Greenwich sicking.
Not very long ago at all, just before they decided to ruin everyones future summers and make the sale of Magic Mushrooms illegal, myself and a friend decided that we'd have one big going out on the cheeky little fellas.

My mate Paul headed in to Camden one day and purchased some dirty, smelly, evil looking mushies. I turned up at his house, then we headed in to Greenwich park for a sit down.

Anyway. We settle down, with a lovely view of the park, a few beers, and some chocolate flavoured Yop(it makes the 'shrooms go down easier).

A little while later, I'm seeing all sorts of mad shit, and I can't stop laughing and it's suggested that we crack in to the second box that he's brought. What a great idea I think. But we've run out of Yop. I try to cram the sweaty horrible mess of a 'shroom in to my mouth. I've closed my eyes, I'm holding my nose, and all of a sudden after dropping it in, and trying to chew it, it dawns on me. I've just put a massive spider in my mouth, I can even feel it's massive long legs trying to force their way back out, prying my lips apart.

It's horrible. I spit the offending spider out and realise that it's not a spider at all, it's just a mushroom. I try again with a fresh(fresh my arse) one. No good, I suddenly crack, my stomach rumbles and with a heroic effort I run away from where we're sitting and vomit.

Well that's what I thought I'd done. I'd actually just leant sideways and thrown up right there. Right next to where we're sitting. I realise the dangers straight away, and try to tell Paul that we need to leave as soon as possible. Paul however is fucked and just looks at me blankly.

And then, the thing that I saw happening in my worst nightmares happens. A woman and her dog come in to view. Oh no. It's coming straight for us. I know exactly what's going to happen. The dog can smell it, it heads right in to the midst of us, as I try to hide the sick under a plastic bag. The woman is at present a little way away but she can obviously see my attempts at manhandling her dog away. I'm trying to make it look as though I'm trying to roughly stroke the dog, but it probably doens't look that way to her. In actual fact, I'm just pushing the dogs face in to my sick. It doesn't seem to mind.

The woman gets closer and closer, calling the dog, but surprise surprise, the dog doesn't want to know. It's got some tasty grub. The look on that poor womans face as she got closer, and realised what was going on will haunt me forever. The last I saw of her, was as she picked her dog up out of my big brown puddle of chocolate milkshake and mushroom sick and stalked away.
(headwood, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:28, 1 reply)

I was sick inside a stranger's tumble-dryer once
I imagine it was ruined forever
(Chopper3, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:26, Reply)

Semi Pro Vom Racing Team
Back in the eighties I worked partime as a suspension engineer for a sportscar racing team, we were bankrolled by the driver who was rich and fancied be a racing driver.
We were best known for our sense of humour, hard drinking and being at the back of the grid.
At a meet at Snetterton something wonderful happened in Saturday practice, we qualified on the second row of the grid, we returned to the pub we were staying at (Ten minutes away tops) and after dinner celebrated our new found form, despite the fact we were racing on Sunday, we were asked to leave the bar at about one in the morning. The driver I hastened to add had retired early and sober, so it was just the grease monkeys abusing his tab.
The next morning I felt a little fragile so at 7:30 I sat down to a full english thinking that it would 'sort me out'. Clinbing in to the transit to go to the circuit the vague oil smell made me feel a little queasy.
The journey to the circuit took nearly half an hour, as I had to vom about every half mile and this caused a sympathetic reaction from a couple of my colleagues.
I was propped up in the pit against a stack of tyres until I could actually hold a cup of coffee down, fortunately I didn't have to do anything to the car.
The Transit was christened the Vomit Comet a name that stuck, and came back with a vengeance when we finally got a podium place.

Length less than five miles
(johnners hitting things with hammers until they work, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:21, Reply)

On downing your drink, do NOT inhale.
I was all of about 17, one those really hair-raising times to be drinking in pubs. Old enough that you can plan to go out and usually get served, and old enough for it to be humiliating when you don't...

So, we were at a Wetherspoons, it having the dubious advantages of being both (a) filthy-cheap, and (b) willing to serve anybody not actually wearing school uniform. So, we settled into a nice big table near the back.

Less than 1 pint in, and some genius clown decides that we should do a 'strawpedo'. For the uninitiated, this is a method of downing a bottle of disgusting (often fizzy) drink as quickly as possible, using a staw to allow air into the bottle quicker, and alcohol out faster.

