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This is a question Vomit Pt2

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

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

(, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 17:02)
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This question is now closed.

My glasses went into the toilet too.

(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 12:09, Reply)
Anyone who is a parent will know how mundane vomit is, even when it is down your back/front/clean top you've just put on as you're off to work.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 11:11, 2 replies)
Well, it was a public convenience. Once.
Years ago the Guardian food writer did a piece about a new Curry house that had opened in London. It served great food, apparently, and had the novelty factor of being in a former public convenience. The walls were still all tiled and everything. He really raved about the place.

"That sounds worth a visit" we said to ourselves, and as luck would have it a bunch of our old workmates were coming down to London to visit us that very day. So we reckoned we'd meet up, tour the city a bit, have a few drinks and then go for a Ruby at this new place.

We had a great day, I have to say; tooling round the city and our favourite drinking haunts, then off to this much vaunted gaff.

It was actually quite early on in the evening, so it wasn't especially busy. So we ordered our food and sat in in the underground room and had another beer while we waited. Yeah, it did indeed still have the tiles, how novel! Lucky they pulled out the urinals though, eh? hehehe.

Dave's gone a bit quiet though hasn't he?

And then the Chicken Tikka starters arrived, and Dave suddenly stopped being quiet. Dave was now going "Hrurrrrgh!" and spewing liberally over the table (he had the good grace to miss the food) and the floor.

But we were good, you know. We went upstairs and got cleaning gear, mops and everything, and tidied up, and then noshed into our starters.

By this time Dave was beyond help. He was locked in the toilet calling Huey and Ralph at the top of his lungs. The problem was that there was now a steady stream of people coming downstairs, no doubt on the back of the glowing review, and they all had to go past that toilet door. To a man (or woman) they said something like "Eurgh, there's someone being noisily sick in the toilets" and turned around, never to return. I daresay there was a whiff of aroma that was not garam masala in the air, as well.

You have to put a brave face on these situations, don't you? "I don't suppose Dave's going to want his chicken now, is he?" said Mary. So we ate his starter for him.

Apologies, then, Curry House in Former Underground Public Convenience Whose Name I Can't Remember. It turned out your Former Public Convenience wasn't quite so former as you might have wanted. I hope we didn't bugger up your business for you by making it uninhabitable on the day your glowing review was published. But at least we weren't there on the day the critic was, so look on the bright side.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 10:53, Reply)
Twisted Bowel...
... excruciatingly violent convulsions at both ends every 20 minutes for 18 hours... then the muscle relaxants finally stayed down... worse than WVB and salmonella combined :0(

But my Abs looked great for the next week :0)

And I didn't die, which was nice.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 10:04, Reply)
Vomit: a religious experience
When I was 19 I was living in a shed in Israel. One night after working my regular shift at a beach cafe I went out and, like the highly cultured traveller I was, had a couple of pints of Guinness.

There must have been something wrong with it, as a mere two pints had me feeling queasy, and when I made my hasty retreat back to the shed I instantly began throwing up. In fact I couldn't keep anything down, even a sip of water, and it wasn't long till I was performing eye-popping, sphincter-wrenching heaves, which continued even as I was dragging up a mere pipette's worth of evil green stomach fluid.

When it finally passed I was totally spent, and I threw myself on the floor of the shed and sank into a hallucinatory fug of waking nightmares - where my boss in my old job at Asda was stuck in an endless loop shouting at me to shift a load of boxes of produce across the warehouse.

Writhing around looking for a way out, I glanced at a sheet draped over the wall to my right, and in its folds I discerned the face of the Son of God, Jesus Christ. 'Holy crap,' I thought. Could this be a sign? My redemption? Had the Lord our Saviour returned to carry me away to a better place?

My puke-addled mind soon performed a beautifully illogical leap: the next person to walk through the door to the shed would be Jesus.

Five seconds later the door opened.

'Holy crap'.

In walked Warren, my shed-mate.

What did it mean? This was too much to be a coincidence. Surely Warren couldn't possibly be Jesus...

