New Years' Eve, 1987
My friends and I had determined to make the New Years Eve of 1987 memorable. And so it was to be.

We hadn't planned the night much, other than the idea of drinking into numbness. So food was somewhat of an afterthought.

My best mate (still my closest friend to this day) was well and truly under the thumb of a large-bosomed harridan, who wouldn't let him lash out at all. She went out at one stage to try and find food. So my mate decided to get as many drinks down between when she left, and when she returned. While she was gone, I was behind the bar dishing out drinks full of alcohol-y goodness. The drink of choice for my mate and me was Bacardi and Coke (yes, I know, but I was young and stupid...). We drained one entire bottle of Bacardi, and alas there was no more. So onto the Bundy (aka Bundaberg Rum, aka hate in a bottle). I lost count of how many we downed. Then we emptied the bottle of Coke I had out on the bar. I had doled out a small (read at least a triple) Bundy for my mate, and went under the bar to retrieve the next bottle of Coke from the bar fridge. When I resurfaced, my mate was standing with a shocked look on his face, eyes watering, with an empty glass in front of him. "What the fuck did you just give me?!" he asked accusingly.

This is where things, in retrospect, started a downhill run, which wouldn't be stopped until much much later.

The harridan returned with food. The only thing they were able to track down were some very dodgy hot dogs. Brick two in the wall of wrong.

Then the music was being played. My mate, shy and retiring usually, but by this stage off his tits, thought dancing was in order. As did some of the girls there. And the girls thought it would be funny to make him dance in a jump up, down and all around manner. Looking back, it was really just shaking the carbonated drink shaker full of rum, Coke and Hot dogs which was my mate.

Then it happened. Not vomit. Oh, no. Worse. Another friend, thought it would be awesomely funny (well...it was really) to crash tackle my mate while he was jumping around on the grass. My mate hit the grass with enough force to leave a small face-shaped indent in the lawn.

And then the spewing started. He ran around like a spew sprinkler, liberally watering the garden with his hot dog vom. then he wanted to come inside. being drunk and full of Bundy - remember I said it's known as hate in a bottle - he somehow possessed superhuman strength, and made it it. One of the larger of our friends decided the only course of action would be to carry him out, firemans' carry style. That provoked more spew. At which point, a friend trailing behind selflessly sacrificed himself to save to cream coloured carpet, and caught a liberal handful of liquid hot dog.

We ended up locking him out for the night, and he slept uncomfortably on a banana lounger on the patio. There was more vomiting being done through the night, conscious and unconscious.

We awoke the next morning to view his sorry wrecked state. He had ended up wearing a large portion of his own bodily fluids.

He staggered to his feet. He came to the sliding door, and hammered pathetically on it, trying to get inside. He looked sad. Confused. Still very fucked.

then he uttered the immortal lines, which we still remind him of today: "Hey..... Some bastard threw up on my shirt"
(David CopAFeel Used to be The_Elcat - Spouting crap since 1970., Sat 9 Jan 2010, 10:32, 1 reply)

Brick two in the wall of wrong.
Excellent line-almost as good as "Hey..... Some bastard threw up on my shirt".
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 9 Jan 2010, 19:23, closed)