Erm.....
Woke up from the last Manchester bash in my hotel room and went to the bathroom. The place looked like the famous scene from Alfred Hitchcock's Pyscho.

Remembered why I don't get drunk on red wine anymore.
( girlinthehole, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:10, 1 reply)

Me 2 year old daughter puked the other week...
...and covered me in what can only be described as a cross between a bottle of Benelyn and a litre of ectoplasm.

She said in her cute little way "Sorry daddy" and was actually really upset for doing it too, bless.

I just grumbled a bit while saying rather quietly "Not to worry dear..." and squelched off to the kitchen to wipe myself down.

Stupid fucking stomach bug.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:59, 3 replies)

I went down with a bug at work
I was feeling a bit dicky for a couple of hours, then all of a sudden my stomach did a somersault and it's contents started it's upward journey.

I bolted for the bogs, hand clamped over my mouth, not sure if I'd make it.

Bursting into the first cubicle, vomit burning the back of my throat and the convulsions starting, I felt small relief that I'd made it.

Then all thoughts of chucking up left me. In front of me was something so shocking my body couldn't bring itself to throw up on it. It took a second for my brain to catch up with my subconscious reaction.

In the toilette bowl was the biggest turd in the history of human poop, a Brown Mamba that looped once round the toilette, then up one side with it's 'nose' gently touching the seat itself.

I managed to stagger to the next cubicle and did what I needed to, but even as the lumps lodged in the back of my throat I was thinking of nothing but that turd....what a creation.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:56, 2 replies)

I'm just recovering from a nasty illness
where I would cough a lot. And when I coughed I'd feel sick, and invariably vomit. Nice. I drank a glass of fizzy water, coughed, vommed. It was red. Another red vomit story was after I drank half a litre of absinthe with 2 other people. That was pretty. And red, rather than the expected green.

There is another story, but that's for another time.
( Lampito rise with the moon, go to bed with the sun, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:42, Reply)

Fear of flying
This is cheating a bit because it's not my vomit but it has scarred my memory permanently.

In days gone by I used to spend a lot of time flying across the Atlantic, one of the perils of a long distance relationship. Leaving aside the cramped seats, shitty food and grumpy passengers one of the regular features was turbulence.

One flight we were having a particularly rough time of it. The Fasten Seat belt light had gone on within an hour of leaving the ground and had stayed on and the plane was jumping around like a first time raver on a good pill.

Now turbulence itself isn't a problem if you know anything about aircraft. Planes can take an incredible amount of punishment before anything serious happens and in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure or a reduction in the number of wings you're fucked anyway so it's not worth worrying about. However, lots of people get really freaked out by turbulence, both mentally and physically.

This flight was about the worst buffeting I've received and inevitably people started throwing up. In days of yore sick bags were automatically issued in the seats but now the cabin crew have to hand them out individually it seems and they were tearing up and down dealing with little bags of recycled airline food. The more people were sick th worse the plane smelled and you had a vomit chain reaction forming.

But the worst of all, the worst I've ever seen was when the plane hit a massive air pocket – a downdraft that left it dropping like a stone. One of the cabin crew levitated up to the ceiling, there was a cry of horror from the bathroom but the image that will haunt me to my grave is the sight of a mushroom cloud of vomit rising up from behind one of the forward seats, drifting higher and higher until we were through the downdraft and it splashed down. I can only hope the producer was the receiver.
(paxvobiscum, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:37, 5 replies)

Its a classic
Was in bed, sat up, barfed all over myself and the bedsheets, lay down, went back to sleep.

short and sweet.
it was brown and yellow :)
(StruStru saving the world at no extra charge, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:26, Reply)

Vomit is a wonderful weapon!
After a heavey night out I was violently sick in my bed - that is NOT the gross part.

Covered in horrible vomit were my pillow, my sheets and me. Think Spud from train spotting minus the shit. Anyway as I was changing my sheets with a great big bastard hangover my Vicky Pollard of a sister (she is her, she is JUST like her, I'm ashamed to be a relative almost as much is she is ashamed of being related to Trippeh the town nutjob, but I digress) came in to have a go at me for waking her up the previous night.

I apologised. She went on.

I apologised a second time. She went on.

I apologised a third time and told her I had a headache could she please bloody stop shouting.

SHE WENT ON LOUDER STILL!

The self-pitying yapping got so much that I stood up straight and instead of slapping her, or yelling at her like a normal perosn, with an aim that would do Phil Taylor proud, I launched a vomit-soaked pillow smack into her face.

SPLAT.

No reaction for a split second and THEN:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNHHHH!" is the only way I can describe the sound she made.