I don't think so. He was a short, weird South African who rode a skateboard, and we used to shower together.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 9:49, Reply)
This is a long time ago, mind....
..but an extra large bag of Quavers and the Waltzers ride.

Bad, bad combination, as my friend Graham could attest after I chucked all over him (and possibly other people, too - those things can really spin!!)
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 7:37, Reply)
fish finger sandwiches.
King among foods and I fucking love them for any and every meal, and snacksies too.
Yet when I was up the stick, even the mere thought of a fish finger sandwich made me puke. Not just want to puke, but actually have to rush and paint the nearest toilet/dark corner with my stomach contents. I wouldn't even have to think about the taste or the smell. A picture of one would have me chucking.
You get my point.
Except nobody believed me how bad this was.
So we're sitting in the student union bar, me with a lemonade and my two friends with pints, and I mention this fact. As I say it, my stomach starts to grumble, but I push it out of my mind.
'No way.'
'Yes, really.'
'So if I were to talk about golden, crispy fish fingers, with two slices of fluffy white bread and a...'
Got the bastard's pint.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 3:20, Reply)
Sneakily parked tiger released
There I was, six years old, the second year of infant school, otherwise known inexplicably as year one.
Having just finished my delightful breaktime snack of cheesy Quavers - y'know,when they were still full of artificial colours and flavours and E-numbers and things - when I felt a little vom coming on.

I clenched my lips shut; my eyes widened in dismay. It was raining, and therefore "wet break" meant we were inside, and nowhere near a toilet. "A ha!", thinks my fiendish mind, "tis nought but a mini-sick; I shall discard it into this empty Quaver packet!"

Brilliant. Worked a treat. I scrunched up the top of the packet, containing my thankfully small technicolour yawn, and start to proceed towards the toilet.

Unfortunately, a favourite game at the time was to sneak up behind one of your full-packet-of-crisps-toting compadres and slap it from both sides, with the ultimate aim of a crispy explosion everywhere and the loss of the victim's salt-ladened sustenance.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that at this point, a rather lovely female (girls aren't icky until you're about eight, y'know) distracted me while her associate attacked my Quavers With Extra Chunks from behind. Cue three six-year-olds covered in regurgitated potato snack, and a very impressive domino effect.

At least I wasn't eating Space Raiders; those packets are WAY too small.
(, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 1:24, Reply)
I'll get my coat
'twas A-Level results day and many of us had stayed in the city from the morning to get wrecked throughout the day. Growing up in the north east has its benefits when it comes to drinking, as we were already seasoned pros when it came to this area. Unfortunately, the lady behind the bar who had just seen us consume 25 shots between 5 of us then ask for another round, didn't believe us and we were marched out the bar to "go sort ourselves out". It seemed at this point the rush of fresh air was too much for some and it ended up being just me and my mate, who turned out to be well and truly plastered.

I've never, ever seen him as bad to this day, but he was intent in his drunken ways to continue. Alas, with getting refused entry to every remaining bar, it wasn't to be and after much effort I carried his rag-doll body to the bus stop where he completely lost it - head rolling side to side, noises, all that sort of stuff. "I'm gonna be sick" he kept chuntering, "no, you're not" was my reply, to which he didn't. Our bus finally arrives and the driver gave us what can only be described as a look of utter disgust and says "if he throws up, you're off". So, I prop my mate up, take one step onto the bus and, who'd have guessed, he voids the contents of his bowels all over the entrance. I didn't even try do get out of it, simply turned around, dumped him onto the bench and called his parents (who heartily pissed themselves laughing at the situation).

To the people on that bus, I am so sorry, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 23:54, 2 replies)
One experience
Of vomiting would have to be when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

I remember feeling perfectly normal upstairs in my house. I proceded downstairs into the kitchen and without warning spewed a nice fat long line of vomit in front of mother. Being young I didn't know what the fuck had happened so I just toddled off.

