Some years ago
I was in my mid 20's, and having a whale of a time with some mates on the Isle of Crete. We stayed in the sleepiest of places Ag-Nick, whilst at night we loaded up the Fiat-Pandamonium and headed out to the fleshpit that is Malia.

General practice was to get ourselves ready in the appartment, and at around 6pm, go down to the little taverna at the sside of our gaff, and partake of a good steak and chips and a couple of pints. Then jump in th car, do the hour drive, and then scout around for a host for the night, deposit DNA, then drive back in the morning.

To get the party started, we hung out in a friendly bar we new, and proceeded to get warmed up on a few tequila slammers. This was well before binge drinking was popular in the meedya.. and was done purely as a way to lower our low standards so that "every hole was a goal" type mantra was chanted.

On this particular night, we knocked back 5 slammers in quick succession, however, when I partook of the 6th, a strange feeling came over me. My stomach was rejecting the spirity goodness, and was forcing my fizzy fix back up the esophagus. I put my hand over my mouth and directed a jet of liquid vom into a plant pot that was holding some sort of palm tree. The jet was akin to one of Mr Creasote's finest, made even more spectacular because it sprayed out in a fan from between my fingers.

I made my way through the bar to the bathrooms. Shit! The gents was full, and my upbringing meant I could not enter the ladies. Therefore my only option was a sink that was positioned in the corridor between the ladies and the gents.

I opened up and let the whole of my stomach vacate.

Now that's fine, except I wasn't drunk. The alcohol hadn't had time to do its magic, other than being rejected by my stomach. As I looked down I was faced with a new problem.

Cretian plmbing is about an inch wide, and the sink was not able to process a healthy portion of beefsteak and chips, plus the days partially digested collection of full English and numerous beach snacks (sandy gyros spring to mind). It blocked itself right up.

So, I looked around and saw a bin under the sink, took off my watch and did a sink-to-bin removal of all the big bits into the bin.

Just as I'm doing this, a pretty Irish girl walks by and says "Ewww. Who done that". I reply with "I don't know, but I catch them I'll kill them." She asked me if this was my bar, to which I immediately told her it was, she added that this was her first night in town, and I immediately offered to show her around.

And that is how I started the charade of lording it up in Malia pretending to be a bar owner, having a wonderful time in the process, and one of the funniest one-night-shags ever.

Vomit! I love you!
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 5:20, 1 reply)

Sir, I applaud you
and your mad blagging skills. Well played, well played.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Fri 8 Jan 2010, 16:15, closed)