I thought the screaming was bad before, my goodness...she flew about flicking vomit everywhere knocking stuff in my room right over as she pawed at her face to get the puke off it, shrieking until she finally landed in the bathroom, throwing herself into the sink crying hysterically, apparently her mouth ws wide open when the pillow made impact....as she was violently sick herself!

The crying didn't stop for a long time and luckily my parents were not around to witness me being such a bastard I simply told them she lied and that it was accident/misunderstanding (said I tripped when taking the sheets out etc and dropped them on her) my sister is notorious for lying so therefore I got away with it completely. Her going berserk would have been worth any consequences however I must add!

I'm an evil person what can I say.
(trippeh, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:21, Reply)

Immense...
Getting home from work used to take two buses, on the first I felt that ill I had to sit with my head between my legs, stomach cramps, headache, dizzy, breathless... Off the first bus and on to the second and I was on the phone pleading with the boy to come meet me at the bus stop. I got home and amazingly it started to clear up a bit, felt a lot better so had something to eat and got an early night. About two hours later I woke up to that beautiful feeling that puke was on its way. I made it halfway down the hallway before I projectile vomited all over my feet. Everytime I took a deep breath to shout for help from the hubby, more sick just kept coming, it was everywhere, me, the walls, the carpet, and eventually the bathroom.

The dutiful hubby cleaned up while I tried to sleep, and I have now been banned from buying reduced price goods at the supermarket!
(whatktdid, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:21, Reply)

There have been a few....
But the summer of 1998 probably held the most vomit incidents including this one, which my friend, to this day, will not let me live down.

Being aged 16 and mad on a Manchester band (who will remain nameless), I discovered they were playing the civic hall, and decided that I was going to skive the day off college and go and meet them. After waiting outside for ages, I eventually did meet the band and spent the day backstage with them, and I got backstage tickets for me and my mate for after the show. All's well and good.

Except for, in the excitement of the whole experience, all I ate all day was a bag of salt and vinegar chipsticks and a small cottage pie.

Cue me pissed out of my tiny teenage mind, going backstage where there was loads of vodka etc etc, and I sat in this tatty armchair, paralytic, being spun round and round for amusement. Then I puked. All down myself. And if that wasn't bad enough, I accordingly put my hand over my mouth and carried on talking as if nothing had happened. This went on until I staggered to the toilet whereby I passed out.

I would like to say I have since gone on to behave more impeccably and responsibly whilst drinking but the vodka incident in 1999 whilst on holiday in Turkey and the brandy incident at a mates in 2004 prove that while I was older, I was none the wiser.
(Pumba Look for the red flashing light again... no!!!!!, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:19, Reply)

It almost killed me.
Last summer, vommiting almost killed me. Looking back after the event, I reckon it was the rat poison that did it.
I often have rodents living in the roof-space of my house, so this particular day I was doing the usual routine of throwing poison about the loft. It comes in wee sachets containing a paste that smells like marzipan. Once finished, I put everything away, and must have been distracted by something else, as I cant recall washing my hands. A serious error.
I made a sandwich for lunch and went about the rest of the day. Later in the evening, I felt a bit of a headache coming on, but didnt think much of it - A shower and a good nights sleep would sort that out. I had the shower and went to bed.
I woke up very suddenly at about 3am with that "I need to shit RIGHT FUCKING NOW" feeling - I had been seconds away from fouling the bed, but managed to get up and run to the toilet in time. I sat and fired liquid into the bowl for a couple of splattery minutes.
Having the shits isnt the end of the world is it? I certainly wasnt worried, although I didnt remember eating anything dodgy. It was as I was wiping up that I got the stirring guts sensation that suggested puke was imminent too.
I was wondering what might have brought this on as I turned round and assumed the position - on hands and knees infront of the pan.
My stomach was churning and my guts started heaving - the vom was on its way, so I opened wide and prepared for it...........nothing came out. Dry heaves, perhaps? my guts were going through the motions alright, but nowt was rising.....then I felt movement, slow, almost slithering movement in my guts. I could feel the puke rising so hideously slowly through my tubes....my stomach was pumping like mad, but the puke was taking its sweet time coming up - it was a horrible sensation.
After a couple of minutes of this, the puke finally reached the home straight and I felt it rise slowly up my throat and into my mouth. I opened wide and expected the usual splatter with perhaps some coming out my nose too, but no....no. It was horrible. This THING came slowly out of my throat. It was a long, solid mass slowly being extruded out of my mouth. It drooped down towards the pan.
Aside from the horror at this fucking thing coming out of my mouth, I started having really serious difficulty breathing - I could only catch the odd tiny gasp of air as this stuff, the consistency of warm plastecine, flowed out from my throat.
I was gripping the rim of the bog and my feet were thrashing around as I wondered what the hell was going on...what was this stuff? why the hell wasnt it coming out like normal puke? why couldnt I breath properly?
And still it kept coming, until I had a solid mass dangling from my throat down to the surface of the water in the pan. What to do now? My stomach was still pumping madly and more and more stuff was oozing out. Ths went on for pehaps a couple of minutes although it felt like eternity. I decided to bite off the length that was dangling - the feeling of it on my teeth was horrible. It was quite firm, warm and sticky and it was still coming.
By then, my breath was coming in the odd wheezing, whistling gasp and I was fairly certain I was about to die - in perhaps a week or so, my sister would come round to the house and find me naked on the toilet floor with this monstrous stuff sticking out my throat - what a way to die.
I was shivering, shaking, crying and still gasping for breath, and onwards the puke extruded....I bit off another length, which dropped into the pan with a soft splash and still more came out...How long could this go on for? To my relief, a few more inches wormed their way out and dropped into the pan. It was over. I drew in massive, gasping lungfulls of air - overjoyed at still being alive, and found myself feeling....absolutely right as rain. No after-effects, no more heaving, I felt perfecly normal.
I brushed my teeth to get rid of the film that had stuck to them and went back to bed in a rather confused state. I slept fine and woke the next morning as normal, feeling great.