It may have happened differently but it's too far back, and I have a shit memory

Length? About 60 cm by 10 cm.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 23:28, Reply)
Amsterdam. 2005.
February 2005 to be no too precise. My ex missus and I had made our way round some of the High and low lights of the 'Dam and I decided that we should settle for a little while, have a beer and a spliff. I'd done my research and hit Grey Area for a couple of grams of Greyberry, their award winning Blueberry variant... After a couple of small glasses of beer the masterpiece was ready. Seeing as I have a pathological hatred for tobacco, a couple of tokes on the blunt that followed knocked both of us right on our arses - in this case experience didn't prepare either of us for what happened.

About 30 seconds afterwards, the toilet door, which opened directly to the room, burst open and the inhabitant rushed out of the bar, grabbing her male and female companions on the way...

... and another minute after that the smell had overtaken the whole bar.

Now the bar manager was seriously pissed. He'd been chatting to all the brits in a pseudo cockney/dutch accent and he goes into the toilet swearing at the top of his voice in dutch. In and out swearing away, staring at everyone nearby until he fixes on my ex missus. At this point we were both paranoid as fuck, hanging onto the table we were sat at for dear life because the room would NOT stop spinning. Oh no...

So the manager's spitting teeth at everyone, pointing but not directly accusing her. This goes on for what seems like a couple of days but in reality is probably about 2 minutes. Until some brave dutch chap point out to the guy that it wasn't my ex, but some bird who ran the fuck out of there as soon as she'd committed herself to god via his convenient telephone.

The manager cam over to us, apologised loudly in his best mockney and offered us a jug of Amstel by way of consolation... Wide eyed we accepted his generosity and soon polished it off... which didn't really help the paranoia that we'd built up, or the escape a few minutes later.

I've never been quite so off my tits in public and I will never, ever, forget the stench of vomit any time I get wasted. And she never touched the weed thereafter, good girl :0)
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 23:19, Reply)
Bouncing Puke
Vodka Jelly x three = Red puke bouncing on the pavement x 5 go figure- think the stomach acid actually gave it more life. Never again and that was all I had had- me a good ol Irish girl.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 22:56, Reply)
Gregsy and the ski trip...
Way back when, my best mate Fish and I had another great mate called Gregsy who, to be fair, often consumed rather more liquid refreshment than was strictly neccessary often leading to much liquid laughter afterwards.

This is the tale of the ski trip to the Alps...

-cue wavey lines and shit-


Anyway, middle of the nineties and the school has organised a lovely trip in the winter hols for the students to go skiing and the staff to go and pick up the chalet girls and do whatever adults did at that point.

Gregsy is in with the Fish and I in a nice room overlooking the mountains and the road below. Much hilarity is had on the slopes and off with many crashes, bruised egos and limbs and fun had by all.

Later in the evening and all the boys have worked up a massive appetite and lay into the buffet like a biblical plague of locusts. Once the bones have been picked clean it was time for a last minute snowball fight before it wass time for beddybyes.

Like the Von Trapp family, we all shuffle off upstairs and find our respective rooms. Lights out and all is quiet for as long as it takes for the teachers to bugger off before Gregsy's face appears floating in the gloom, underlit by his torch.

"Hey guys! Check out what Iiii got!"

We look over and see him pull out a large bottle of Vodka he had smuggled somehow or bought when the staff weren't looking. I don't drink but between the three of us there were four fully functioning alcoholics. Fish and Gregsy procede to work their way through the bottle, shot after shot, until both are as pie eyed as... (fuck it, you add the metaphor.)

Finally, the bottle lies empty on the floor and I am left with the task of convincing the guys that it is indeed way past late and getting towards early so it is now time to get some sleep you bastards!

Gregsy fails to see the fun in this and makes a poor descision in retrospect.

"pillow fight!" he cries with the enthusiasm of the truly plastered and grabs his pillow and beats poor Fish about the head with it. Fish was rather out of it at this point and reacted in the only way he knew how, with a savage uppercut to the bollocks from his position lying on the bed.

