CHUNDERSTRUCK!
I met a footballer. A famous one and that. He played for a big team and all; ah yes, a totally gold-dug pints of beer out of him all night long. Oh hot stuff, I’d like a tall glass of your best pilsner, I slurred, doing my best to keep the ale chuffs confined to my inner bottom.

Come the end of the night, what’s a girl to do? Perhaps I might give him my telephone number, provided I could remember what numbers were. It would be much too tacky and dirty to sleep with him, yes. But he remembered my name! We’re laughing! He touched my thigh, lingered and didn’t make the crotch jump! Oh, this is serious – all the signs were there for a proper date. And I did it all while being ginger! My mind was agog, so telephone number it was. Flirty smile, flip of the ginge, he leans in, I regain my balance, lick the tip of my pen, blaaaAAaAaArghsplat.

I coulda been a WAG, dear readers. A misanthropic beer-swilling belchy WAG who knows Perl, yes, but a WAG.*

I was a student studying the dark art of poverty – I’d have accepted free beer from your creepy moustachioed uncle and likely sicked up all down my tits much the same.

*Wonderfully Angry Ginger
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:40, 8 replies)

So it was my 21st
My brother had bought me a bottle of Bacardi and for the train journey from my home town back to my college town I'd bought myself 4 cans of Special Brew. I had planned to meet some friends at a club in my college town and had drunk the 4 cans and half the bottle of Bacard on the train. Got to the club quite pissed and tried to leave my bag and jacket at the cloakroom but they wouldn't let me leave the half bottle there so I downed the rest in a few gulps. Then had a few more pints at the club.
Got back to a mate's grilfriend's house where the party continued and after a big pull on a bong I felt the need to puke so ran to the toilet, opened the door and blew chunks all over the back of the girl who had beaten me to the toilet but not locked the door. Next thing it's about 6 or 7am and I'm lying in a pool of vomit on the floor next to the bed where my mate is trying to get all sexy with his gf. Felt like I was dying but was trying to be quiet so as not to disturb the amorous couple. Woke up about 11 and those who had stayed the night smoked a load of weed while watching my halfhearted attempt to clean up my vomit.
About 3 I headed home and found a search warrent on the kitchen table. The hairdressers downstairs who had the spare key had let the dibble in. They didn't find anything though as what wasn't in my pocket and wallet was safely stashed at my mate gf's house.
Can't drink Bacardi anymore.
(Wagane, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:35, Reply)

Norovirus is a bastard
Rakky's story below reminded me of this. I had norovirus last year, one night when I was staying in a hotel.

Because of the layout of the bathroom, I couldn't reach both the sink and the toilet at the same time, but at one point I knew I was about to emit from both ends simultaneously. So I had a choice to make.

It was made for me, as I started throwing up. My head was closer to the sink than my arse was to the toilet, so I ended up squirting a bit of liquid shit on the floor. And some of it ran down my leg. Fortunately I was undressed so didn't make a mess of any clothes, but I did have to clean up the floor and myself.

Eventually, after several visits to the bathroom, the stuff coming from one end looked and smelt exactly like that from the other end, so I knew I'd pretty much emptied out my GI tract.

I didn't eat for another two days. But there was one beneficial side effect - because it took so long to refill my guts, I didn't have another shit for several days thereafter, which gave the haemorrhoids a bit of a rest!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:21, Reply)

Not the most romantic point of my life...
It was fairly early on at that fateful teenage party when I, a skinny, flat-chested little fourteen year old, was introduced to Mr Tequilla. Only half an hour later I was sitting in the kitchen, bucket on knee, vomiting copiously.

Luckily my good friend Stewart was on hand, genearlly being comforting and holding my hair back. After a final bout of dry retching, I let out a bit of a moan and he uttered the immortal line "I know what will make you feel better".

And stuck his tongue down my throat.

Looking back, I can't see that I would have been much of a turn-on really: bits of vomit around my lips, make-up smeared over my face, that sour taste of stomach acid still in my mouth... But obviously he couldn't resist. He kissed me for about a minute before I had to pull away to be sick again. He went off to brag to his mates in the next room, who of course weren't too impressed and happily still rib him about it over 10 years later.

*pop*
(flitski, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:20, 1 reply)

Murder death puke
Many moons ago, I had a summer job (between my first and second years at university) as a contract cleaner/landscape gardener. The London-based company I was working for subcontracted from a lot of councils and whatnot, cleaning up council houses so they were ready for new tenants, taking care of council-owned fields and gardens and that kind of thing.

They also had a number of contracts with the metropolitan police, which mainly involved maintaining the greenery in and around police stations. All in all, it was a smashing job which paid cash in hand, got me outside and even the cleaning jobs that we did weren't too bad (the majority of the work I did was on the gardening side).