I dont really know what to make of it all. I assume I had traces of poison on my hands when I made lunch which caused this, but have no way of knowing for sure. Im bloody carefull with the stuff now as I really, REALLY dont want to go through that again.
(dave likes cheese, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:07, 11 replies)

Not me, cos I haven't puked in 16 years!
My ex husband isn't much of a drinker - he has maybe one beer a month, and hardly ever touches hard liquor.
When we first moved in together, we had a party so our best friends could meet each other and he decided to play bartender.
Now, I like a drink and so do our friends and the ex decided he'd join in the merriment. Except while he was mixing drinks for us all, he was also taking nips of tequila while we weren't looking. He got absolutely fucking hammered.

I took one look at him and informed if I wasn't sharing the bed with him, knowing full well what the consequences would be.
He splattered the entire bathroom with green vomit (drinking some melon drink) before passing out on the floor.

Being emetophobic, I spent half the night outside while he chundered his guts up time and time and time and time again.

I had to pee on the patio!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:05, Reply)

So bad, it turned me veggie
Leaving a tin of extra cheapo pezzy value hot dogs open in the fridge for a few days is not conducive to good dining. As I discovered as a student.

At the time I had just moved into a new flat and my sleeping arrangements consisted of a mattress on the floor and a sleeping bag. So after a late tea of said dogs, I retired. Didn't feel sick in the slightest until I was zipped into the sleeping bag, then the mattress began to feel unsteady when - BLAH! - I spewed into the air, covering my face, hair, bed and sleeping bag. God bless my dear, kind flatmate who came out to mop me up - I was more or less incapable of movement and would have had little choice but to lie in the drying vom all night, deadly sober too as it 'appens.

OK, I was already considering turning veggie but that pushed me over the line. Sixteen years later and I'm not going back to meat, no-how. Oddly enough, I'm back in a sleeping bag on a mattress too these days...
(rampants, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:02, 1 reply)

Combined with the shits
A couple of years ago I was off snowboarding with my bro. Unbeknownst to me I was carrying the norovirus. It struck on the Saturday night when I started to feel rather queasy. So, rather than head out and get drunk I opted to stay in the chalet. Nice and social. Good thing too because when it hits it hits hard and takes no prisoners.

The force at which your body expels the contents of your stomache is really quite breathtaking. I don't think I'd ever seen projectile vomitting before yet here I was doing it straight into the toilet. And don't think that just because there is nothing left in the tank that that's the end of it. The only thing more painful than projectile vomming you stomache out is projectile vomming nothing at all. The force was enough to burst several blood vessels around my eyes making me look like I'd been in a fight. And the muscles around your ribs take an utter pounding.

Unfortunately, the norovirus is a two-for-one deal and with the vomming comes the shits. When you're not doubled over the rim you're shitting endless amounts of rusty water. And don't even think about farting. That's a gamble you won't win. Fortunately, it's over withing 48 hours. You stay contageous for another couple of days. In the end half the chalet had it and a quaranteened toilet for the infected was imposed.

I wish this story had a happy ending but my guts were not the same for the rest of the week. At one point instead of hooning through Les Arcs best off piste I was enthroned for 40 minutes, softly sobbing to myself while my sorry and sore arse cried rivers of brown sadness.

Still, at least the vomiting was over.
(Rilux might be pregnant and has bum-aids, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 20:01, 7 replies)

goldeneye, goldenpuke
An friend of mine, let's call him 'Geezer', decided that the best way of proving how manly he was, while celebrating 30 years of being alive, would be to throw himself from the Verzasca Dam, Goldeneye style. Apparently, at 220m high, it's the world's highest bungy jump off ground.