This proves to put too much strain on Gregsy's already far overtaxed body and, as any man who has ever been given a boot to the knackers will know, made him feel like emptying the entire contents of his body as soon as possible.

He did have the forethought to clamp a hand over his mouth but whether it was to stifle the scream or hold in the waves of vom piling out I will never know but it simply turned his face into Satan's own garden sprinkler. He staggers over to the window and parctically throws up his own boots for about five minutes before collapsing and crawling into his drippy bed and passing out.

Moring broke, as mornings are wont to do, and with heavy hearts, and eyes, and heads, trudge down stairs to recharge the batteries.

A hearty breakfast is had by most before the group gathers in the hall and out we all go for another day on the slopes. The sun is glittering in the sky and needling into our eyes like splinters when we look over and see a gorgeous Gun metal grey Merc SEL560, I think, with it's owner scraping the snow off it. Only it's not snow. No, this is rather...chunkier than snow and far, far less welcome first thing in the morning.

There were still bits stuck and smeared over it by the time we got back 6 hours later.

Who ever you were, Gregsy is so sorry, so very sorry.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 21:50, Reply)
Learning to Chunder !!!!!
When I was about 7 or 8, (Many,Many years ago now) we went to stay with My maternal Grandfather.

He was a butcher and used to slaughter his own meat and I suspect that is what caused the following disaster.

After going to bed I suddenly got a very strange feeling in the guts that I now realise was my first official warning of imminent chundering.

I managed to get up and get a bowl from the kitchen, went back to bed and promptly through up what felt like at the time the whole of my guts.

I then thought "...I'll put the bowl on the side of the bed so i could find it easily find it when I neede it again"!!,so after falling asleep I must have turned over in the night and spilt the entire contents of the bowl all over me, the bed, the floor,everywhere I looked there was chunder, Frankly it made me want to throw up again God I smelt awful !!!!!

As I have done many times since I attempted to clear up the mess without anyone knowing...... WRONG.

I gave the game away by going down to breakfast with sicky bed head and a fairly obnoxious smell that caused my parents to nearly Vom themselves.

I have since thrown up many times and in many places but the first one was memorable.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 21:10, Reply)
Friend's house
Was handed a pretty vile brew of something like blackcurrant squash and red wine, which I downed like a trooper (may actually have sipped gingerly at it, finishing perhaps two-thirds of the glass before deciding that my innards would prefer me not to continue), accompanied by a hefty amount of lager, then staggered home an hour or so later.
By the time I got into bed I was already feeling considerably shaky, but I decided it was a case of mind over matter and I would CONQUER my errant guts.
That didn't work out.
However, instead of chundering into my bin, I hurled out of my window and down the wall, onto the porch roof. Treat for the neighbours. I was woken up by a fucking irate sister yelling at me to clean up the bathroom, which I must have reached at some point, and the porch roof as well.
Cue me, hungover, bleary and crusty-boxers clad, cleaning off the front of my house with a mop, flicking chunks into my face and trying not to add to my previous efforts.

Oh, and at Reading festival this year, I thew up Strongbow out of my nose then passed out on the last night
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 20:57, Reply)
Chair o planes + vom = mess
When I was about 10, the 'Shows' were in town. From anyone south of the border, the funfair.
Desperate to have a go on the bouncy castle, and the dodgems and the 'Asteroids' video game that gave you electric shocks, I wolfed down my dinner in about 30 seconds flat and bolted out the house to meet my mates. A great time was had by all until I took a ride on the Chair-o-planes. I started to feel distincly queasy. I shouted to the lady operating the ride but the Human League drowned her out.
The centrifugal force of the Chairoplane hurling chunks of half digested pork chops for yards and yards.
Spew everywhere, on the asteroids machine, the bouncy castle, several members of the public.
I never ran so fast in all my life.

