If you are mean to friends, Karma WILL catch up with you.
I’d known it was going to be a bad day from the moment I woke up. I knew I had to get to work soon, but when I took my head off of the pillow, part of my soul and most of my willpower seemed to be left on the bed. The sensation of yanking these things out of your own body gave me a sudden empathy to bees; who sting another being then wrench themselves free, leaving their internal organs behind. I was dehydrated, dizzy, and my stomach was in knots. Was I ill? No, my friend - I was hung over.
Moving in slow motion trying to keep my cranium at a constant altitude, I sort of moonwalked in to the bathroom and begun my daily routine of ablutions. I started thinking back to the night before. I’d been on MSN with Nick, waiting for Lora and Laura to show up for that drink. It was that MSN conversation that fucked me for the night, yes I remembered.
“Lora and Laura are over in a bit. They’re meeting me at the office then we’re going for a drink”
“What do they want?”
“Nothing, they’re just in the area.”
“...”
“What?”
“ ‘Just in the area’? Come on man, that’s bullshit and you know it. Next you’ll be telling me they ‘just want to catch up’.”
“Well, actually..”
“..that’s exactly what they said, yeah. Your ex-girlfriend and your best friend are coming all the way to the office just to hang out?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Umm... because you’re a complete arsehole and not worth the effort?”
“Well, I suppose there is that.”
“Yeah seriously, they want something. Either something that’ll piss you off or something you’ve done to piss them off.”
“....SHIT.”
“And considering it’s you, probably both.”
“SHIT SHIT SHIT.”
Shit! He was right - he was so right. I felt doom creep up on me like a physical entity and tap me on the shoulder - and its name was Laora. Or something - y’know.
So when they arrived I was just waiting for them to say something horrible or yell at me. As it turned out, the news wasn’t awful but Nick was right, it pissed me off a treat. Now when it comes to bad news, Lora is like a dentist. She will cause the pain quick and fast then wait for the next patient with clinical detachment; so when it did come there was no beating about the bush - just straight up “The night of strippers and tequila I said we could have? Yeah, changed my mind.” Then they started talking about a hairdresser called Syd who they both had a crush on. I tried to listen for more than half a sentence, but I’ve never been any good at listening to compliments about anyone but myself so I started thinking about something else (probably sex) and nodding along in agreement; then as this too became too boring to hold my attention I swore, sat back at my desk and started working.
When I’d finished the work I had for that night I returned to the conversation which I was still having a real hard time comprehending to find it was still about Syd. I remember them mentioning me in the conversation - they said he actually looked a lot like me, except he was older, skinnier and had more tattoos. I internally questioned their sexual preferences, as I would have much rather shagged me given the choice. Then they also explained he insulted them about as often as I did. Ah, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
It became apparent to me at that moment: that I was going to need to drink.
“Excuse me.”
I headed up to the emergency vodka that is kept in the office and poured myself a mug full. I drank it down and poured myself another, then started sipping it on the way back to where they were.
“Is that vodka?”
*sigh* “Here you go.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Then give it back.”
“Okay, after I’ve had some.”
“Right, fuck off.”
“What?”
“Get the fuck out of the office, I need to set the alarms.”
So I finished the vodka and we begin to head down to the pub, Lora says she has to head back to catch a delivery and can’t make the drink. I begin thinking back to Nick’s now-haunting warnings:
“Just wants to give you bad news WooOOOoOOOoOOOoo...!”
By the time we walk in the pub door, the alcohol has already started to take effect; I’d had a fair bit to eat that day, but I’m just not used to drinking lots of vodka. In fact the last time was probably the Mike vs Oleg drinking competition, and that had not gone well.
So I start talking to Laura and she makes the fatal mistake of coming out with the following sentence:
“Oh Mike, I missed you being a complete arsehole.”
It may have been the booze, but I sensed no irony. Plus, I was just the right kind of drunk so I’d both remember the comment and blindly follow it for the rest of the evening.
The next thing I know, Lora’s come back. I actually feel outnumbered now and ask Laura to buy me another double vodka, to go with my pint. She does and I down it, then get Lora to buy me a whisky. She refuses, saying not until I finished my drink. And she won’t let me down it. So I sit there feeling all the booze I’ve already consumed kick in and getting my two lady friends to rub my ego from both sides until it was swollen and inflated like a huge, phallic innuendo.