Anyhow, one day I got my job sheet and was told that my partner and I were on a police cleaning job, which was very unusual - most cleaning jobs were council ones (where you basically went into some scummy council flat, bleached the fuck out of everything and left). On the promise from the boss of a £50 bonus each for the day, we were only too happy to leap into the van and head to the site, mind. We got there and were shown in by a nervous-looking young copper past some 'Police Cordon' tape - not a great start.

What I saw inside will live with me forever. A guy had suspected his wife of having an affair, so had taken justice into his own hands - courtesy of a shotgun. Over the breakfast table, he had shot her point blank in the head, splattering her brains all up the wall behind her. Now this had happened a few days ago. Forensics had been in and removed the body, and taken photographs and samples and all that jazz. But the bit that happens next, they never show you on CSI, do they? Some poor fucker has to clean the remnants up. And that's where we came in.

As I said, this was a few days after the crime and the immediate investigation of the scene had been completed. In the height of a London summer, the brains and blood of the unfortunate woman had become crusted onto the walls, and we ended up resorting to using wallpaper scrapers to effectively chisel her grey matter from the wall.

I was 19, I was scraping the stinking brains of a dead woman from the walls. It was inevitable. Barely ten seconds in, I hurled. EVERYWHERE. I had no idea what I'd eaten, but it was fucking irrelevant. I projectile vomited over and over and over again, all over the carpet, the wall, the kitchen surface and (of course) myself.

I then spent the next hour cleaning up my own sick, while my (stronger-stomached) partner sorted out the brains. And we both got our £50 bonus that day, even though I provided my own mess to clean, in true Keynsian-economics style. I bought him a pint at the end of the day out of my bonus, mind. Although I didn't feel like one myself, funny enough.

The following summer, I got a job in Asda. Much less distressing.
(Bappage, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:12, 3 replies)

And for once, I was stone cold sober...
During a bout of Norovirus, I managed to pull all the muscles in my neck while trying to do a sick out of my mouth and arse simultaneously. I further added to the indignity of the situation by then sicking up a perfect facsimile of the last meal I had eaten, a roast dinner, onto my right knee cap.

I spent the remainder of the evening huddled in a disgusted, putrid heap on the bathroom floor praying for death and the following two weeks only able to eat a diet that even Gillian McKeith would find a bit restrictive.

Even now, the smell of roast pork triggers an involuntary gag reflex and I've developed an aversion to carrots.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:09, Reply)

Another BTCV Gem
Theres is always one who is a liability.

The task was the stacking, burning and emptying of several large charcoal kilns. The work was dirty, smelly and awesome fun.

At this point anyone with a charcoal BBQ will know that if put your hand into a bag of lumpwood and it comes out pretty black and dirty. Put your whole personage into a charcoal kiln and you come out covered in head to toe and we're not talking a comedy light 'dick van dyke the chimney sweep' dusting here, a proper thick goey black layer of soot and sweat.

Fast forward to the evening, the motely band of volunteers returns to the accomodation ready for a splash of warm water and a hard earned beer. Most normal people wouldn't fancy heading into a nice local pub plastered with a thick layer of soot, not Charlie. Piping up with the immortal line "Don't care if I do look like a nigger" he scooted off to the bar still black as the night. Charlie's disregard for personal hygiene however was matched by his ability to consume alcohol and fast forward again to the wee hours with everyone else tucked up safely in bed Charlie returns from the pub loudly staggering up the steps waking everyone else up just in time to hear him chunder all over the front door, all over the handrail and all over the steps.

Charlie then retires to bed, sleeps off the after effects of the booze and rises early ready for another day of graft. Opening the front door of the accomodation anyone still asleep was awoken by loud cries of disgust as he realises he is standing in his upchuck from the night before, then in a cartoonesque move he manages to slip on a carrot (theres always carrots) and shoot arse over tit down the stairs landing in a pile of his own congealed vomit thus aquiring the nick name chunder charlie.

Length? At least 10 steps.
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:53, Reply)

Any vomity vagina port in a storm
At a house party, everyone had found a warm body to snuggle up to, except me, because I look like a white version of Lt. Worf with tits.
As I was stumbling/eavesdropping/ladywanking around the various couples, I chanced upon a young man providing some manual stimulation to my drunken friend through/in/around/amongst her vomit soaked knickers. She'd been drinking dark rum and Baileys, so it was all stinky and creamy and sickly bleurghhhhatnbw024j20384j549uitondskn.
*Shitty joke about the story having no satisfying climax*
(reducedfatLOLcat, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:53, 3 replies)

my first teenage party
(admittedly i was a late starter, so it wasn't until the age of 17 that i really started going to parties)
nothing like having a screaming match with your drunk girlfriend (*~troo luv 4 lyfe!~*) in the middle of a crowd of people because she's cheating on you. nothing like it, except for doing the same thing and having her be violently sick on you, in your minidress and bare feet.
aaah, l'amour. had to catch the train home that night covered in bright purple vomit AND took her back as well, for another year and a half.
there's always one girl crying at a party. i pretend that wasn't me that time.
(charlottebronte stalking through the moors, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:50, Reply)

Nacho Volcano
This was communicated through a co-worker, who, having worked his way through a case of beer, smoked a vast amount of lethal-injection grade weed and was overwhelmed with the munchies.