I am not very good at this kind of thing, being much more of a 'sit-quietly-and-then-talk-bollocks-at-increasing-volumes-as-the-night-progresses' kind of drunk, but in the spirit of mutual bonding, I give it a whirl.

As the title of this post hints, I made a fatal error of judgement and at a crucial moment, gulped some sickly-sweet-chav-juice down into my lungs, rather than my stomach. Coughing ensued, followed by choking, followed rather swiftly by the entire contents of my stomach. This, upsettingly, included my only-recently-consumed dinner, which was a hearty grey-coloured mushroom soup, with big chunks of real mushroom.

It is a mark of quality of an establishment, how they deal with wankers who sick-up all over the table. This pub merely sent a rather angry looking johnny-no-stars bar-staff to mop up the table, and we moved 2 tables along to continue our drinking.

Sorry, horrible-little-pub, I really did mean no harm.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:13, Reply)

Children do the funniest things
The Menorcan holiday had gone well and after two weeks of unseasonably warm June weather me, the missus and our 4 year-old daughter were packed and ready to board the bus back to the airport. Except...

The offspring wasn't feeling well, running a bit of a temperature and refusing all offers of food, with the exception of a drink of warm milk and a bag of cheese and onion crisps.

The airport transfer was uneventful and we arrived nice and early to check in for the flight. The bulging cases were loaded onto the baggage trolley and, to avoid having to drag a bored child around the airport, junior was positioned to sit comfortably on top of the cases. This was our first mistake.

As the queue slowly shuffled forward, the immortal words, "I feel sick" were followed immediately by a stream of projectile vomit that soaked her best floral dress before spilling tsunami-like over the luggage.

Cue frantic searching for wipes, napkins and anything else that could be used to clean the child of the foul-smelling fluid (cheese & onion crisps mixed with milk - lovely).

Of course, I was in trouble, because I'd sealed the cases, with all the clothes in, using cable ties to stop light-fingered baggage handlers rummaging through our things. Assuming that I'd not be opening the cases until we got home, and because airline security wouldn't approve of me carrying a knife, I'd also packed the only items I had that were sharp enough to cut through the ties in the cases. Oops.

Cue frantic search for airport shop and purchase of the only suitable item of clothing: an extortionately priced Looney Tunes t-shirt that was long enough to serve as a dress. In the process of purchasing this, more emesis ensued onto the lovely laminate flooring. Cue typically British no-speaka-de-lingo hand waving and talking loudly to get the shop assistant to find a cleaner. It also prompted the purchase of a second oversized and overpriced t-shirt in case the first fell victim to further spew.

By this time, check-in for our flight had nearly finished, so we dashed to the desk and handed over the reeking suitcases, only to find that because we were so late, there was no way we could all sit together. I bravely volunteered to sit alone so my wife could look after our daughter, who was instructed to look well but sleepy to ensure we didn't get bumped off the flight because they felt she was too ill to travel.

So, I was half a plane away thinking I'd got the better deal, despite being in a middle seat between a couple of Rick Waller's larger cousins. It was only when we'd landed back at Manchester and reunited that I discovered our daughter had slept through the whole flight, had not been sick, and had demonstrated the fastest recovery since Lazarus.

Six years on and the cases still smell a bit when they come out of storage.

Length? About 3 hours with a tailwind.
( Snappyuk gets BIGGER with free sample., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 19:08, Reply)

Hangovers are bad for me.....
When I have a hangover, I have to eat something, and have alka-seltzer. Otherwise, I just keep chundering...

When I was at college, I worked in a newsagents on a Sunday morning. I'd go in at 5, open up, sort the papers, then work till we closed at about 1. One morning I had a stinking hangover, I was OK if I sat down, but if I stood up I would start to urge. So, it was 12 and I'm hoping that it's going to be quiet - wrong... A massive queue of people builds up, and I'm stood for ages. I keep urging and managing to swallow it back down... until the last customer. I urged, the vomit comes up, I try and swallow it, but there's too much - I keep my mouth shut, and proceed to vomit out of my nose, luckily missing said customer. Thankfully once he'd gone I could sit down and compose myself...