In order to get there, we took a scenic trip along the narrow-gauge Centovalli railway, run by 'FART' (Ferrovie Autolinee Regionali Ticinesi), from Domodossola to Locarno. The scenery was stunning, all mountains and forests, picturesque villages and viaducts. Not to mention slightly terrifying, as the train seemed to teeter along precarious bridges above the ravines, winding its way around the mountainsides. I'm not so great with heights, so I looked over to Geezer, hoping for some reassurance that all was safe and that I was just being a pathetic girl about it. This, I did not get.

He'd gone a slightly putrid shade of green and was screwing up his face like a pig shitting pineapples.

I asked if he was ok. He could only shake his head in terror. Being a bit of a Danny Dyer type blokey bloke, it was unusual to see him with an expression anything other than menacing, so this was simultaneously amusing and alarming for me.

The next thing I heard was a thunderous belch, followed by a stifled cough, culminating in a shower of gorganzola-peppered vomit.

He'd been sitting opposite me, so I'd taken the brunt of this technicolour yawn full on. He looked mortified, so vulnerable and embarrassed. The only other passenger in our carriage looked really disturbed and moved off into the next carriage. I was laughing like an idiot, despite being splattered in man vom. It smelled like cheesy wotsits and looked like violent bukkake smurf death.

Luckily, we were backpacking, so I had a change of clothes and could discard the pukey ones. Hopefully a petite Swiss tramp found them and was able to benefit from them, whether it be a meal or an outfit.

Geezer still went ahead and did the masculinity-proving bungy jump, but I will forever associate him with puking on a train and stinking of cheesy wotsits.
( gypsy turnips, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:47, Reply)

Coventry, bombs and beer.
The Sir Colin Campbell for those of you that know. I was visiting a mate studying in said city. We made a day of it and chanced into the aforementioned establishment at some point early afternoon feeling a bit peckish. A couple of cheese batches and two four pint pitchers (one cider one lager seeing as you're asking) should do the trick. As we neared the end of our jugs I toodled of to the bogs. When I returned the pub seemed much busier than when I left it. When I casually mentioned this to my mate he said 'That probably has something to do with the fact that you went for a piss two hours ago! Oh, and by the way you have sick all over your trousers and your shoes.' It would appear that I had fallen asleep at he urinals. Upon being woken by a stranger I then found a cubicle and decorated EVERY square inch of it before falling asleep standing up again. Never did get the stains off my shoes.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:37, Reply)

New Years Eve just gone
After a hearty meal and lots of rum round a friends flat, a few of us retired to the balcony area for a new year celebratory cigar. Usually I quite enjoy a cigar but two puffs had me holding onto the ledge for a bout of stomach emptying. Then another. It was then, looking down, we realised that both hurls - which both took a number of retches - were completely different colours and had landed next to each other.

One friend has since remarked that it looked like a grim Mastercard logo.
(Grobie, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:30, 1 reply)

Vimto
Not me but on my feet. Day spent enjoying the French hospitality at a little airfield in Northern France after flying over with a few friends, much beer, much wine, some cider, some brandy, some barbecued food, a few demis to settle our stomachs, some go karting (drunk and in t-shirts and shorts...health and safety Gallic style!) and then to bed. Awake to glorious sunshine filtering through the zip of our tent and the smell of stomach contents. My nameless friend had evacuated his guts orally into what can only be described as a Vimto purple cowpat upon my feet whilst I slept. Delightful. At least he had the decency to fly us home a couple of hours later...I did mention that he was the pilot didn't I?
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:27, Reply)

I was lying in bed the morning after a particularly heavy night
really feeling bad but also having no desire to move in case it made things worse.
I suddenly knew I was going to be sick. Very sick. I jumped up and ran for the bathroom, I got halfway down the landing before I started retching, but being young and foolish I tried to keep it in.
Hand clamped over a firmly shut mouth I got to the bathroom door before physics took over and the vomit got out the only way it had available - through my nose.
If it's never happened to you, the stinging, stinking pain cannot be described. As warm, lumpy, acidic bile rushed out of my nose (and now open mouth) I nearly drowned as I started sobbing and retching at the same time.

I was blowing bits of half-digested food out of my nose for days afterwards. AND I had to clean up the mess myself.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:21, Reply)

When I was living at home
I spent an evening getting furiously bladdered on Vokda and the only mixer available dandielion & burdock. I'd previously had a nice tea of pie & chips and settled in for a night of Unreal Tournament and alcohol abuse. After getting royally smashed I bedded down but horror of horrors I was plagued by the bed spins - I sat up bolt upright, flung open the window and spewed my ring for all i was worth.

