Wednesday, 31 January 2018

Not for the squeamish

Another day, another quiz, and I’m currently heading home from Central London on the Victoria Line, which is one of those epic tube lines which goes like the wind and cuts people’s journeys in half.

I’m sitting opposite a drunk man who is plainly trying very hard to stop himself from a) falling asleep and b) vomiting.

I’m quite convinced that, any moment now, a huge torrent of chunder is going to roar out of his gob and coat us all.

I once went to France in a cross channel ferry in very bad weather. The boat listed from side to side perilously and I ended up the only person in my class who didn’t vomit. I didn’t half feel queasy, however, so took myself onto deck and leaned over the railings into the soothing, drizzle-filled, salty air. I was aware that my face was suddenly much wetter than it had been a few seconds before, and turned around to see that the bloke standing on deck next to me had vommed over the side of the boat. Sadly, it also became clear that the wind had brought it all back into my face. The poor bloke was a shade of green. He looked at me, terribly ashamed. “Sorry. I’m really sorry.” With that, he vomited on his shoes. Under normal circumstances I would have laughed uncontrollably, but I was too shocked!

Horrified, I ran to the loos to wash my face, but the sinks were full of huge piles of sick. The place stank to high heaven. It was as though someone had thrown half eaten bowls of Weetabix against all of the walls. The floor was covered in the stuff as well, and, as I turned around to run out of the hell zone, I tripped, slid and then skated across the floor, landing on my bum in a big heap of boak.

And that’s my story about sick. Enjoy your breakfast!

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