You'd think I'd have learned as I got older, but no... At a friend's party, held on their farm, I drank the better part of a bottle of Jack Daniels single barrel (mmmmmmmmm) before retiring to the tent. Once in my sleeping bag, the tent was doing that nasty spinny thing, and I knew I was going to puke, so struggled my way out of the tent - almost. Got the zip to the outer door open and knelt in the doorway, and projectile vomited - I couldn't see how far it went but it sounded like a long way... The next morning, having packed up the tent and ferrying the bits to the car, one of my colleagues was walking towards me - without breaking stride I hue'd up into a hedge. I've not been allowed to forget that one...
(vinny, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 18:57, Reply)

Vom...
I've two stories for y'all. Enjoy, in an entirely emetophiliac manner...

Studenty Time

When I was a student I was trying to prep an HIV patient for a procedure which treat the symptoms associated with his Karposis sarcoma.

The patient sat up suddenly and threw up HIV-infected blood all over me. I don't mean a small amount either, probably ~500ml. An entirely scary number of months passed for me wondering if I'd been infected with HIV.

As it transpired I hadn't but I was still *terrified* for months.

Holiday Time

When I was 24 to celebrate leaving studies I went on a weeks holiday with some friends. Two days into a ten-day jaunt yours truly picked up a norovirus and then spent the remaining eight days on the loo; probably
(Medical_Male Say aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 18:49, Reply)

A while ago I got the Winter Vomit Virus
I have never been so ill.

I just lay in bed naked because I was too feverish and hot to wear anything. Thankfully my bathroom is en-suite so I didn't have to far to stagger to throw up. The virus also gave me a hideously runny arse.

All I can say is that I am grateful for the fact that my bathroom floor is laminated when I puked so hard I shat myself.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 18:21, 2 replies)

My girlfriend once vomited all over me.
She was attempting to perform oral sex at the time.
Needless to say it ruined the moment somewhat. And stung like hell.
( Fitznicely into a thimble, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 18:16, Reply)

And the Monopoly pub crawl
One of us decided to do it on pints rather than the "safe option" of halves or vodka and orange.

The Marquess of Anglesey pub is drink #13 out of #26, and while the round is being ordered he's in the traps praying to the porcelain god. Comes out looking quite fresh, describes it as a "tactical chunder" and downs his pint in one.

We lost him at Trafalgar Square, when he wandered off into the night and wasn't seen again for several days. So I suppose tactical chundering doesn't really work.
(rogerzilla, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:59, Reply)

Not me, but
a workmate's father, who is definitely too old to know better, went out and got totally ratarsed in Cardiff one night. Now he lives up a valley somewhere so booked a taxi to get home.

Taxi turns up, he gets in, taxi starts moving and the world starts spinning. Not wanting to incur a cleaning charge, he winds down the window and does the technicolor yawn...covering the shoes of an entire bus queue in watery paella.
(rogerzilla, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:56, Reply)

3 Vomit stories
Accuracy and distance.
My younger sister and I were out on the lash in Holloway, North London. Having been drinking for a good number of hours we decided that we required a new venue so upped sticks to find another pub. Whilst walking down the street she managed to projectile vomit into a rubbish bin from at least 2 meters, without breaking stride nor spilling any onto the pavement. The most precise distance vomit I've ever seen. Obviously she was now 'empty' and needed many more beers.

Tube fountain.
Again my sister but this time not her vomit. She's going to work on the tube and the bloke sitting opposite her is looking a bit green and sweaty. She thinks to herself 'He's going to puke' so decides to move. A prescient decision as the moment she'd got up to stand near the doors the bloke explodes. He vomits but in a desperate attempt to keep it down grits his teeth, resulting in him turning into a vomitty garden sprinkler. There were very many unhappy people on that tube train.

Winter wonder
At a Christmas party when I was a student. A group of us shared a flat on the 4th floor of a block. One of the party goers opens a window and pukes out of it. No real problem, we were students and no strangers to vomit. Next morning we were woken by an irate neighbor from downstairs demanding we do something about the mess he'd caused. His vomit had run down the side of the building, smearing the living room windows of the 4 flats below. With it being the middle of winter the vomit had frozen solid. Try as we might with many bowls of hot water we couldn't get it all to melt off, it was there for weeks until the weather got warmer. The neighbors didn’t like us much.
(chilling, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:54, 2 replies)

Roxys, Sheffield
I'm sure there are loads of other people that have stories about this shithole, but I have 2 short ones.

