Poor, poor bus driver
When I was a young gothy mynci (about 9 years ago) I was due to get the bus to Bristol on Saturday morning to see my then girlfriend, however I had the obstacle to overcome of going out drinking with my cousin who was down for a few days. I was 16, he was 22 and a legendary drinker (still is). We had an absolute skinful, got barred from my local for being thoroughly disorderly (as well as cousin shouting some very colourful things at the barmaid) and on the way home we had some of the finest soapy rancid hash he had brought down with him from the frozen North.

The next morning nothing would stay still, my mouth felt like a stray cat had shit in it and I couldn't put one foot in front of the other without wanting to be sick. In my infinite wisdom I decided to make a pot of strong coffee (about a litre all in all) and have every last drop of it. I guess I'd seen too many films where coffee is the panacea for curing hangovers and felt "ok" enough to go and get the bus with only a few NIN cd's and a screaming headache to keep me company for 2 hours.

15 minutes in and all was not well, my stomach was like a washing machine of bile and coffee and I was sure I was going to be sick, as the bus stopped and waited 10 minutes in the next town I got out and tried to void my stomach to make the journey bearable but it just wouldn't come. After this I thought I must be well enough to endure the next 90 minutes due to the fact I couldn't make myself sick, so nothing else would make me sick. I was WRONG.

5 minutes down the road I knew something bad was going to happen with the saliva being produced in massive quantities and the belching noises that I couldn't control. I ventured from the top deck down to where the driver was and managed to say I needed off and fast, he said he'd be at the next stop in a minute and not to worry, my next sentence I'm not sure what I was trying to say but all that happened was I threw up all over him. In his lap. In his change tray. On the floor all over the door area so no-one could get in or out without walking through my bile.

What could I do then, but run and run quite fast... I ran half a mile to a phone box and rang my dad and managed to get a lift home and then in to Bristol.

I never saw that bus driver again.
(DissolvedMynci, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 19:56, Reply)