The rest of the night was somewhat of a blur. I’m pretty sure Laura and Lora had one drink each and I’m not sure if they managed to get a word in edgeways what with me talking about myself for three hours. But I would assume not - I was full-blown-dickhead-drunk and not showing any signs of slowing down. I remember pushing past a good fifteen people then going “Woo! First on!” when we boarded the train, pissing off a homeless guy who asked me for money, telling embarrassing stories about myself very loud and then singing to Dad.
So when I woke up the next morning, all things considered, I was feeling pretty shit. After all this had flashed through my head like a hot knife through pride, I headed down stairs to see Dad had made me breakfast. Bastard.
He KNEW I was drunk, no hammered last night - so what does he make me? Porridge.
“Not very hungry, Dad.”
“Ah, choke it down.”
I did, and for all of ten minutes I thought there was a possibility I might not vomit too violently. But no.
I ran in to the toilet, the puke in my throat heading up, then projectile vomited with precision aim in to the bowl.
“HOOOAAARRREEEUUUGH!!! WHORE!! HOUEGHUTHER FUCKERAArrGHG ... oh.... oh God you sadistic bastard cunt-loving HOOOAURGH!!! OH SHIT, NO!! PLEASE GOD STOP!!! HOOOAAAUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRR---ERGHK..... heeEE-....hurk- OOO, oh God.... oh God...”
This done I wiped my mouth, brushed my teeth and left the house.
I was sitting on Platform 4 wearing the expression of a confused gorilla when I noticed Lora walking across Platform 1. She waved, I waved back. This was good; I obviously hadn’t offended her to the point she’d bought a gun and decided to kill me. You know it was a long night when you’re happy your friends aren’t trying to shoot you. I did the mime for “I’m fucked.” And she mouthed back “Really? I’m fine.” I gave her the finger. I was starting to feel better already.
In fact it wasn’t until I was sitting on the train to Croydon that I realised. Oh God I thought I’m not done puking yet... oh my God.
In my mind I calculated my journey time till I walked in my office door and could safely vomit. Twenty... thirty minutes? It was going to be tough, but I decided to risk it. I got off the train at East Croydon and checked out the time tables. Good. I had ten minutes to re-cooperate before the train to Clapham Junction.
The ten minutes came and went. The train doors opened before me and the most demoralising thing I’d ever seen was revealed.
The train was packed.
Packed packed.
I’d hoped to sit down, close my eyes, and sleep my way up there before hurling in the toilets at the station. No chance. As I walked on board, I couldn’t help but honest-to-God think this is what it must’ve been like to be a suicide bomber. I have a bomb under these clothes and it is going to go off and get everyone around me. Like this woman next to me, she looks a happy sort - but today she’s getting to work with a sample of my digestive system on her face and she doesn’t know it. Not yet, but she will.
I held on to the rail and focussed on something.... something that I didn’t associate with vomiting. To be honest, probably sex again. Then a large gentleman with stupid fat-guy luggage started talking to me.
...
WHY TODAY?! I’d ridden the train how many times and sat in sombre silence? And the one day that verbal communication could result in me physically projecting my stomach lining on to fellow commuters, it’s like an evening in at the tourettes clinic. Just stop talking you flabby bastard!
“And when we get to the station, we’ll probably have another big squash! Haha!”
*breathy whisper* “Shut up, you fat fuck. Seriously.”
*completely misses it* “Of course, yeah. Bloody trains, terrible inventions really.”
“I will vomit on you and everyone here if you don’t stop talking.”
“It’s a common misconception of course, trains may seem green, but in actuality...”
I couldn’t help but think about how many extra tonnes of coal it would take to ferry each of his amorphous, sweating arse cheeks from East Croydon to Clapham Junction.
My mouth started filling up with water and I shut my eyes hard.
He slowly stopped talking in that sort of ‘is this chap a crack head’ kind of way. I hung there, swinging from side to side from the rail, fiercely trying to keep my own bile in my body where it should be. A lot of people say in situations like this they pray. I did exactly this, only I tend to pray to myself.
“Oh Michael, please don’t be a complete dickhead all your life? Just this once - don’t fuck everything up for the whole day?”
I seemed to listen, as I heard “We are now approaching ... Clapham Junction.” ring out over the tannoy and still hadn’t thrown up. I opened my eyes and looked around - people were giving me that look - it was like that scene in Home Alone 1 right after Macaulay Culkin spills the milk everywhere. That kind of ‘you wanker’ that is normally reserved for smackheads and brattish children.