1 - Walking across the dancefloor, I feel the urge to throw up - so I did - there and then. And carried on walking. Laughing. I didn't pull that night, funnily enough...
2 - My mate Mark and I had a skinful and needed to throw up - I, at least, could stand so I did my vomiting happily. Mark couldn't stand, so he was on his knees praying to the porcelain god - except he didn't initially notice that the toilets were under about an inch of what we originally hoped was water - the smell of piss suggested otherwise....
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:44, Reply)

New years eve
I was, with my sister, her then boyfriend and his brother, out drinking one new years - I wasn't with the aforementioned girlfriend so I was having a good time.

We stumbled in to the pub that my sister used to work in for a few drinks after a minor "you looking at me" altercation outside with some of the class drinkers that you get in Sleaford...

I staggered off to the loo and the urge to throw up came to me - not a problem, I'm in the gents so off to the cubicle I staggered.

I closed my eyes, as let's be honest - noone wants to see their own vomit - and a pretty impressive amount of noise suggested that I was clearly full of beer and needed the empty. I held my breath as the smell isn't pleasant either, now is it?

I staggered out of the loo, impressed that I had missed my clothes and could carry on drinking.

Move forward to the next day, I get a call from my sister:

Sis - JTW, did you throw up last night
Me - You know I did
Sis - In xxx pub?
Me - Er, yes
Sis - In the end cubicle in the gents?
Me - Uh - yeh.....
Sis - you forgot to lift the lid
Me - Shit...

It turns out I'd left the lid down and as I had my eyes closed, I hadn't noticed - the cleaner the next day was NOT impressed.

My sister told the landlord it was me and I was summarily barred - no great loss as I never went there beforehand and had no intention of going back...
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:41, 1 reply)

Southern Comfort
It's for this reason that I can't and won't drink that vile cat piss like drink that is Southern Comfort.

In all honesty, the details of the day are a little hazy, but the thought has never left...

My then girlfriend was a bit of a kleptomaniac and generally couldn't help herself (in more than theft - but that's another story) - we were at college and she found me between classes and presented me with a bottle of Southern Comfort and a "let's drink this whole bottle of SC" plan.

Being 17 and stupid, I thought it sounded like a brilliant idea.

An hour later - not so much - we'd drunk the whole lot and I was utterly shitfaced. I also had to get home which posed it's own problems as I had to get on the bus, have a 1 hour journey and get home and convince my mum I wasn't hammered.

Bus time came and I made it to the bus - with a LOT of assistance - I was sober - I was home free.

15 minutes of swaying, warm, bus later - I was not in a good place and had to yell at the bus driver to stop.

He refused until I staggered up to the front and pointed out that if he didn't, he'd have a pretty impressive amount of vomit to deal with.

He stopped and not a moment too soon as instead of throwing up, my stomach, and its contents literally exploded out of my face out of the door, on to the step, on to my shoes and clothes and was a pretty impressive amount of vomit, to be honest...

Bus driver was not amused - neither was my girlfriend who got a big, sicky, kiss from me. She, on the other hand, wasn't as classy as me and face-exploded all over the floor of the bus.

We moved seats and denied all knowledge as we "knew" that noone noticed (!)

I eventually got home and was dragged through the front door by my sister and it was clear that I was hammered - especially as I made it to teh bathroom and threw up, pretty spectacularly, all over the bathroom floor. The funny part was that my sister got the blame for my state...

The (chartered) bus company wasn't amused and my antics were the last straw in a long list of misdemeanors by our lot and cancelled their bus contract with the council - we went from a nice comfy coach to a crappy "RoadCar" bus...

I still can't drink southern comfort - and I don't speak to that girlfriend any more either... Something about her liking women these days (nothing to do with her being a crazy, psychopathic bunny boiler at all....)
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:35, Reply)

Nose Vomit
Not me, but a friend of mine got especially drunken one Friday and there was pretty much a day and a half of him feeling pretty rough, voming periodically etc etc. Standard stuff.

On Monday, fully recovered we're walking into uni and he stops to blow his nose. In the resulting mucus he found one of those small, heavily deep fried and very solid chips that are present toward the end of a take-away.

