The Perfect Crime
Like most supermodels, I actually quite enjoy chucking up.

The part I hate is the clean up afterwards. You’re usually tanked up, the rooms spinning and you feel like you’re on a white knuckle ride at Disneyworld, you’re still dislodging the last chunks of belly batter from your throat and nose, wondering if a lump of carrot has somehow made it into your brain and you’ll die horribly within the next thirty-five minutes.

When I moved into my second house share in London I found myself in my new local, The Abbey on Kentish Town Road. Drink. Chat. Attempting to make a good impression on my new housemates, sizing up the possibilities of a potential fuck-buddy. (None: loads of blokes, a fat bird, and a really fit girl whose boyfriend was an expert in Tai Kwando and had a thing for hitting people who dared sneak a look at his girlfriend’s burgeoning funsacks).

So, I spent four or five hours getting to know everyone while renewing my intimate and unrelenting relationship with that fizzy, fair-headed temptress, Stella. Then we all went back to the house and disappeared off to our own rooms. I was knackered and went straight to bed. A little later I woke up, rushed to the impeccably-kept bathroom, wretched and spewed.

Then I turned the light on to assess the damage.

Oh, dear...

In my drunken state I’d managed – somehow, fuck knows how – to pebbledash the walls and floor in desiccated pepperoni pizza with a lager firming agent. I’d managed to puke everywhere except for down the fucking toilet. My new housemates would not be pleased. Not at all. Swaying about a bit, I ventured to the kitchen, found a mop and bucket, and set about cleaning up the mess. Took me fucking ages. But I did an impeccable job. Even managed to mask the smell of puke with bleach and Lynx Java so well I’d have happily kipped in the bathroom instead of my own room. When my work was done I tottered off to bed and slept like a baby on temazepam.

Next morning I get up, wonder into the kitchen. A couple of my new housemates are in there, they shoot me a twin-barrelled dirty look. Something’s not right. I try and make small talk, no joy. Then one of them, a lad named Paul, says: “Look, if you’re gonna make a mess in the bathroom at least have the decency to clean it up. We know it was you. The rest of us would never leave the bathroom in such a state.”

Hurt, I start to protest: “Dunno what you’re talking about, mate.” I’d cleaned up so fucking well you could’ve performed surgery in there, FFS!

Paul puts down his coffee and beckons me to follow him into the bathroom. I follow. Paul opens the bathroom door. The sparkly cleanliness of the place leaps out – it was so bright you had to wear shades to take a dump.

“See – no mess, nothing wrong here,” I protest, feeling a little pissed off.

Then Paul, soundlessly, raises his hand, forms a pointy finger, and... points... up...

I follow the finger to the ceiling...

Well, fuck me – I never knew vomit could travel vertically and actually stick in place so well. It looked like someone had got Salvador Dali in to do a bit of random avant garde artexing.

I tried to think of a way out, an excuse, some clever, devious Machiavellian mechanism to make myself seem amazing and incredible and somehow make Paul appear like a thick, moronic pleb. I thought long and hard until the silence was unbearable and uncomfortable, the two of us gazing up at the ceiling from a Saw movie.

Then I sagged “I’ll go and get the mop,” I said.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 10:48, 2 replies)

i like funsacks

( broadsword w⚓, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 11:18, closed)

Brilliant!
Best I've ever managed in ruining a bathroom is standing directly over the bog and spewing everywhere but into it - the wall, the floor, the cistern, but nary a droplet in the pan.

Spanky, you win again
(SoneMe, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 21:02, closed)