reason, the motion of a car journey does not seem to agree with me when I am terribly drunk - it wasn't that the Grandad was driving badly, it was just that any motion left or right felt like being in a bathtub rolling in the pacific ocean. I was in the back on the drivers side and started looking out the window, trying to concentrate on something else to make me forget my current predicament. Predictably, suddenly, and without warning, I felt the bile rise in my throat. There was no time to shout a warning or ask the Grandad to pull over - projectile vomit was imminent and I just managed to get the electric window down in time to stick my head out. The next 5 seconds is played back in slow motion in my mind: The sudden relief of all the alcohol and party nibbles flowing out of me; the burning on the back of my throat; watching the vomit in a nice, neat stream flow out of my mouth; the momentof horror when it stopped flowing away from me and did a U-turn.

The vomit went all over my face, up my nose, back into my mouth. It went all over my arm which was dangling out the window. It went all over me t-shirt and over the inside of the car.

The car suddenly swerved off of the dual carriageway onto the hard shoulder. Whilst I was dribbling down my front I remembered that this mate's Grandad was particularly proud of his car and temper prone. I feared the worst. As the car stopped his door opened and I expected to be hauled out in order to finish blowing chunks on the side of the road. Instead he got out, put his hands on his knees and bent over, tears streaming down his face and literally pissing himself with laughter.

------------------------

My worst experience was bad for me, because I got coated in my own vomit. My Best experience isn't particularly good for me either, but when I reflect on it now it makes me laugh every time.

Again I was at a party, again I was probably about 17 but this time it was a house party.

My recollection of the night is fairly hazy these days, but I do remember it being at the house of a guy called Chris.

It was one of those typical teenage affairs - parents away for the weekend, cue invite everyone around and to keep drinking until everyone has ended up sleeping in random positions, with random people, throughout the house. I can't remember what I was drinking but I do know it was fairly early in the evening when I started feeling rotten. I needed to chill out for a bit and, for some reason; there was a double mattress on the floor in the dining room which was open planned to the sitting room. I went and crashed on the mattress next to another guy called Jimmy who was obviously in a bad way as well. I lay on the mattress, holding on, trying to stop the room spinning but if anything lying down was making me feel worse.

I had the sudden realisation that I was going to hurl and calculated that the best route outside would be through the dining room, out the living room, into the hallway and out the front door (which was open). I got up and started to stumble towards the door as quickly as I could. Whilst going through the living room I passed a girl called Sabrina who was kneeling on the floor next to the stereo going through the CD collection. Sabrina was one of those happy drunks who wants to make peace with the world, be friendly to everyone and give you a hug even if she hated you when sober. As I ambled past she called out,

"Hiiii aeloen!"

Being the polite gentleman that I am I decided to return the greeting,

"Bleeeeeeeeeurrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhh!"

I didn't even get one syllable out - I projectile vomited all over her top (Green Day I think it was), all over her CD collection and left a fair spattering over the Stereo and the floor. I didn't stop to apologise and managed to stumble out of the front door and pass out.
(aeloen, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 7:10, 1 reply)

Mostly shit but a little vom in there...
Years ago, my brother came to visit with his 2 children and 2 un house-broken rat terriers. I like dogs and think they should have the dignity of crapping outside like the rest of us, not peeing on "puppypads" tucked into the corner. Especially during a heat wave in July.
My bro knows this and dutifully walked them 3 times a day. After he left, my husband & I went into our guest room (a room 25'x25') and found one of my many hats on the floor. "Hmm, what's this?" I thought. I loved that hat -it was a beautiful chestnut suede fedora with a tiny red feather in the brim that made me look ever so jaunty.

I stuck a toe under the brim and whipped it into the air, being too lazy to bend over. Unbeknownst to my bro, upon leaving one of the dogs had taken a big crap in the middle of the floor and my 9 year old nephew put my hat over it "so's it wouldn't stink up the joint". Thanks, kid.

The smell visibly rolled out and hit us in the face. I merely gagged but Mr. Dub barfed so quick he couldn't open his mouth fast enough and it shot out of his nostrils like dragonfire. I laughed so hard at him I puked and then Mr. D retched and dribbled out bile in response.