Apparently, he had vomed his on-the-way-home-drunk takeaway through his nose leaving this little morsel lodged in his nasal cavity to be discovered over 48 hours later. The harrowing combination of fried potato and nasal discharge caused a significant regression in his health and he had to return to bed for the rest of the day.
(Amos Moses, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:21, Reply)

Bus barf
What went in: alcohol...mostly beer. And a couple of hot dogs from a street cart in New York City

What came out: well, puke.

Where: Well, almost in a #167 bus stuck in the traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel under the Hudson River. A combination of diesel fumes and movement almost got me to heave on a packed rush hour bus. I managed to get thru the tunnel and to the second stop whereupon I yakked it in the gutter in a residential area in Jersey City. Somebody took offense and called the police - no really. I told them I had been ill - as if they couldn't smell the beer - and got on the next #167 bus heading toward my father's apartment.

BLARG!!!
( HairyTwatter certified eel and sodium salesman, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:20, Reply)

Radio One Fun Pearoast
This is a Pearoast from the Public transport QOTW but it still stands as my best puke story...

I got a pair of tickets for radio1s big weekend the other week which I was most excited about! So my friend and I set off for Maidstone with a six pack each on a train which was entirely unremarkable and on which nothing interesting happened....

AHA but that is not the train journey about which I am writing dear reader! no no no! I am writing to tell you about the train journey home from maidstone, which turned into probably my most embarressing and amusing night all rolled into one for a long time!

Picture the scene: The sun is beaming down and we have each drunka six pack drunk by 2pm prior to entry and we've had a couple of doobs in the big weekend place. Our lust for alcohol is so intense that we decide to create a terrible abomination to get ourselves more drunk, the cider with white wine top! A genius idea which involved splitting a mini wine bottle between our pints of cider.

This served it's purpose and we ended up wasted. So wasted that my friend thought it would be a grand idea to buy some strange pills from the man at the dance stage, and get jiggy with it to sounds of whatever repetitive booming was eminating loudly. Of course the medecine took it's effect and dues to the amount drunk and the days excessive heat I became something of a retarded zombie, lurching around and generally making a prat of myself. Now onto the train journey!

My friend has to walk me to the station because I can't walk more than 10 steps without falling into something. We finally get on the train which is absolutely packed and miraculously we get a seat opposite each other, all is going well until I feel the need to vom BADLY. I spew a little bit over my mate and of course he does the natural thing and laughs, meanwhile everyone else looks digusted. I thought that would be the last of it but NO, I spent the whole train journey being sick into my mouth and then swallowing it back down (not to say there was not any leakage of course) Every time this happened everyone would make disgusted sounded ERR noises and made such priceless comments as:

"I really dont like can we move please!" from the girl next to me, to which her boyfriend laughed and said no.

and the dad with his young son who said something along the lines of:
"thats what happens when you drink too much and do drugs Timmy"

They were all stuck with the puke monster as there was no more space on the train, it was about as bad as rush hour.....

No one would move to let me get to the toilet, not that I could walk anyway. Of course as soon as I got off the train I painted the platform with an orange cider broth, which had stained the floor up until this week.
(Jimmy Large Is huffing Jenkem on, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:09, Reply)

The tube, the cone and the vom
After a particular messy night drinking, me and a few friends jumped onto the last tube of the night. Surveying the scene before us the carriage was full to bursting with fellow drunkards. People were singing songs and stomping around, it was your usual suspects on a mission to get home and continue the drinking.

As we headed towards East London the train emptied out a little and a few of us managed to get seats. Sitting around laughing and joking I glanced at a friend and noticed they were staring at a girl sitting opposite me. I turned my head to sneak a peek at the girl and then lost all ability to be subtle and turned fully to face her - she was absolutely wankered. Swaying side to side I was transfixed, I couldn’t stop looking at her. Gradually more and more people were turning to look and we were all stifling giggles, right up until it happened. She looked up, her eyes rolled around in her head and finally came to a stop, looking directly at me. As our eyes met, her stare bore into me, her eyebrows raised quite pathetically and I knew exactly what it meant - vomit was imminent.