Cut to the morning when my Mum came storming in shrieking what a horrible bastard I was ...... Turns out she'd kicked the dog out in to the garden for his morning wee and found him eating semi digested, vodka marinated chips off of her vulgar birdbath.

The pain ridden lump under the duvet rocked with laughter which didn't help matters.
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:17, 2 replies)

I saw
this question again and was sickened.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:08, 1 reply)

I ate a chinese takeaway just before the 'stomach bug' came from nowhere
I was chucking up rice from my nose out of my bedroom window.

I went to the hospital, because I couldn't keep liquids down and thought I might dehydrate. At this point it was only bile. I was chucking up in A&E and in the hospital bed thing they put me in. They gave me an anti-emetic (after concluding that it was concussion from an earlier accident) and left me be. Nothing came up, brilliant, I went home.

The minute I left A&E, I chucked up all over the pavement in front of it.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:07, 2 replies)

Puppy love
When I first started seeing the girl who is now my wife we used to enjoy getting quite hammered (still do really, just can't take the hangovers), and one evening we went back to my parents house and necked the best part of a bottle of Smirnoff Blue - stronger than normal and at that time we thought also much classier.
Three quarters of the way down the bottle she suddenly begins to rev up for a chunder and I, worried about my mum's carpet, cup my hands to catch it.
She barfs a bit, I catch some of it, so far so good - we both run to the patio door, me with a handful of puke, her with her cheeks full of the same, and I dump my grim cargo on the gravel while she finishes her business outside.
Then, for reasons which to this day remain mysterious, I am overcome with the urge to sniff my hands - the same hands which recently cupped a nice warm bowl of boozy puke.
Barfarama. If she looks ill these days I fetch a bucket.
(sparagus14, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:06, Reply)

Budapest, a few months ago
While half-way through my week of far too many flights (in which I made inappropriate comments to an Austrian Airlines stewardess that I mentioned a few weeks ago), I'd just arrived in Budapest after a weekend in California. I'd been drinking every evening for the last 4 days and only sleeping a few hours.

The first day in Budapest I'd last slept on the floor of Toronto airport, but I was now at another conference, so had to get drunk with a whole new bunch of people. We went to a cosy little restaurant and utterly ruined one couple's night by being loud, drunk and nerdy, at which point we headed off to a club called Szimpla. The entrance to this club is on a little side street (down the road from a Tesco Expressz, they do love their z's in Hungary). The neighbourhood seemed quite decrepit, and there was no sign of anyone else on the road, but this is where google maps had told us to go. As we got a little further up the road we saw three blokes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a gangster film smoking fags at what looked like the back entrance to a supermarket. With "Szimpla" above the door.

We walked past them into what was clearly a van loading bay, then through some of those plastic strip curtains to another little room. Still no evidence of a club. A joke about the club in Blade was made. Eventually, after passing through more curtains we found ourselves in a huge place, many side rooms and bars, an out-doors area and q quirky atmosphere. If you know Bristol imagine what would happen if they took the woods, made it as big as the academy, then didn't let any rahs in.

It was awesome.

So, we stayed there until about 4am, acting like real brits abroad. I got so wankered that at one point I was confused why my cigarette wasn't working right. Turns out I lit the wrong end. But eventually, it became time to retire, and I made my way back to the hotel.

The next morning was the worst I'd felt for years, severely sleep deprived and with a huge hangover, I started to walk into the conference, about a mile from my hotel. I reached the Petőfi hid, a huge bridge across the danube, right in the middle of rush-hour. I was starting to feel really quite fragile by this point, and for good reason. Half-way across I couldn't hold on any longer, and threw up off the side into the Danube, in front of a good proportion of Budapest's commuters.

Then again. Then again. In fact, I threw up quite a bit. But eventually I did make it in to the conference.

There's a video that one of the participants shot at www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzTjg-j-pQM - see if you can spot me.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 19:04, 3 replies)

It started with a few drinks...
Me and the ex got home pretty sloshed. Cue loads of mad sex and fumbling in the bedroom. (Mad sex = trying to maintain some semblance of an erection while the room dramatically spins in a kaleidoscope of colour). I passed out and woke the next day in a haze and stumbled through Sunday. She left that evening and the next few days sped by in a gluttonous mix of work and sleep.

The following Friday she was due back at my house so I decided to give my room a quick clean. Round the backside of my bed there was a narrow gap between the bed frame and the wall into which an occasional item of clothing would vanish. I craned my head to inspect for awol boxer shorts and the like and was unpleasantly surprised by a half a pint glass filled with a lumpy liquid.

