The Perfect Yawn
I'm not a big spewer, and can only recall ever speaking Welsh a handful of times, however, on the rare occasion that I have, I like to think I was reasonably fluent.

When I went ooop north to uni in Sheffield (read ex-poly), coming from daaaan saaaarth, I was introduced to many hitherto unexplored wonders of the world; proper drinking, the butty shop, chips and curry sauce, proper beer, to name but a few. One day, I was (easily) persuaded by my housemates to avoid lectures in the Student Union bar. First in line at 11am, and started on pints of snakebite (cider and lager to the uninitiated) and then went a bit bit posh after 6 or 7 pints and added blackcurrant cordial to make diesel (it's probably called all manner of things - including rats piss - but I was introduced to it as diesel).

I started to feel a bit squiffy and tried to get my head down for 10 mins. As we all know, that's a no-no in drinking circles, so I kept getting prodded and abused. Took myself of to the traps for a sit-down and then felt the world rising up from my gut. I lifted the lid and hurled my ring in a perfect arc straight down the pan. Didn't even touch the sides. Not a drop anywhere other than the pool. Perfection. Tom Daley would have been proud (if he'd been born by then).

Feeling ever so chuffed, I stood up straight and promptly unleashed hell over all 4 walls of the cubicle, the trap and the floor, accompanied by matching sound-effects. A right fucking mess, but I felt a hell of a lot better and carried on drinking my degree away...
(Tighthead, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 11:50, Reply)