He grabbed a jumbo bag of Nacho chips and ate the whole thing. As his body metabolized the weed and other poisons, the body's natural reflex to expel poison kicked in, and he staggered outside to puke.

The problem was that the jumbo bag of chips had soaked up most of the liquid in his stomach. He was like a human icing bag: instead of expelling chunky soup, his heaves slowly forced out a stiff beery nacho chip paste that continually activated his gag reflex as it emerged, poo-like, from his mouth.

Eventually his body gave up and he collapsed back inside to pray for death.

Daylight revealed that the whole thing was not just a nightmare: his vomit was not the usual jelly-fish splatter, but a surprisingly neat volcano-shaped cone in a pile on the deck.
(TommyShanks, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:48, 4 replies)

Both ends burning
I remember having a really dodgy stomach at the age of ten, and waking up in bed with an overwhelming desire to vomit and defacate at the same time.

I rushed to the bathroom as fast as my little legs could carry me, hitched my pyjama bottoms down and squatted over the toilet.

Then to my horror, I realised that my urge to throw up was going to arrive sooner than my need to take a crap.

So frantically, I got up off the toilet, dropped to my knees and leaned over the bowl, puking violently - at the precise moment that the first torrent of vomit came gushing out of my mouth into the toilet bowl, a massive turd the size of a generous salami shot out of my anus with unprecedented force.

It was at that moment that my mother came out of her bedroom to see what all the noise was, only to find me kneeling on the bathroom floor groaning with my pyjama bottoms round the ankles and a freshly steaming shit on the hallway carpet.

I've had better days.
(tricyclic_looper, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:45, 5 replies)

Morocco, Land of Mountains and Dodgy Roads
Now this isn't to be a tale of excessive alcohol consumption and saying hello to Huey on the big white telephone (although I have a few of them, though none spectacular enough to share), as in Morocco you can't get an alcoholic beverage too freely.

To the tale in question:

Myself and the lovely and very tolerant Mr. hats went on an in-between university years on-the-cheap touring holiday in 2007 - Madrid, Lisbon, Toulouse, and Marrakech. All very lovely, although we spent most of it shagging because there is only so much 'sightseeing' you can do. Now, all who know me know that I am an extremely bad traveller - vomiting when the plane takes off, vomiting when the plane lands, vomiting in between. Also, vomiting on boats. Look in the dictionary under 'vomit' and there's my pasty-white face staring back at you, or at least, it should be. We managed to get through a week in Madrid (some vomiting), a week in Lisbon (also some vomiting), Toulouse (vomiting in the car on the way from the airport). So all in all, pretty standard. That was until we decided to go on a trip to the Sahara desert, through the Atlas Mountains from our base in Marrakech...

The minibus trip was scheduled to take us at 7am - Mr. hats and myself had had epic dysentry for five days previous, and were only just getting back to being regular (or getting away from being 'regular', as it were). So off we went from the hotel, arse clenched and looking forward to a 6 hour journey through the Atlas Mountains. We walked to the minibus stop and met up with our fellow tour participants - a few Aussies, a couple of Brits - all tourists (no sane Moroccan would do such a thing!) Minibus arrived, luggage was loaded, and we set off on the dusty tracks to the land of the camel.

No sooner had we hit the edge of Marrakech, and I was hurling chunks. I'll have to add at this point that we didn't bring a sick-bag with us, so I was doing technicolour yawns into the carrier bag we brought our lunch in. A leaky carrier bag. I hurled once, I hurled twice. Our fellow passengers were trying not to look at me, probably (and rightly) believing that if they looked back, they would be scarred for life. We carried on through the low-lying regions of Morocco - I was throwing up every 15 minutes or so. Then, we started our climb through the Atlas. That's when things really started getting bad. The leaky carrier bag was sloshing about as the road got more bumpy, the hurling got more frequent and more interestingly coloured. Any water consumed (this was in August - temperatures of 40+) was straight back up and into the carrier within 5 minutes. All I could think was 'Thank fuck my rear end isn't playing up as well!'

We eventually came to the half-way point of the journey, by which point I was vomiting blood and this scared poor Mr. hats shitless. I wasn't a happy bunny either, but after we'd had a rest and a sit-down the throwing up stopped. The rest of the trip was fine after that - we saw the camels (although the camel riding trip to the berber camp almost saw the poor camel wearing a vomit hat...) and went back home without any further events.

