Thunderbird is go..!
Take one 17 year old student who has just been dumped on the first day back at college after the summer holidays.

Mix with mates.

Add a walk around the local housing estate until the pubs open, grabbing a Greggs pasty on the way on account of needing something to soak up the alcohol you will no doubt be quaffing later on...

Take grieving 17 year old self to nearest hostelry and ply with copious bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale until afternoon closing time (this was 1988). Develop maniacal laugh as part of newly-found, alcohol-induced "couldn't give a fuck" attitude.

Continue wander around housing estates until pubs open again, stopping off at off licence for 4-pack of Kestrel Super Strength.

Gratefully accept shoulder to cry on and proceed to blub like a girl for the next 20 minutes, bemoaning "Why?" Return to pub at evening opening time.

Realise not enough money left for whole evening in pub; retreat to off licence armed with enough spare change for bottle of Thunderbird.

Demolish said bottle in 30 minutes whilst walking around field outside halls of residence with friends telling you that "You're their best mate", and "She's not worth it, despite having smashing tits".

Suddenly feel a bit woozy on account of having nothing to eat all day bar that suspiciously greasy Greggs pasty at 10:30am, and demand to be taken back to room as you really need to sleep and everything will be better in the morning.

Get unceremoniously dumped onto bed in halls of residence, fully clothed, with bin placed at side of bed.

Realise that room is incredibly hot on account of overly-efficient heating having been on all day, and become ever-so-slightly nauseous as a result.

Close eyes in desperate attempt to go to sleep; succeed in only becoming more nauseous. Stick one leg on floor in half hearted and frankly optimistic attempt to stop room spinning. Fail miserably and aim for bucket thoughtfully placed next to bed by mates.

Fill with bitter mixture of the devil's own cocktail, whilst praying to deity you don't actually believe in..

Wipe mouth on edge of pillowcase.

Spit.

Blub.

Wish you'd turned the light off as it's burning inside of skull with its mocking glow.

Vow "never again" and finally descend into deep sleep punctuated only by sudden rushes of saliva to the mouth and deep, horrific retching with nothing to show for it except sore ribs and a desire to drain Lake Windermere.

Allow festering contents of bucket to putrify overnight due to inferno that is central heating. Awake next morning to overwhelming acidic stench, forgetting events of night before. Look down at bin.

Rinse, lather, repeat.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 12 Jan 2010, 23:14, 1 reply)

Hot fried Christ on a stick...
...this is familiar.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 19:12, closed)