They were quite right to gaze - I was by now hanging off the hand rail and swaying dangerously to and fro. My skin had lost all of its colour and was coated in a cold sweat. I looked at the platform slide past outside the door. The movement of that alone made me dizzy, and an all to familiar feeling swept across me. No... not this close..! The train shuddered to a halt, but it was too late - I wretched and bent in half right there and then. Luckily owing to the emptiness of my stomach, the first wretch was a dry run but I knew that luck wouldn’t last. Already a sickly-warm feeling was edging its way up the back of my throat. I leapt out of the carriage and powered towards the stairs hitting the first step I slammed a hand over my mouth and hung on to the side rail for dear life as my faltering steps threatened to repeatedly throw me down the stairs.
No way could I make it to the office. No way - I’d need Dr. Who on my side and even then it would be a push. I spied the station toilets out of my peripheral vision and ran in.
“20p, man.”
“Meughk - mmmmph mmph!!”
“What? 20p to use the toilets.”
“Mmmm!”
The sexual, racial and downright personal insults flying out of me were muffled by my hand and no bad thing, and least three of them are illegal in this country as far as I know.
By the time I’d fumbled a warm, sweaty 20p in to the man’s grasp I could already feel something warm and unspeakable on the palm of my hand. I leapt over the barrier and shouldered my way in to a cubicle. It was only good luck no-one was in there considering what happened next. I am convince that if someone had been on the seat, trousers down I would vomited square on to his exposed penis.
“HEHEEEEAAUUUUGHHH GOOOOOOD WHY?!?!? AAAAAEUGH!!!”
Those in the toilets had clearly never heard me vomit before, as the commotion seemed to cause quite a stir. So much so that the guard came over and started to knock on the door.
*thud thud thud* “Are you alright in there mate?”
“HEURGH ... Fuck o-eck HEEEEeeeeeeeEEEeeeEEEeEURGH”
“Look, I’m coming in.” The man clearly thought I was giving birth and needed some hot towels.
“NO! I’M BEEEEUGHING SIIEEEUGH!”
“Do you need an ambulance?” Yep, definitely thought I was giving birth.
“HEEUUURGHHHH!! I’M HUNG OVER FOR FUCK’S SAKE FUCK OFF HEUURGH OH JESUS FUCK HEEEUUURGH EEEUU eeeeugh- eug- HEEUUURRRRRGH!!!”
“Sir, could you please leave?”
“NO! NO I CAN’T!” This kind of thing does happen to everyone else, right? Late for work, vomiting in a station toilet with a security guard and three concerned commuters ready to give you the Heimlich manoeuvre lining up outside? I’m surprised the press wasn’t there.
There was a sigh, a flush then a lot of spitting. Then the sound of me ripping toilet paper in to wads, then another flush. Then, the cubicle door swung open to reveal me, a little pale, a little red around the eyes, but otherwise reasonably composed striding out and out of the toilet. God only knows the stories the guys in there had for their colleagues when they got to work.
I stopped off at a newsagents and grabbed some breath mints. Popping four I got on the bus. I shouldn’t have eaten those. I got to work and the same situation played it self out less the four spectators and I walked in to the office.
“Sorry I’m late, I don’t feel very well.”
Guy (my boss) looked at me, then at Xuelong (my other boss), then back at me. His expression was humourless and sober. Then I thought I heard Xuelong snigger and then Guy burst out laughing in my face - tossing me an Alka Seltzer XS, he told me to to ‘sort myself out upstairs’, as apprently... I ‘looked like shit’.
Moving in slow motion trying to keep my cranium at a constant altitude, I sort of moonwalked in to the bathroom and begun my daily routine of ablutions. I started thinking back to the night before. I’d been on MSN with Nick, waiting for Lora and Laura to show up for that drink. It was that MSN conversation that fucked me for the night, yes I remembered.
“Lora and Laura are over in a bit. They’re meeting me at the office then we’re going for a drink”
“What do they want?”
“Nothing, they’re just in the area.”
“...”
“What?”
“ ‘Just in the area’? Come on man, that’s bullshit and you know it. Next you’ll be telling me they ‘just want to catch up’.”
“Well, actually..”
“..that’s exactly what they said, yeah. Your ex-girlfriend and your best friend are coming all the way to the office just to hang out?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Umm... because you’re a complete arsehole and not worth the effort?”
“Well, I suppose there is that.”
“Yeah seriously, they want something. Either something that’ll piss you off or something you’ve done to piss them off.”
“....SHIT.”
“And considering it’s you, probably both.”
“SHIT SHIT SHIT.”
Shit! He was right - he was so right. I felt doom creep up on me like a physical entity and tap me on the shoulder - and its name was Laora. Or something - y’know.