I panicked as I was in the immediate line of fire so turned to my friends and conveyed a look which I hope expressed what I was thinking - ‘oh fuck’. No time though as the girl was on the move, she started to point. Everyone stopped, but… what was she pointing at? She was pointing at a man sitting to her right… she was pointing specifically at his newspaper. The man, slightly confused handed over his paper and watched closely as she began to roll the pages of the paper into a rudimentary cone. Realisation of what was about to occur spread through the carriage, people started to shuffle away, some even getting out of their seats to move towards the doors. I pulled up my feet and started to shuffle with everyone else… then she started to splutter… vomit sprang forth in an arching stream straight into the cone, the smell filled the carriage and the cone began filling up.

The atmosphere was tense as we pulled into Mile End… the girl seemed to have stopped vomiting for the moment and seemed to be attempting to stand up… this was clearly her stop. Still holding the paper cone she managed to stagger up from her seat and started to make a move for the doors, I have never seen Londoners move out of someone’s way that fast before. As the doors opened people started to relax and I had to give her credit for managing to keep it all in the cone… well… until she looked down at the paper with a confused expression and then did something that to this day I will never understand. She opened the paper and dropped the vomit contents all over herself and the floor of the train… then she marched off into the night to leave everyone on the tube with her vomit mess. What a class act.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:08, Reply)

Noodles
Never follow a big bowl of Wagamama noodles with several shots of tequila.

Vomiting noodles out of your nose makes you look like a dejected Cthulhu.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:06, Reply)

as a not so bald, dumber, ape...
I lived in america for three years when I was a littl'un. Moving back to oxford after time spent in california is pretty tough, but I was settling in as a pretty cool 8 year old. I had a mildly different accent, and had interesting stories to tell (for stories, please read lies. I, like many children, seemed to lie for the sake of it... Why do children do that?!). However, being as I was a bit 'merkin, I was a bit rubbish at football, so still had work to do to get myself in with the popular crowd.

I would slightly over-do the theatrics, and was carving a nice niche as the class joker, from the other side of the world. I had also managed to impress a particularly hot girl, Lisa. I'm pretty certain it was love, and all I needed to do was tell her, and we would settle down to some third base hand holding, and possibly get the home run with a kiss on the cheek... I quivered at the thought of such x-rated action with an amazing hotty.

This was all ruined one day, when feeling a bit ill, I went to ask my teacher for permission to go to the toilet. She was in the middle of an intellectual conversation about 'the magic e' (that isn't rude, it was a program about spelling we got to watch, the lyrics 'kit, becomes kite with me, bit, becomes bite with me' I later added shit to this list...).

Anyway, as my beautiful Lisa was asking my teacher about this intellectual stuff, I started feeling more queasy, and started doing that hopping thing when you want someone's attention. It didn't work.

Without warning, and without a chance to cover my mouth, a vile rainbow of vomit spewed forth from me, all over Lisa. It was a perfect arc of barf, covering my future wife.

I ran off to the toilet, and cleaned myself off, and came back to be told off for not just going to the toilet, even though I would have been sent to the corner for just walking off like that.

Lisa would no longer look at me, the 'cool kids' wouldn't pick me for football, and I spent the remainder of my primary school career hanging out with other such spackers, like the kid who was always naked, and the guy who was pretty much mute.

I often wonder how life would have turned out without that ill-timed vom. probably married to Lisa and a famous footballer, alas, it was not to be...

apologies for length, but she was about a metre away.
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 17:05, Reply)

The colour yellow
A few years ago, a friend of mine had quite a bad case of food poisoning. After a full afternoon of toilet crunches that would put even the hardcore body builder to shame, we decided that it was a great idea to go out... we were in Scotland, it was cold and wet, and a second friend was up for the weekend.

Queue the cynical ploy: Get mate that can't drink to drive my good self and mate that can drink to Whisky distillery (A good hour in the car).

Genius!

Except every five minutes the driver (who didn't seem to mind the run out) managed to let out the worst smells I have ever had the misfortune to experience. It could only be described as Burping yellow.

It was even worse on the way back, having completed the mandatory "Drink your way around scotland" game in the distillery bar.

To avoid the acrid pungent stink in the car, we suggested stopping at a friendly looking local pub.

Turned out when we went in that there was a recreation of Braveheart - between rival Celtic and Rangers fans (Obviously being English, we were hated by both sides).