I picked it up and through some perverse desire gave it a whiff only to be greeted by the delicious aroma of old sick. So I called up the missus to ask her what the fuck was going on.

'Did you throw up in a pint glass and leave it behind my bed?'
'Err, sorry. I meant to tell you about that'.
'When were planning to tell me?'
'When I remembered'.
'Oh I see, so basically never then..'
'Look on the bright side. At least I didn't puke in your bed!'
'You're a keeper you are. A real gem'.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:58, Reply)

Oh there are so many...
I could tell you about the time I got a virulent sickness and quicklypoop bug on a road trip across Portugal and Spain, which involved vomiting out of the window of a van as we hurtled to meet the ferry and having it hit me back in the face at full velocity.

I could tell you about the time my mate vomited in the world famous The Venue in New Cross without even breaking her stride.

But I won't. I will instead tell you about the most epic vomiting incident of my life.

It was 1994. A young ATGIG was sitting one of her Standard Grade exams. A lot of you may not be Scottish, so won't know how they work, but basically, there are three exams for each subject, a general one that everybody sits, and from there you have to sit either a Credit or a Foundation exam based on your brainpower.

The upshot of this is that as you can only have one subject a day, you usually have large gaps where you are waiting to sit the next exam. I opted to spend this time smoking 10 Benson and Hedges.

I admit that these were my salad days of smoking, and I hadn't quite built up the nicotine resistance that I now have. Therefore, smoking 10 fairly strong cigarettes in the space of a few hours may not have been the best idea.

I entered the exam hall on rubber legs and started to feel slightly queasy. I bashed on with the exam, thinking that the feeling was nerves, or just a bit of a small headrush from the smoking. Then the bile began to rise.

Unsure of what to do, I calculated whether I was allowed to run out and go to the toilet. The thought wasn't really formed when the heaves started. I started to get out of my seat too late.

Now, I don't know about you, but my first instinct when being sick in a place where those aren't normally sick is to try to catch it. Which I did.

With both hands.

This then posed the problem of how to get the attention of the invigilators, who were probably up to something that could possibly be another question of the week. We were told to raise our hands if we had a problem. This was something I obviously could not do. All around me were classmates who were concentrating very hard on their own papers.

Eventually though, somebody noticed and the Janitor came with his bucket of sawdust. I was let out for five minutes to clean up, and went on to get a top grade.

Did fuck all for my already minimal street cred though.
(allthatglittersisglitter, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:54, Reply)

Drank a pint of custard,
did a sick in the street on the way home. (It was a cold day, and when I came back the next day it was still there, frozen to the road.)

Still, it was damn fine custard.
( Bob Todd whee, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:45, 1 reply)

Reading FC vs Burger King
Struck down with a case of the mentals, I used to like nothing better that going to watch Reading Football Club play of a Saturday. This was in their wilderness years in the late 80s, so I would spend many freezing Saturdays standing with my boss and his mates on a cold terrace at Elm Park (in fact, the entire history of the club has been spent displaying varying shades of shitness, so 'wilderness years' could describe anything from 1874-2010).

Habitually, I would take a train to Reading, have a burger on the way to the ground, watch a crappy 0-0 draw, then go and get drunk.

So.

Train. Burger King. South Bank. Shrewsbury Town. Raging gut rot.

You can tell where this is going.

Halfway through the second half, the unthinkable happens and Reading get the ball in the net. Pandemonium on the terraces, if only to get warm.

I jump up and down a bit, and suddenly realise this hasn't helped by raging guts in the slightest.

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARCH!"

All over the boss. All over his mates. All over some hairy, tattooed chaps who didn't take to well to being the victims of a projectile peff.

I had a Whopper Meal with large fries and a chocolate shake.

And so did they.

I stood on my own on the otherside of the ground for two seasons.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:34, Reply)

Easy
Tea without milk.

Every single time I've run out of milk and thought "Ah, fuck it, I'll just have it without" I have ended up ejecting the entire drink at speed from my throat. These days I just don't bother.

No idea why the addition of a little cow-juice means that I can stomach it while pure tea triggers my vom reflex, though. Any b3ta scientists got any suggestions?
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:28, 8 replies)

The Night I Spewed Blood
"Thank you for calling the Australian Government.................Bromwin, can I just put you on hold for a wee minute...?"
 
It's a funny old thing this travelling, when you are on your own and move into a hostel you have to make friends hard and fast, otherwise you are the weirdo that doesn't talk to anyone and you become an outsider, and I'd imagine you'd have a pretty rubbish time too.  I wouldn't have this problem of course, I'm ace.
 
