Last night I went out to dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s with a bunch of people I used to work with. We ate, drank and were merry, and then walked out onto St Kilda Road to find our various ways home.
I suddenly started to feel really queasy, and said so. We were just about to cross the road when my body decided that there was something that had gone down my throat which would have to be ejected. My stomach bouncers had found a victim to chuck back out onto the street.
What an embarrassing situation. Here we are, having enjoyed dinner and each others’ company… "Goodnight, see you next time", then hwaaaaarrrrrrkkkk!
I’m not sure if it was a bug, the food, or perhaps the combination of beer and a closing hot chocolate didn’t sit well in my stomach. But I suddenly found I had decorated a little part of the footpath on St Kilda Road. As well as my tie.
Someone held my bag and I headed, in the traditional manner, for the flower bed, and proceeded to decorate somebody’s horticultural masterpiece outside the Concert Hall. A few gulps of fresh air and I felt better, and I managed not to add any decoration to my mate’s car as he gave me a lift home.
It reminds me of the infamous Richmond Station incident. When I was at uni, I luncheoned on the very best of culinary delights – a typical lunch might be a hotdog, chips and a big bottle of orange juice. One afternoon, after going to all the lectures I needed to go to (or perhaps just all the lectures I felt like going to) and after eating lunch, I headed into the city for a bit of bumming around, like uni students do when they have no money and nothing to do.
I headed home at peak hour. The train I was on was just coming out of the city loop when I started to feel really queasy. I stood by the door, just knowing that any minute now the 5:09 upchuck express was about to arrive. I tried not to think about the consequences of throwing up on suited commuters, and desperately begged the train to reach Richmond just a little bit faster than it was.
The train got to Richmond and I flung open the doors and bolted for the nearest bin. I didn’t quite make it, and up came all of that big bottle of orange juice, onto what had been a relatively clean platform 4, while waiting commuters deftly leapt out of the way.
Let’s go all out to turn this into an episode of Men Behaving Badly – Send in your vomiting stories. The place, the circumstances, etc (and whether or not you want your name used), and I’ll do up a Great Vomits Web Page. Send your story to spew @ toxiccustard.com