Swift pint, mate lets his guts go again, and he managed to not only clear the bar, but it resulted in the double bonus of resulting in the tribal drums being covered in scumbag vomit.

We made a swift exit and never returned...
(libraryboy Cheer up, you could be french!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:59, Reply)

Throwing (up)
One thing I learned the hard way is sitting at the window in the back seat after a long night of drinking, never ever close the window once you opened it.
In that case my mate A sits in the middle, I sit at the right window in the back seat. Window goes down because it is rather warm.
Window goes back up because at 100kph the wind chill is overwhelming. Mistake Big mistake. Seconds later I hear the familiar BLEURG from my neighbour A. He had vomited into his hands. He clearly remembered that the window was still open (and obviously was too consumed with vomiting to notice that I had closed it), so he proceeds with tossing the vomit in his hands out of the window. Or rather onto the window, and following physics the vomit would hit the window and bounce back right onto my lap. Thank god I was so drunk, I laughed my head of rather than doing the natural thing of vomiting myself.
Most impressive was the run in we got from mates father because we had basically ruined his brand new Audi A6. It took us hours to clean it. Hours.
( RedWine President of the S.C.U.M., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:56, Reply)

Bad ribena sick
When I were a littl'un I was being dragged around Woolworths by my mother. I felt a little queasy and realising I was about to hurl I grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a pic 'n' mix cup.
I sicked half a pint of ribena into it and then spent another 20 minutes trailing around the shop with my cup of sick because I didnt want to tell anyone.
(elless, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:55, 1 reply)

Freshers + 19th birthday = really bad combination.
As some of you may or may not know or care, I started uni this year. Yes, I am a dirty little fresher. Uni started off brilliantly, freshers week was a haze of partying, pulling and take-aways and I was getting along with my flatmates very well. My 19th birthday fell a couple of days into the second week, so we all decided that would be our next big piss-up after giving a bruised livers a well-deserved break. I had already been declared the Flat Lightweight,(a well-deserved title - I can get drunk three times over on a bottle of cheap vermouth) and so my flatmates had planned a little 'treat' for me.
October 1st rolled around and after cheap Tesco's birthday cake (we are students after all) we headed over to the super-cheap halls bar across the road. I had already made quick work of two vodka-lemonades and was the far side of tipsy by the time my flatmates cornered me and presented me with a tray of aftershock shots. Seven in total, one from each of them. That would have made short work of me by itself, but unfortunately two of my friends from my course had also decided to wish me happy birthday, in the shape of the vilest shitmix known to man and consisting of two shots each of:
Vodka
Gin
Black rum
Southern comfort
Aftershock
Tequila
Black absinthe
and some cider and lemonade to top it all off.