Length? Let's just say that Mr. hats wasn't up for nooky that evening...
( its_hatorah_bitch is b3ta the devil you know on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:33, Reply)

My darling girlfriend
Has drunkenly vomited in my bed on two occasions.

The second time was particularly annoying, as I could tell she was about to chuck up at least a minute or so before she actually did, and hence advised her to go into the bathroom if she felt she was going to be sick. Of course she ignored my advice, insisting she was fine, and hey presto 60 seconds later we have an eruption of vomit covering my bed sheet, duvet and pillows and 3 o clock in the fucking morning. Really had to bite my tongue till the morning over that one (attempting to tell off a drunk person is without a doubt the most pointless exercise there is).


I do love her.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:32, Reply)

You know it's love
when you're cleaning out the wooden bedside drawer that your worse-for-wear girlfriend has just heartily upchucked into...
(beanojam isn't really Ricardo Flange, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:56, 1 reply)

Drink Bowling - bad idea
Strike = top up the 'penalty' glass with 2 fingers of your own Stella
Spare = one finger into the glass
5 or less = drink half the glass
0 = down the glass

Play well = drink less = play better
Play badly = drink more = play worse = drink more = puke everywhere

Was supposed to be meeting the (to-be) wife and friends for dinner. Was found asleep on the bathroom floor, having emptied a train carriage by throwing up in my hands. Don't remember getting home.

Managed to swap my bowling shoes for my trainers though. Result.
(oafcmetty Lurking since, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:55, Reply)

Ah, ye olde 18th birthday.
Just a bit of back story - as I'm supposedly a clever little thing, I went to university at 17, meaning my 18th took place whilst at uni, about 6 months into my first year.

The plan was to get a few in at the bar in the halls of residence, then on to Corp (a local rock/metal/goth club, if you've never lived in the South Yorkshire area). Due to an 18th birthday being a huge event, I didn't buy a drink all night and was rather quickly sozzled, so Corp wasn't going to happen. There was one evil concoction bought by a friend's now ex (and rightly so!) which included a shot of each of the spirits from behind the bar mixed with cider which took me over the edge. I threw up all over myself and someone who would later become my boyfriend (not the current one, mind) before passing out.

I still have the jeans and bag I was wearing as a memento (now washed, obviously, as this was nearly 4 years ago) - my stomach acid has bleached both.

Oh and there's also the time when I was 15, had a bit too much (first time being drunk) and threw up all over my friend's parents' garden. There's a patch of their lawn where the grass simply doesn't grow.
(Lucoire tutted and shook her head in disbelief on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:51, Reply)

The Regurgitator
In my first year at uni, the main act at our Fresher's Ball was... none other than the mighty mole-man Chesney Hawkes!* Even more excitingly, the support act was a man called The Regurgitator.

The Regurgitator was simply amazing. Looked a bit like Rich Hall if Rich Hall dressed in spandex leggings and nothing else. His special skill was to fool a bunch of pissed-up first-years (not a difficult task) into thinking that he really could swallow a locked padlock and the key, unlock it in his stomach, and then cough it back up.

However, whilst that might have been the cleverest part of his act, it wasn't the most impressive. That was when he drank some washing up liquid and some lighter gas, then burped up a huge bubble which started floating towards the ceiling, before he popped it with a lit match, producing an enormous fireball. He did lots of similar stuff, but that was what really stuck with the bunch of us who'd gone from halls together. We discussed it animatedly on the nightbus back, and came to the conclusion that he must the hardest hardman in the history of hardness.

As we giggled and stumbled our way back through Camberwell, one of the boys decided to prove that he was just as good as The Regurgitator. He nipped into Budgens and picked up some washing up liquid; intending to burp up gloriously large bubbles that would float away on the chill night air, he squeezed it forcefully down his throat. A look of determination grew on his face, and he drew in a deep breath, ready to burp his green bubble forth. Instead, he vommed the whole lot up again, it running in a gloopy sheet over his chin in a vile parody of ectoplasm. As he collapsed, retching, to his knees, I noticed that his vom was full of lots of little bubbles! Then I noticed my dress was covered in lots of little vommy bubbles. As were my friends. We tried dragging towards halls, but he was covered in regurgitated fairy liquid and kept slipping out of our hands. Every time he tried to stand up he slipped and fell over into the foamy pool of gunk, coughing up more bubbles. Eventually we had to go into a kebab shop and buy some dishcloths from them to wipe him down till he was grippable, then dragged him home, laughing at his shocked, green face.

Apparently bubbles kept coming out of his nose for days afterwards.


*Turns out he'd had it removed. Along with any semblance of talent he might once have possessed.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:46, 2 replies)

Microwave chippy chips
Picture the 1980's, game and watch, football stickers and then - the all powerful home microwave. Approx 2 tonnes, 300watts of power and about £400 if memory serves me right.