So you make your new friends very quickly, and you pretty much stay friends for the entire time you are in the country.  Some are party friends, some are adventure friends and some graduate into the echelons of being actual 'we'll still stay in contact once we live hundreds if not thousands of miles apart' friends.  These are the people you make a proper effort to say goodbye to, and these are the people who cause internal drinking injuries.
 
I headed back to Kings Cross for the first time in over a month, and I'd forgotten how much of a hole it is.  Maybe I got used to it, maybe I just blocked it out, but I've never seen such a hive of scum and villainy.  We were all saying goodbye to Caroline, who we'd met at the Asylum back in May.  She's been away travelling and Aiden Mark and I have all flown from the filthy grove to our own flats, but we've kept in contact for occasions such as these.
 
We had a mug of wine whilst waiting for everyone to get their arses in gear, and with the promise of free beer all night and pizza on arrival we made our way to the Sugarmill for the night.  You have to admire the SM for trying, it's a really nice venue and they do attract the crowd that they are after at the weekends, but a backpacker $4 beer night was woefully out of place.  You wouldn't drive to Aldi in a Bentley, you'd have poor people with sticky hands messing up the lovely aesthetic.
 
So as we sat in the SM ruining the admittedly lovely aesthetic, gorging on the pizza with nuts on it(?) the typical beginning of a big night thing happened.  Nothing.  There were about twenty of us, who mostly vaguely knew each other by situation, all not saying much.  Why not?  Because they all see each other all day everyday whilst lying around the hostel watching movies claiming it's "backpacking".  Once you get past the initial three questions "Where are you from/Where are you going/How long have you been in Australia for?" YOU NEED TO COME UP WITH CHAT.  As you can imagine, I was doing my best - I do have a Green Scout Cubs Badge in chat, but it wasn't really happening.  Well someone had to get the orgy on the go, so I sped up the drinking, enforcing a 'rounds' policy, and therefore imposing a higher drink to minute ratio.  At one point Caroline had three drinks backed up, I'm sure of it.
 
As soon as party juice was applied the night started in earnest.  Aiden the Dubliner spread the word of Steve and got us all dancing like trains.  Or rollercoasters.  I can't quiet remember the genesis of it, but not to be outdone I invented the kayak dance.  It's a winner, as you can do it sitting down.  As the night continued the need to sit down was lost on the dwindling group (some of whom had fled as soon as it became apparent that "free beers all night" might as well have been one of the main plot points of The Da Vinci Code it was such a lie).  Why sit when you can dance?  Badly.  The only reason to sit was for the intrapharynxical injection of soft government friendly and taxable drugs.
 
It was during one imbibcation break that young Caroline shared one vital piece of information.  She had lived in Kings Cross for three months on and off, and had yet to visit a strip club.  This was her last night in the southern half of the world, and with a cheeky glint in her eye I could tell that she was up for an adventure, to open her consciousness to a new world, to delve into the subculture of Antipodeans' depravity.  It was my duty, my calling and my obligation to ensure that Caro didn't miss out on any aspect of her international expedition. 

Plus I'd get to see some big fat titties.

As you walk along Darlinghurst Road, you pass strip clubs left right and centre.  I don't know which one is the best, I don't know which one is the worst.  I don't even know how many there are, but it's in the double digits.  When you pass, even at 3pm, there are bouncers hawking for business - or if your exceptionally unlucky, one of the dancers themselves.  Why unlucky?  Well if they weren't the ugliest of the bunch wouldn't they be inside earning the big bucks?  Dealing with the 'greeters' is an art.  You can ignore them, you can politely decline but the most fun comes from blatant sarcasm.  "I'm wearing flipflops and carrying a frozen pizza, does it look like I'm on a night out?"  - No Al, but it looks like your a loser having a night in who's only chance of seeing some nakedness is by paying for it.
 
Saying yes to one of these hawkers throws them off I'll tell you.  I think six of us were ushered to a booth by a scantily and whatevertheoppositeofclassilydressedis.  I think I paid for the round, and I'm pretty sure I was escorted to the cash machine to help finance this.
 
Sure as chips are hot chips, the ladies of the group didn't like it.  Frenchie drank her drink pretty quickly and left in disgust, taking the guy that was trying to sleep with her with her. Whether or not he withered after so much drink is unknown, nor does anyone care but let's face it that's the closest to Stephen Fry's level of wordplay I will ever get, and therefore justified.
 
Some of the others drifted off, so I took the horns by the bull and invited Caroline to take a seat centre stage, that's right, closer to the titties.  The floor was sticky, the seats weren't much better and the dancers immediately clocked us for skint backpackers, electing to dance towards the dirty old men than us.  You know why Scotland still has one pound notes yeah?  $5 is the lowest denomination in folding Australian money.  You can buy a meal from Hungry Jacks for that.
 