Pinned down in the corner, I was forced to down all of it to a rousing chorus of drinking chants. Afterwards, I ran to the toilets and shoved pretty much my entire hand down my throat, but thirteen years of not having puked had left me with no gag reflex and so the concoction remained stubbornly in my stomach. I could feel myself getting drunker by the second and stumbled out to sit on a wall outside the bar, head between my legs, still trying to vom while everyone in the bar gathered round to point and laugh. That was about half past nine. The last thing I remember is yanking off my boots and hurling them across the carpark screaming that I didn't want to puke on them.

~~~~Wavy lines~~~~~

Next thing I know, its half eight the next morning and I'm hanging out of my bed, head in a bin, still pretty drunk. Now what happened between the bar and my bed is a story that my flatmates love to remind me of whenever possible. Apparantly, beginning to feel slightly guilty at my condition, they enlisted the help of a third year rugby player to carry me back to bed. There, they stripped me, cleaned me off and put me to bed (bearing in mind they had only known me a week at this point) before sitting up with me all night and ensuring I didn't choke on my own vomit. Vomit, which (in order to stay more-or-less on topic) filled my bin twice over and was, as far as they could tell, pure alcohol. Vomit I produced in between screaming obscenities and that I hated them all. Vomit I was still producing at four in the morning, by which time my room full of guilty flatmates had dwindled to two diehard nurses.

After my (very first) hangover the next day has dissipated enough the next day that I could move without wanting to die, I cleaned out my bin, filled it full of pure bleach and left it in a dark corner in the kitchen for several weeks. As far as I'm aware, this is where it still resides, now empty. As although after several vigorous scrubbing and soaking sessions it is now probably clean enough to eat out of, I just really, really don't want it back in my room. I'll make do with chucking my rubbish in a bin bag, thanks.

Edit: Oh yeah, there were pictures and videos of said vomiting, but they were daft enough to take them on my phone, so they no longer exist.
(Applebite Uh! A cow!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:43, Reply)

gastric flu in the US.
I'd been sent to a conference in Washington DC - it was round about the time of "Swine Flu". And I was the proper big cheese... business class, the lot.

I arrived at the charmingly named "Gaylord Hotel" late in the evening, enjoyed a beer and some nachos with my traveling companion, and retired for the evening to prepare for Day 1.

My stomach, however, had other ideas.

Round about 4am the rear gasket went, and I settled in on the Big White Chair to spend the remainder of the morning impersonating a twin-cheeked firehose of liquid shit.

I was still there in the morning, and it was still coming, with my stomach gurgling and head pounding. Called my pal to cry off breakfast and eventually made it down for elevenses, looking greenish and dehydrated.

Peppermint tea. Crisps, She said.

Not so much a suggestion, more an order. And as the blood sugar began to rise again I thought "ahhh, back to normal service".

Despite my newly rosy complexion, my companion suggested I repair to bed for the remainder of the day. I agreed reluctantly, and got back in the lift after collecting my conference pack.

Something about the vertical motion, or the view out of the glass lift over the potomac, set off gastric alarm bells, and as I left the 5th floor lobby I was moving quite fast.

Not fast enough.

It was outside room 5014 that my stomach revolted and I dropped to my knees to projectile vomit the tea onto the carpet. And again. And again. Until, unable to take any more, I collapsed - weeping - into the damp carpet of my own spew.

At which point the bedroom door opened, and a stunning blonde asked if she could call anyone. I was mortified, as only an englishman presented with a vision of beauty whilst lying in an enormous puddle of his own stomach acids can be.

"just call a cleaner please, I'll be fine"

I didn't sound it. But I believed it. And staggered slowly off to bed (well, toilet) clutching my sodden stinking conference papers as she stared at my production in shock, horror and quite possibly awe.

When I next surfaced, 5 hours later, the area was roped off and an industrial carpet cleaner was being sought by a team of concerned staff.

Conference was rubbish too. Only three days though, so no need to apologise for length.
(nordelius, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:29, Reply)

It may be 5% abv,
but I really don't recommend trying to get pissed on Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Brandy Cream, even if it has been reduced to 10p a pint.
(wellgroomedwookiee is a filthy-minded hobgoblin, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:22, 3 replies)

When instinct lets you down
Four-year-old child sitting on lap. 'I don't feel very well'. FYOC vomits copiously. Instinct: stop the flow. Action: hand over mouth of FYOC. Result: akin to hosepipe antics in garden as previously quite precisely directed stream is sprayed over FYOC, self, walls and entire sofa.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:17, Reply)

The flat we shared while at college was above a hairdressers
They didn't like us and as they had a spare key they would often use it to enter, come up the stairs and ask us to turn down the music. One of the was called Jolene, so when THEY made too much noise we put on the Dolly Parton song and stamped our way though the chorus singing 'Jolene, Jolene...@ anyhoo
One night one of the house mates had decided to drop out and so we had a big piss up to see him off. After way too many, and some serious bonging, one of the number opened the corner window (the one above the entrance to the hairdressers) and speweed his ring, this led to another one joining in and there were two lads fighting for space hurling potnoodles and cheap beer onto the small awning that supposedly sheltered those entering the shop below lookng to get a blue rinse.
So the morning comes around and the hairdressers downstairs turn up for work and notice a stinking dripping mess covering the step outside their door. They were banging on our door for a good five minutes before I opened my window to see what the noise was and was told to 'get down here and clear up this mess'. Well, it wasn't my room and wasn't my sick so I woke up the fat ginger bloke whose window had been used as a toilet and told him about the problem. He went and filled a bucket with hot water, opened the window, threw out the water and went back to bed.
They really didn't like us much at the hairdressers.
(Wagane, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:55, 2 replies)

is/has anyone else
been reading this while eating lunch?


No?


Just me then
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 15:46, 5 replies)