I had been packed off to my aunts with my little sister for the weekend as a babysitting duty. All good - its a fun aunt so no bother. All was well until we were shown the shiny new metallic zapper that is the modern microwave. The recipe that we were to be Wow'ed with was cheesy chips, micro style. So potatoes were dutifully cut, placed on plates and microwaved for about 15-20 minutes if i remember right. Per plate.(no quicker - i could have used a maginfying glass in Decemebr to do the same). Needless to say they tasted un-cooked. And then covered in cheese and given another couple of melting minutes. I was then co-erced into finishing them all.

About 4 hours later, firmly tucked up in an unfamilar house i felt a gurgle. it got worse. it needed attention. I panicked. ran downstairs and puked in the sink (with washing up in it) around the microwave and all over the kitchen.

The hard, undigested, cheesy vomitty chips looked unchanged from the second they left the microwave and were served.

And i have been the one who has taken the blame "sickly little boy - probably too much pop" rather than "Franken-chef poisons first born male in family with irradiated raw potato meal".

I am still bitter and can feel the corners in my throat even now.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:36, 1 reply)

Tails to tell
The most memorable vom I ever had was during the funeral of Princess Diana, I had eaten a load of raw broad beans. I pebble dashed the porcelain while Elton John tinkled on the ivories.

I was waiting for the bus and in the small old fashioned metal roofed bus shelter was a perfect pavement pizza. I should have mentioned it is the height of summer, the sort of day where the local news go out and try to fry an egg on the pavement. The stench of hot vomit was horrendous, but the fear of missing the bus meant I must stay put. Next day, vomit still there, day after still there. That was about 4 years ago and to this day should you visit that bus shelter there is still a circle where the vomit once was.
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:33, Reply)

1 case of reflux, a very calm doctor and an unfortunate student nurse

Years ago (before my two operations) I suffered horribly from reflux (heartburn) and indigestion, the cause was a hiatus hernia (Sciency bit - en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiatus_hernia). Before I was allowed to be operated on I was told that I had to go through one final test, the medication that was finally working for me couldnt continue in teh prescribed doses but before undertaking the operation I had to go through a simple if not unpleasent experience.

The night before the test I was told not to drink or eat anything after 8pm , much like you would if you were having an operation, 500ml of water was all I could have in the period after 8pm and up to the event. Duly noted.....honest.

I arrived at the hospital (a fancy private affair thanks to my employers at the time), with my then girlfriend, now wife, with an overnight bag (24 hour test apparently) and a head full of fear.

I was sat on the bed and the very nice Doctor (Eastern European lady with a thick accent) explained the procedure to me, they would put a tube a few feet long, through my nose, down my throat and into my stomach. This would then stick to the side of my oesophogus and would measure various readings of acidity, temperature etc etc. When I have a meal, I press a button (Much like an early 1980's TV wired remote), when I fart, I press a different button, same for burping, sensation of heartburn/refulx and so on. After 24 hours all these readings would be put together and the test would be complete.....was I happy she asked....nope I replied, she shrugs her shoulders pats me on the back and tells me not to worry.

They wheel the contraption up to the side of the bed, tell me to tilt my head back and then they would begin, my girlfriend is outside the room at this moment in time, with the door shut. Said Dr gets in a student nurse, a comically camp Gok Wan lookalike and actalike, though very friendly. I take a few calming breaths and tilt my head back....the sensation of the tube going my nose was more odd than anything, I tried to concentrate on Richard and Judy on This morning which was on, but the real "fun" began when the tube hit my gag reflex, without any warning whatsoever a good few litres of brownish water gushed out spraying myself, my sick apron (that horrible plastic mac thing) my jeans, the bed and dear old Gok Wan, who proceded to sprint out of the room screaming past my bemused and concerned girlfriend. The doctor who had seen this all a hundred times no doubt, had cleverly positioned herself to the right of me and behind my head, feeding the tube in from behind me, clever girl.

In my panic at feeling like I was choking I ripped the tube out of my nose and was trying to climb off the bed. Once calmed and warned by the Dr that I should stay calm I persuaded her I wouldnt try again unless my girlfriend was allowed in....which was granted. I felt a little calmer.

The Dr now did something that confuses me a little, she arranged for me to have a cup of tea, and a biscuit, a bourbon...lovely. While I was enjoying the brew and Richard and Judy, she was telling me off for clearly drinking more than 500ml of water, I argued my innocence but was more concerned about eating that lovely biscuit, than who was right or wrong.

After about 15 minutes our hapless Nurse came back in, all refreshed, yet looking a little peeved, and we decided to try again.