It took 3 carpet cleanings to make the room habitable and I had to throw my lovely hat away. There was no salvaging it. That child has grown up and is joining the Air Force in 3 weeks.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 4:05, Reply)

That damn indestructable indigestable sweetcorn
I havnt thrown up in ages.
Now I can throw up at the drop of a hat
( ex bulimic, gag reflex finely tuned, lean forward, open mouth and out it comes in a straight forward fuss free arc, no throat jiggling required )
Lunch today was home made lamb stew left over from dinner last night.
Nuked into submission and duly eaten.
A while later I feel just a little bit queasy.
As I'm about to go out I think it may be prudent to go to the loo first.
Dear Gods, that was deeply unpleasant.
As I stand to flush the loo my stomach lurches and I flip round to be in the prime position for a technicolour yawn.
Yack up lamb stew, stop for a while, then the ribena I had at breakfast flows out, funny how it separates.
Blow my nose, ( does anyone else feel the urgent need to blow their nose copiously after throwing up? )
Then brush my teeth.
And the heaves start again.
So I'm standing with my hands gripping the loo seat and thinking 'ooh this one for the QOTW' while wondering why there is sweetcorn in the loo.
I had a pizza with sweetcorn topping on saturday night.
WTF was sweetcorn still doing sat in my gut 3 days later?
I'm sure everything else had passed through.
Not that I looked that closely ;)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 23:27, 4 replies)

Thunderbird is go..!
Take one 17 year old student who has just been dumped on the first day back at college after the summer holidays.

Mix with mates.

Add a walk around the local housing estate until the pubs open, grabbing a Greggs pasty on the way on account of needing something to soak up the alcohol you will no doubt be quaffing later on...

Take grieving 17 year old self to nearest hostelry and ply with copious bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale until afternoon closing time (this was 1988). Develop maniacal laugh as part of newly-found, alcohol-induced "couldn't give a fuck" attitude.

Continue wander around housing estates until pubs open again, stopping off at off licence for 4-pack of Kestrel Super Strength.

Gratefully accept shoulder to cry on and proceed to blub like a girl for the next 20 minutes, bemoaning "Why?" Return to pub at evening opening time.

Realise not enough money left for whole evening in pub; retreat to off licence armed with enough spare change for bottle of Thunderbird.

Demolish said bottle in 30 minutes whilst walking around field outside halls of residence with friends telling you that "You're their best mate", and "She's not worth it, despite having smashing tits".

Suddenly feel a bit woozy on account of having nothing to eat all day bar that suspiciously greasy Greggs pasty at 10:30am, and demand to be taken back to room as you really need to sleep and everything will be better in the morning.

Get unceremoniously dumped onto bed in halls of residence, fully clothed, with bin placed at side of bed.

Realise that room is incredibly hot on account of overly-efficient heating having been on all day, and become ever-so-slightly nauseous as a result.

Close eyes in desperate attempt to go to sleep; succeed in only becoming more nauseous. Stick one leg on floor in half hearted and frankly optimistic attempt to stop room spinning. Fail miserably and aim for bucket thoughtfully placed next to bed by mates.

Fill with bitter mixture of the devil's own cocktail, whilst praying to deity you don't actually believe in..

Wipe mouth on edge of pillowcase.

Spit.

Blub.

Wish you'd turned the light off as it's burning inside of skull with its mocking glow.

Vow "never again" and finally descend into deep sleep punctuated only by sudden rushes of saliva to the mouth and deep, horrific retching with nothing to show for it except sore ribs and a desire to drain Lake Windermere.

Allow festering contents of bucket to putrify overnight due to inferno that is central heating. Awake next morning to overwhelming acidic stench, forgetting events of night before. Look down at bin.

Rinse, lather, repeat.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 12 Jan 2010, 23:14, 1 reply)

Kebab shop vom-combo
Go easy, I'm new. Months of lurking has led to me finlly signing up to share this with you.

Aged 14, about 1996, in a town just west of the M25, me and a group of friends had a party. Standard fayre for a bunch of 14 year olds - older brothers or randoms walking past the offie supplied the booze. By 11pm several girls were crying after too much Barcardi Breezer/Malibu and coke, all the boys on cheap stubbies and Super Strongbow.

Come 1am, those of us who hadn't passed out or got lucky on the host's parents' bed decided to trot into town, being 'the lads', and get a manly kebab. Nine or ten of us made the ten minute walk to the sublime Kebab Elite, egging each other on to see who would get the most chilli sauce, pissing on people's doorsteps on the way.

We approached the door salivating, suitably pissed up and wobbly to enjoy our tasty meat of dubious origin. My friend G entered first and we all filed in behind. As he raised his hand to attract attention from the staff, he inhaled, chocked on his chewing gum, coughed, and flopped on the counter, strong cider gushing forth, spilling across the counter, brown and stinky. It was dribbling into the little bowls of salad under the counter, coursing its way across the steel.

Now of course our pissed up 14 year old constitutions were pretty delicate at this stage. I guess the smell must have hit D first, as he doubled up in the corner and spewed on his shoes. And so the chain reaction continued. Me and almost all of my friends had a spewy cidery vom-combo in front of the counter, rougly 8 pissed up kids heaving up copious stinky brown liquid, sloshing around the floor.