A couple of drinks down, Caroline has been at the edge of the stage for half an hour or so and she had firmly decided that she didn't like it.  Not in a funny kitsch way, not in a this isn't for me way, more in a I want to leave - stop the bus - I'm getting off kind of a way.  To be fair it was about four in the morning and time to go anyway, so we headed back to the Asylum through the quagmire* that is the Cross at night. 
 
I was TuckerMax drunk.  I don't remember an awful lot of the journey home, but I know it was warm.  That's because I ended up back in my flat with not one but two jumpers that weren't mine.  Caro had offered to stay at her place (IN A SEPARATE BED YOU CHARLATANS OF THOUGHT) but I reasoned that I could get home safely and be well positioned to make it to work in the morning.  I presumably said my goodbyes, left the Asylum for the last time and walked the 3km home, most likely dancing and or singing to the four AC/DC songs and two Oasis songs stored in my phone.
 
I remember looking at my watch at 5am.  I set two alarms.  I woke up thinking, it's a bit bright for 7am isn't it?  It was.  It was too bright for 9am.  It was 10.30am.  That's late on top of three hours late.  I called in to work, saying I'd be in asap, noticed that I'd saved time by not getting undressed on the way to bed and charged out the apartment.  What is better to stave off a hangover?  Food.  What was in my pocket? $5.  You can see where I am going with this can't you?  Small coke, small fries, cheeseburger and an ice cream out of Hungry Jacks.  Straight on the train (oddly no-one sat beside me) and I was winging my way to work.  I think I was over the limit for driving in Australia, which implies that I was over the limit for being awake for me.  Evidence of this is giggling at eating an ice cream with chocolate sauce at 11.30am.  On a train.  On the other side of the world.
 
I get to work, realising that my work clothes are the same as my strip club attire which also triples up as bedwear.  I get to my desk and login, and no-one says anything.  Have I got away with it?  No.  My team leader comes over half an hour later, throws my guideline test at me asking why I hadn't bothered finishing it.  I didn't realise it was double sided, so I finished it off in my worst handwriting and left it on her desk.  I struggled through the day, brightening up when I spoke to customers but slumping into a grotto of pain in idle moments. 
 
Slumped over the desk, I saw my team leader coming towards me.  I just about managed a smile when she told me I had the best marks in the call centre for the test, they wanted me to start training people as soon as possible and that the manager of the campaign would be dropping by to congratulate me. Eh?  An hour later three more people had commented on my rising stardom and my adeptness at TPS reports.  I've not even been on this campaign for a week yet.  An hour and fifteen minutes later I took a call from Bromwin.
 
Bromwin was a lovely old lady from Victoria, wondering how much of a rebate she could get from the Federal Government to make her home more energy efficient.  During the pleasantries at the beginning of the call I thought something was wrong, as I was listening to her situation and assessing her case, I knew that something was wrong.  Just as I was about to reveal the crucial information to her, I managed to say  ".....just hold the line for a wee minute"  before SPRINTING to the bathroom.  Mercifully there was no-one in there, and so the deposit of aforementioned Hungry Jacks meal deal was done with style, grace and anonymity.  But why was it red?  Did I have some crazy cocktail last night?  I didn't eat on the way home, what would make my spew red?
 
Blood.  Blood make anything red.  I'd drank so much, that I made myself bleed internally.
 
Five minutes later I return to the phone, apologise to Bromwin the lovely old lady from Victoria for the unexplained wait and let her know that she would probably be able to claim $1,600 from the government.
 
Bleary-eyed and worse than ever, I asked a manager if I could go home sick.  No, I couldn't.  I don't know if he was joking, but I didn't have the power to form an argument against such a definitive and unjust answer.  I sat at my desk at represented the Australian government for the rest of the day, in my strip club pyjamas, now with added vomit specks.
 
I arrived late in the train station, down the escalator with hands aloft - a team of friends at the bottom waiting to the platform to see if I was still alive.  I regaled this tale to them, turning heads and earning a bit of old fashioned tutting for good measure.  I was feeling better, and with the same hangover mischieviousness that I had at New Year 2008, and we know what happened then.  (No, the time I pulled over in Winton and was sick out the driver's window outside a church at 11.30am on a Sunday was in the summer.)
 
What have I learnt?  It takes a certain type of girl to enjoy a strip club, jumpers with fake fur in them are really warm, I really really really stop buying rounds in strip clubs and internal bleeding is nothing to be scared of.

 
Safe travels a'body!
 
 
 
 
(*) 1: Soft miry land that shakes or yields under the foot 2: A difficult, precarious, or entrapping position. 3: An insatiable pervert.
 
 
 
 
( The Lurker Plenty One, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:16, 6 replies)