I Tilt back my head and they put the tube in my nose, down it goes, hang in there son hang in there I think to myself.All was going well and eventually I felt a little wiggle inside and the doctor was happy that it was in as far as it would go. At this stage I was still looking up, the doctor was holding my head under my lip, holding my chin and was kneeling, honestly, on my right hand to stop me pulling the tube out again and damaging my soft pallet (Spelling ?). I refused to move as I had a dull ache in my stomach and insisted I had to calm down first, alas, at some point I twitched and felt the tube in my throat and my overly panicked state returned, tryng to get the tube out "sans hand" I was dry wretching and trying to break free of the "Doctors Knee"tm, then the pipe hit my gag reflex again and after 20 minutes of digestion this little brown lump of bourbon biscuit sprayed the hand of the doctor before "shotgunnning" our student nurse.....all of which I found fucking hilarious, as benny hill style his actions repeated themselves from minutes ago. The Dr mumbled something in her native tongue, wiped it clean of bourbon biscuit and agreed to take the tube out and abandon all hope of getting anywhere with the test.

Of course in my overnight bag I only had a purple pair of Phoenix suns basketball shorts, and a Transformers T-Shirt, walking down Baker Street to the tube tation dressed in that and a 3/4 length coat carrying a bin bag containing soiled jeans wasnt my finest hour, but that little bourbon biscuit being shattered into a million pieces and the look on the nurses face as he knew what was about to happen will stick with me forever.

Apologies for length.
(Smellyape liking http://www.b3ta.com/bpma/, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:23, Reply)

On my mate's stag night around Leeds
We started out at about 11am. By 9pm, I was truly rat-arsed, especially considering all I had had to eat that day was a bowl of Frosties and some toast. We went into McDonalds, and I had 2 Big Macs. By 2am, I had gone passed being pissed up. How I was still standing was a mystery, for some reason I had to have a drink with me. If I had a drink with me I would drink it. If I finished it, I would go buy another. I then had a rational thought. If I make myself sick, my stomach would be rid of alcohol and I would begin to sober up.

I went outside, found an alley and leant over. Nothing happened, so I poked my fingers down my throat. Still nothing happened. I poked some more, and deeper. Still nothing. I could feel my uvula, that little thing at the back of the throat that triggers the gag reflex. It wasn't working. I was poking away at the back of my throat, flicking it about, poking my tonsils, trying anything. Nothing worked.

My first thought was that this would be a great talent for Mrs SLVA to develop. My second thought was that I needed something in my stomach to act as a catalyst. I ran back into the club, got a pint of cola and necked it as quick as I could. I ordered another, and did the same.
"Are you ok?" asked the barman. "You're not diabetic or something are you?"
"No, I'm trying to make myself sick in order to sober up." I saw the look that meant 'You're a fucking nutter' clambering over his face.

I felt my stomach starting to react. I burped up about 2 cubic yards of gas which took about 12 seconds, and then proceeded to refill the two pint glasses with the cola I had just drunk.
The barman grimaced, and then told me to fuck off when I asked him for a refund.
Another guy at the bar had observed the entire act and bought me another pint of cola. He wanted me to do it again as if it was a trick. I told him that I only do one performance a night and that he should check my website to see where I was next performing.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:20, 1 reply)

You know you're in London when...
Many moons ago, my ex and I were standing in line waiting for tickets to a Madonna gig in Earl's Court. Some guy ahead of us puked up on the pavement. You know you're in London when pigeons swoop down to gobble up the chunky bits.

Nice.



Length? Enough to allow a little bout of "bleuuurrgghhh!"
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:12, 1 reply)

Way back in 1972
I remember when I was just a tyke of 9 and quietly sitting having a poop, the bathroom door burst open.
In runs my brother with his hand over his already vomit filled mouth.
He's looking toward me but was obviously trying to aim at the toilet.
Fortunately he realized my arse was on the toilet. He turned and speeeeeewwwwed into the bathtub. He must have eaten a gallon of chili. I almost puked from the smell. I wiped and left and for the next hour he was in there cleaning the beans out of the tub.
( id10ts WTF happened, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:10, Reply)

Puke shoveller
Being a barman brings with it so many wonderful tasks. Recently, I had to clear out sick from the front of the pub. There was so much, it was as though the puker had vomited up their entire bodyweight. I had to get a shovel in the end. Think there may have been rice in there, so I'm guessing it used to be an Indian or Chinese takeaway.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:09, Reply)

Sausages and Bitter
It was Friday in December in the City of London and myself and my boss were celebrating a successful MBO with a bunch of venture capitalists, it started at 1000am at the bank offices with wine, champagne, canapés and fancy sandwiches (e.g. smoked chicken and avocado). It was a long drawn out assignment and me and my boss were up for it to get hammered. We left then to go back to our office at 1.30pm but decided to pop in our local work pub (The Cockpit) for lunch. Anyhow we started on Director’s Bitter followed up by large sausages followed by more bitter. Roll forward to 5.30pm and our work colleagues joined in our session and more beer and sausages were consumed. Suddenly at around 7.30pm I stood up to go for a leak and realised I was blind drunk. Much to my benefit (as you will see later) a Canadian colleague used the same rail line from Victoria so he accompanied me from Blackfriars to Victoria on the tube.