Some poor guy sitting alone at a table then brought his just-eaten kebab back up into its wrapper. The guy playing the fruit machine started retching. And the three speechless staff stared, mouths agape, at the sea of bile and booze, having found its way behind the counter, lapping away at their feet. As, with watery eyes, we turned to walk out, filing one after the other, a stunned silence persisted in the air. Not a word was said by anyone present.

But the real magic was, just as I being last out allowed the door to close behind me, the knife weilding meat carver fella chose his moment to boak up his guts. Could only have been better if he'd done it on the griddle and it steamed everywhere.

I have been barred from the place ever since (nearly 15 years now). They still recognise me even though I moved town 5 years ago.

Length? Not bad for a first time.
(dripfed, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 22:04, 11 replies)

I think I'm gonna ... ... ... huuuueeeuurrgghhhhhhhhhhh
If you think that puking out of an open passenger window whilst travelling at 80 mph on the M1 won't mean that half of the fermenting beery-tandoori goodness catches on the wind and splats down the inside of the door and slops into the map-holder pocket thingy, then you'd be quite wrong. I was.
(yes, it is me and has been me since, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 21:43, Reply)

Contiki
Back in the mists of time of 1997 Welgar was a young man off on his own to the big bad northern hemisphere.My first introduction to Europe was a Contiki camping trip for 3 weeks.
As is the case with these trips they do tend to attract a fair share of antipodean piss heads , which is fine if a little messy at times . This was one of those times.

A couple of weeks into the trip we hit Munich. Home of an olympic stadiun some museums and several beer halls. On our first night there we were taken to experience a beer hall this entailed a meal and about an hours drinking before heading back to the campsite. Most people people had a stein or perhaps 2 in our alotted time (These are 1 liter measures)and were quite happy with it. Not so two of the "ladies" they managed to guzzle down 10 each. Even the rugby playing boofheads couldnt come close to matching these girls.

So back to the campground for a few more beers at the bar and crawl into the tents for some sleep. The two classy chicks in question were in the tent next to mine. About an hour later there was a bit of a comotion followed by a BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOARGH and a "thats fucking rank!" A couple of minutes later my tent was unzipped and a head lurches in "Kkkkkylie has just ffffuckin chundered in the tttttttent ,im sleeeeeeping in here" "Um ok"

And in she came.

The next morning dawned bright and clear . As we broke camp we were treated to the sight of Kylie draining at least 10 litres of beer puke out of the tent onto the grass. Fortuantly it was mostly liquid , unfortuantly they still had to spend at least another week sleeping in the same tent. Charming
(welgar, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 21:40, Reply)

drunkeness, puke and a hoover
One of my past wonderful housemates got terribly drunk one evening and vomited in the lounge. No problem says he, I shall simply hoover the sick up like the responsible person I am.

He then forgot about this until we hoovered about two weeks later. The smell was pretty overpowering... Then when we went to open the hoover up to get the bag out we were met with putride mould that had grown into the shape of the inside of the hoover, so virilant its growth had been.

All round pretty awful....
(Turbo Blackbeard And then squirry the squirrel went nee nee nee nee, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 21:15, 1 reply)

bad taste
All i can say is lucky me i got a chunky bit.
(welgar, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 20:52, 1 reply)

Liver Bar Pizza...
Wednesdays were simple when I was at Liverpool Uni - skive morning lectures and go to the Liver Bar to drink with the Rock Society. Along with watered down Carling and Worthingtons, the Liver Bar also used to sell a selection of pizzas and paninis. They weren't the best quality pizzas in the world, and generally consisted of a rock hard base combined with scalding hot cheese, along with other toppings (the Americano had some form of spicy meat and chopped chillies - that's important for later).

So it was a typical Wednesday, and my friend Al and I decided that we were going to make a night of it, and ended up going on a bar crawl throughout Liverpool. Going down the steps to one dive of a club, Al tells me that he's not feeling too well. As I turn around to talk to him (read: tell him to stop being a pussy and get the beers in), I see Al's eyes cross, his mouth purse and his head/neck cock back slightly, in that "I'm going to blow chunks" way. The next thing he did, unsurprisingly, was vomit. All over my arm, from elbow to fingertip. I must have subconsciously dodged most of it, as my body (thankfully) remained clean. I looked down, and dotted throughout the chyme and half digested cheese dripping from my arm were completely undigested, bright red chilli slices. I then faced the unenviable task of washing half my arm in a club sink (without soap, naturally). I now do my best to stay upstream of Al when we're drinking.

Length? It was eighteen months before I could touch a Liver Bar pizza again **shudders**
(Dowbocop, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 19:44, Reply)