Thank you for vomitting

How to vomit (without really trying)
by Nick van der Leek

I met Glory, a journalist from Zambia, last night. If I was a smoker I would have tentatively sucked on a ciggie while listening to her talk about Life in Lusaka. Instead, I kept popping one more morsel of food into my mouth. An olive, then a piece of salami, then a wobbly white egg, then a green onion ball (soaked in vinegar), then some cheese, then - OK, you get the picture.

I got to the pictures proper half an hour after they started, but it didn't seem to matter. Movie (Thank you for smoking) was just a diversion, and then I headed back to New House. I passed Mushy Peas in the street (outside The Rat) and, since she had her back to me, gently prodded her midriff to say 'Hi/Bye'. I happened to be on the phone too.

Then something truly awful happened. I went to bed before 11pm on the Rhodes University campus, and I couldn't sleep. Just felt *&%#ing queasy. Now imagine this: you've had one whiskey all day (so it's not about brain numbing alcholism), and you're lying in bed, and you suddenly find yourself on an express elevator - falling down. Think Virgin Mobile, but going in the opposite direction.

I wobbled, egglike, to the bathroom, and - forgive me for being descriptive here - urinated poo. Yes, urgh! (It's at times like these that the intentions of the writer making these public disclosures do become unclear - I admit it's a pertinent question: are you supposed to know this stuff?)*
What followed were massive waves of nausea, as an eggy, olivetti, pastry and onionised soup created a new brand of beer (Vomit Lager)in my gut.

Back in bed, the world began to spin, and I am not exagerrating: I thought I was going to die. I thought of crawling to reception and croaking: 'call an ambulance'.
The fugue continued, and then I got that taste on my tongue. The salty liqurice snake, coiling, and poisonous, on the back of my tongue. I flew out of bed, like Pinochio on strings, and crouched over a bin with its white plastic liner. And then my throat and stomach contracted. A small cough of air slipped out of my mouth, with the smallest croak, of pain. Then it happened again - a convulsion but no liquid voiding. It's extremely painful. If you've seen The Hole, then you know, a dehydrated person can die from basically tearing their stomach to pieces as the body attempts to pump out a poisonous swarm of bacteria infested beer.

Finally I went from crouching position to almost upright (a quick nod to the evolution of ape to man - theoretically apes spent a lot of time hungover, hence their posture). I sipped some water (conscious that some evil Stephen King bacterium might be swimming like a thin green snake, once again, into my fragile system.

This time the wave of nausea sent me scrambling to the white toilet, and my throat stretched into a moist conduit. Along this membrane, about 6 full cups of noxious beer, with clumps of you don't want to know what, poured into a new, and if my say, fairly pristine, reservoir.

I flushed the brew into the sea, and skin, prickled by cold licks of air, hobbled back to bed.

Somehow I managed to get 4 and a half minutes of sleep. I emerged this morning, only able to walk quite slowly, and all processes functioning at a decelarated rate. It still feels like a number of small cactusses are bursting internally, making me feel cold and prickly and sore headed.

Going to head back to PE tonight instead of early Saturday morning. I can only imagine how amplified the above experience would have been if I had added a few more whiskies, and The Rat and Parrot to it. The RAP is a near death experience even when the beer that is served is brewed by Heineken, and consumed - naturally enough - by Rhodents.

*My guess is I am still suffering from juvenile male teenage syndrome (JMTS), a condition characterised by boasting about grotesque achievements associated with the lower body functions.