I was in great form, but I remember it was a freezing night and luckily I was wearing my warm winter Crombie overcoat. However the motion of the tube turned started to make me feel queasy, and by the time the tube was at Westminster I looked like a jaundiced tramp and the tube was spinning and the vomit was slowly building up like Krakatoa in my gut. I told my mate I was going to throw-up and he said hold it until the toilet in Victoria. We slowly rumbled into Victoria station and the heat, motion and nauseous feeling overcame me and as the doors of the tube opened I projectile vomited out onto the platform a gungy mess of beer and half digested sausages. Luckily the platform was empty.

I felt terrible, my mate had to help me walk up into the rail station and managed to find seats on the Bromley train. I never felt as bad I did that evening I wanted to die. Anyhow, the train pulled off and the open window was giving me fresh air until some biddy asked my mate to shut it. Fast forward to the tunnel just past Sydenham Hill and the change in air pressure and the motion made me want to vomit again. I couldn’t move or stand-up, so I just lifted the collar of my overcoat up over my mouth and barfed the delicious combination of half digested bitter and sausages down under my coat all over my suit and shirt. I was a total fucking mess, people just moved away from me to stand at the far end of the carriage. My mate then helped to walk me home. I got home and went straight past the wife and into the bathroom, stripped naked and fell asleep on my soiled clothes.

It took me three days to recover.
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 13:01, 2 replies)

A few years ago
my daughter went running to the toilet, but it was occupied. So she ran upstairs to find that one was occupied too. She pounded on the door and shouted, "hurry up, I'm going to be sick!"
She went and sat at the top of the stairs to wait. We have a double flight of stairs whereby they double back on themselves, and it's all open plan.

Just as I was coming up the first section she vomited a watery concoction of blackcurrant squash and lettuce onto the stairs. A bit of which splashed through the railings and got me square in the eye.

The obvious thing with stomach acid is it's an acid. Get it in your eye and it stings like buggery.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:55, 2 replies)

There's a lot to be said
for keeping your room tidy as a teenager - especially one who goes out drinking till all hours every weekend.

I wasn't the kind of guy who got sick from overdrinking, but I did drink a hell of a lot at 18-19. Usually I ate a decent amount before I left for the pub, crisps in between, and something from the chinese/chippy on the way back.

One weekend, for whatever reason, this didn't work. We went to my mate's uncles pub, and had the obligatory lock-in. I think we were there at least 8 hours, drinking god knows how much and what.

Getting home, I felt fine, and went to bed after a pint of water. Not long after, I woke to the familiar gut-tightening, and knew this was going to be really close. My bedroom wasn't far from the bathroom, but my floor was a complete mess. I took two steps, and stumbled into my chair.

That was it - vomit sprayed all over my floor, into my cupboard, and halfway up my speakers (just avoiding the entrance to the electrics). I got up and repeated the performance into the toilet, then went back to sleep. The first I realised what I had done was when my mum woke me for church with a "ARGGGGGGHH!!!", swiftly followed by a bollocking - not nice on a hangover and three hours sleep, as she si quite shouty.

Took me ages to clean, as the mere sight of it made me want to throw up again. At least it was a similar colour to the shitty carpet I had in my room at that point.
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:47, Reply)

Broadcast to the world...
The best vomit story comes courtesy of an old friend of mine.

We were both pupils at a choir school that broadcasts a Christmas service on the radio on Christmas Eve.
He was a choirboy - I was not.
He had to spend every day with choir rehearsals and service on top of normal schoolwork - I didn't.
He had the most sensitive stomach in the known universe - I don't.

If you listened to this broadcast on Christmas Eve 1994, you would have heard the beautiful, pure tones of a boy treble soaring to the rafters in a ethereal rendition of the first verse of "Once in Royal David's City". You would have heard the congregation joining in for the others verses, as the choir processed from the door to the choirstalls. You would have heard the generable muttering and shifting as the congregation sat themselves back down to listen to the first reading. You would have heard a short intake of breath as the reader prepared to declaim forth the first lesson.

And then you would have heard a sudden yeeaaaaaarccchhhhhblub as my friend vomited copiously over himself, his fellow choristers, and the immediate vicinity. You would have heard some faltering footsteps, and then a quieter gleurghhhhhh splot splot splot of chunks hitting the famous marbled floor as he tried to run to the vestry.

You would have heard nothing but the shocked silence of the entire choir, conductor, collection of vicars and 1000-strong congregation, as they realised that yes, this was being broadcast live on Radio 4.

