Christmas 1989
Being the young and dumb types at the time, my friend Paul and I went out for Christmas eve shenanigans and the prospect of finding some nice ladies to celebrate with.
The "we'll pace ourselves and not get too battered" game plan soon went out the window and by the time midnight came, we were in a state that would have made Oliver Reed shake his head in shame. We decided to go home (the pubs were closing and no one would entertain the notion of giving us any more drink) so we went for a taxi. Paul decides he needs to relieve the pressure in his bladder, which was probably the equivalent to a steam locomotive at full pelt, and so wanders (staggers) around the corner of the taxi rank to the bogs.
After about 15 minutes I'm wondering where he's gone to, so off I go to find him. I call out to him but there's no answer in the bogs and he's not at the urinals. I open the door to trap No.1 which is empty, likewise door No.2. Door 3 however reveals a sight that's permanently burned into the inside of my skull.
Paul is sat on the throne, trousers and pants round his ankles, into which he's thrown up the entire nights intake. Nothing has gone outside of the underckracker recepticle and the smell is just unbelieveable. There's no way he'll get a cab home now, so I have to ring his folks to come out and collect him, and get a right bollocking from them for being in such a state.
It didn't end there for him either, as the next morning after having to sleep in the bath and feeling like he's being skull fucked by King Kong, he's off with the family for Christmas luch at his grans. He makes it through the main course, albeit looking a bit green when out comes the pudding. "Would you like some brandy butter?" his loving gran enquires, holding said butter right under his nose. Apparently he said something along the lines of "gwaark" and the hurled right across the dinner table. Tidings of comfort and joy, my arse.
(boltneck sacrificed a smurf to Cthulhu on, Tue 12 Jan 2010, 13:17, Reply)