Still don't much like pork..
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 20:52, Reply)
When I was younger I could drink any lager except fosters, something in the brew at the time or in my delicate young body did not agree and it resulted without fail in me puking, one pint would do it, so it was attributed to the amber nectar from Australia brewed in the UK. Anyway i was working whilst at college at a supermarket, and at Christmas in those days prior to the doom that is the labour government you had a Christmas party.
That year the supermarket which paid me a handsome sum of £2.31 an hour for 7 hours a week decided to pay for a meal. I stopped fro a pint on the way to the pub where the meal was to take place and had a fosters. One steak and half an ice-cream later the fosters started to take affect, toped with the smoking in front of me, I felt a bit of a rumble and the need to get out of there. Well I almost timed it perfectly to the toilets, all I needed was 5 more metres to the bowl. Putting my hand in front of my mouth in a bid to save the puke making its way up my throat was not the best idea. It was like putting my finger over a running tap, the same flow came out but at a faster velocity and height. the door leading to the toilet was missed the two in the corridor leading to the secondary doors were not so lucky, the door & door handle were equally out of luck, the urinal got a battering as did the sink and the two toilets. The ceiling also fared badly as did the floor. I was as you can imagine not feeling so well, but remarkably I did not have a drop of fosters bile on me. My attempts to clear the sink full with half chewed steak & pepper sauce chunks where met with laughter from my work mates who had followed me at a distance they were so hysterical they were wetting themselves, the only downside to that was they had nowhere to go, as I had tagged the toilets with my un-flushed or splattered puke. The manager was not so happy but he was unaware who had done such a job, my only regret to that night was owning up to the deed, I did however return to my meal and finish my ice-cream I had left half eaten, well I had made room for it and would have been rude not to.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 20:21, 1 reply)
Cat food.
What went in? About 10 pints of Stella, a bottle of Red Wine and some Whisky.

Came out all over the bedroom carpet while I was trying to make my way across a rotating room to the toilet.

I then mashed it into the carpet, by closing the door across it. When I got up in the morning and opened the door, mashing it some more, the cat rushed in and started eating it. This caused me to chuck again, but thankfully not over the cat.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 20:19, 1 reply)
The following is the txt message my friend sent me in response to the question: How was your New Year's?

Brazier fell ova and sum tard put it bak up with his bare hands.haha.he didnt even notice it was hot.haha.bogans ay.i did an enormous meat spew.i was tripping abd it was red.i thort my insides were tryin 2 escape.it was funny til i got 2 mirror and saw my insides were all ova me.doh

(apologies for txtspk)
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 19:50, 4 replies)
All Night Café
Back in High School my friends and I got drunk on way to much beer. My pal's cousin was driving and she decided we were much to drunk to go home and we needed coffee. We stop in a Café and get in the booth, one of the big round ones the seat 8, with me in the middle. She orders us coffee. I ask for mine black figuring that would be the best way of sobering up.
I take 2 sips of the foul late night coffee and the beer in my stomach starts to protest. In a drunken slur I tell everyone to get out of my way. They, being as drunk as I was, did not react to quickly. Up came everything I had eaten previously. In an attempt to stop the flow I clamped my lips shut which made my cheeks balloon out with with the pressure. My drunken lips could only hold it for long as dual spouts of vomit flared out dowsing the table like a sprinkler.

I finally made it to the toilets, when I returned I was shot with the icy glares of the poor girl who had to clean up the mess. I immediately exited and to this day have never been back there again.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 19:41, Reply)
I was sick last night
and in bed before 9pm

I am not sure if it was the warm sausage roll or the "conciliation" meeting at the hospital where they were deciding what to do about the lack of treatment I was told eight months ago could send me blind in two months.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 19:33, 1 reply)
Big student night out - large volumes of alcohol unwisely consumed after an (apparently) mild stomach upset. Dived into bog & was suddenly faced with an equally pressing urge at either end. Decided bowels took priority, sat down & immmediately vomited copiously into my underwear. Two mile walk home on a February night proved an interesting experience, though not one that I have ever been tempted to repeat.
(, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 19:16, Reply)

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