And then you have heard the reader breathe in once again, and start the lesson with the faintest trace of horror resonating through his voice.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:46, 2 replies)

Ew.
A while ago my friend Matt and I decided to go out for sushi and then go to a friend of a friend's band's gig.
After sushi we met up with said friend, and his friends, who were all very friendly and brought us lots and lots of alchoholic beverages. Cue me, 2 hours later, in the middle of the gig, escaping from the crowd to throw up in the toilets. From which I got thrown out after about half an hour.

Which left me in the street, on the pavement being 'that drunk girl' and begging a friendly passer by to 'please hold my hand, I feel so awful.'
Eventually Matt came back, he made me sit down in an alleyway next to a broken ironing board.

At this point the owners of the bar were trying to clean their bit of pavement because I had ruined it, there was a lot of puke. Matt told me he'd be back soon with water. He wasn't because he was chatting up some girls (which is fair enough, I guess.) I continued throwing up the entire night, although we did get home somehow and we found a scarf on the floor which I still have. So; if you have sushi and alchohol make sure you're not an idiot like me.

Then there's the time where I was sick on a train. I'd been celebrating because my friend got a new job but perhaps the champagne wasn't a good idea. I'd been drinking lots of red wine too, and when I was sick over my shoe, it was very watery and pink and acidy. People moved carriages when the smell hit them. It was probably the most embarassed I'd ever been, although obviously I was drunk so at the time I was okay with it.

There's also the not-drunk times. I have some an anxiety disorder that comes and goes and one of the symptoms tends to be feeling sick. Constantly. For no reason apart from the fact that you're worried. But usually those are the sicks that make you feel much better after they happen, and then everything is fine again.
(Lalalalou, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:30, 3 replies)

The Jimi Hendrix Experience
One evening at a mate's house a few months ago, he offered me a couple of cans of Caffreys which I'd never tried before. It was rather yummy, Now, back when we were students, we used to go to his local where we would eschew the bar, the pool-table and the music and go sit in the corner of the lounge near some old blokes and generally talk bollocks. We established a rapport with those old blokes and one of them, Gilbert gave me a bit of advice which I filed away under 'I' for Ignore advice from old people.

Anyway, fast forward back to my mate's house and he offered me a glass of red wine which I duly relieved him of. It was then, that I remembered Gilbert's advice and told my mate - "Never mix grape and grain".
"Yeah but," my mate retorted, "he'll be rotting in a box underground somewhere, so it doesn't count."
I agreed and carried on drinking the wine, followed by another rather large glass. Eventually, I left and cycled home at the end of the night and went to bed just before 1am.

A pain in my stomach woke me about 5am and got up, staggered to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and knelt down to pray to Mecca, (which in this case was a small label that read "Armitage Shanks"). I gazed at the water and then belched, hiccupped and coughed at the same time and the Caffreys and red wine potion made a break for freedom. Well, it would've done if it hadn't already been part digested so consequently, all that came up was a thick goo with a consistancy of cold molasses that, because of its viscosity didn't make it as far as the open air and just coated my throat and part way up the back of my nose.

I tried to clear my throat, but I couldn't. I had no air in my lungs to cough it out of the way, and when I tried to inhale, I felt it being drawn in. I couldn't swallow so I was beginning to get a bit anxious. I'm going to asphyxiate on my own vomit and die here on the bathroom floor and no one is going to know for another 3 hours.

I stood up and tried inhaling very slowly. I managed to start drawing air and nothing else into my lungs. But it was a slow process and it took me almost 30 seconds to get a lungful; the combination of still being rather pissed and also, as I am incredibly unfit (I'd not make a very good Balinese pearl diver), being light-headed from the lack of oxygen, my knees give way. I stumbled to the ground but Lady Serendipity was by my side (for a fucking change I might add) and I crashed on to the edge of the bath which struck me squarely under the ribs. This ad hoc Heimlich Manouvre caused me to eject whatever was left in my throat, clearing my airways and causing me to do a reasonable impression of the small dinosaur that gobs in that blokes face on Jurassic Park. I rolled over and slumped to the floor gasping for breath, leaning against the bath.

Just then, Mrs SLVA bursts in.
"What the fuck's going on, making a right racket, you've woke me up. And you've puked in the bath, you disgusting twat! I'll tell you what, I aren't cleaning it up."
"Urghh, I nearly choked on my own vomit" I splutter.
"Shut up you daft spaz, you shouldn't get so bastard pissed then should you? Don't bother coming back to bed until you've cleaned that bath"
"I could've died! Like Jimi Hendrix" I said weakly and frankly rather unconvincingly. She would have been more convinced if I had told her I had invented Tuesdays.
"I friggin' mean it" she hissed and drove home the point by punting me in the leg. She left and went back to bed. I cleaned up and went back to bed myself.

She was a bit more sympathetic in the morning but I'm not allowed to forget it. If I get over a certain level of intoxication, with her fairly accurate lead-guitar impersonation, she will recreate the opening few bars of Voodoo Chile much to my chagrin.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 12:26, 2 replies)