So when they arrived I was just waiting for them to say something horrible or yell at me. As it turned out, the news wasn’t awful but Nick was right, it pissed me off a treat. Now when it comes to bad news, Lora is like a dentist. She will cause the pain quick and fast then wait for the next patient with clinical detachment; so when it did come there was no beating about the bush - just straight up “The night of strippers and tequila I said we could have? Yeah, changed my mind.” Then they started talking about a hairdresser called Syd who they both had a crush on. I tried to listen for more than half a sentence, but I’ve never been any good at listening to compliments about anyone but myself so I started thinking about something else (probably sex) and nodding along in agreement; then as this too became too boring to hold my attention I swore, sat back at my desk and started working.
When I’d finished the work I had for that night I returned to the conversation which I was still having a real hard time comprehending to find it was still about Syd. I remember them mentioning me in the conversation - they said he actually looked a lot like me, except he was older, skinnier and had more tattoos. I internally questioned their sexual preferences, as I would have much rather shagged me given the choice. Then they also explained he insulted them about as often as I did. Ah, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
It became apparent to me at that moment: that I was going to need to drink.
“Excuse me.”
I headed up to the emergency vodka that is kept in the office and poured myself a mug full. I drank it down and poured myself another, then started sipping it on the way back to where they were.
“Is that vodka?”
*sigh* “Here you go.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Then give it back.”
“Okay, after I’ve had some.”
“Right, fuck off.”
“What?”
“Get the fuck out of the office, I need to set the alarms.”
So I finished the vodka and we begin to head down to the pub, Lora says she has to head back to catch a delivery and can’t make the drink. I begin thinking back to Nick’s now-haunting warnings:
“Just wants to give you bad news WooOOOoOOOoOOOoo...!”
By the time we walk in the pub door, the alcohol has already started to take effect; I’d had a fair bit to eat that day, but I’m just not used to drinking lots of vodka. In fact the last time was probably the Mike vs Oleg drinking competition, and that had not gone well.
So I start talking to Laura and she makes the fatal mistake of coming out with the following sentence:
“Oh Mike, I missed you being a complete arsehole.”
It may have been the booze, but I sensed no irony. Plus, I was just the right kind of drunk so I’d both remember the comment and blindly follow it for the rest of the evening.
The next thing I know, Lora’s come back. I actually feel outnumbered now and ask Laura to buy me another double vodka, to go with my pint. She does and I down it, then get Lora to buy me a whisky. She refuses, saying not until I finished my drink. And she won’t let me down it. So I sit there feeling all the booze I’ve already consumed kick in and getting my two lady friends to rub my ego from both sides until it was swollen and inflated like a huge, phallic innuendo.
The rest of the night was somewhat of a blur. I’m pretty sure Laura and Lora had one drink each and I’m not sure if they managed to get a word in edgeways what with me talking about myself for three hours. But I would assume not - I was full-blown-dickhead-drunk and not showing any signs of slowing down. I remember pushing past a good fifteen people then going “Woo! First on!” when we boarded the train, pissing off a homeless guy who asked me for money, telling embarrassing stories about myself very loud and then singing to Dad.
So when I woke up the next morning, all things considered, I was feeling pretty shit. After all this had flashed through my head like a hot knife through pride, I headed down stairs to see Dad had made me breakfast. Bastard.
He KNEW I was drunk, no hammered last night - so what does he make me? Porridge.
“Not very hungry, Dad.”
“Ah, choke it down.”
I did, and for all of ten minutes I thought there was a possibility I might not vomit too violently. But no.
I ran in to the toilet, the puke in my throat heading up, then projectile vomited with precision aim in to the bowl.
“HOOOAAARRREEEUUUGH!!! WHORE!! HOUEGHUTHER FUCKERAArrGHG ... oh.... oh God you sadistic bastard cunt-loving HOOOAURGH!!! OH SHIT, NO!! PLEASE GOD STOP!!! HOOOAAAUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRR---ERGHK..... heeEE-....hurk- OOO, oh God.... oh God...”
This done I wiped my mouth, brushed my teeth and left the house.
I was sitting on Platform 4 wearing the expression of a confused gorilla when I noticed Lora walking across Platform 1. She waved, I waved back. This was good; I obviously hadn’t offended her to the point she’d bought a gun and decided to kill me. You know it was a long night when you’re happy your friends aren’t trying to shoot you. I did the mime for “I’m fucked.” And she mouthed back “Really? I’m fine.” I gave her the finger. I was starting to feel better already.
In fact it wasn’t until I was sitting on the train to Croydon that I realised. Oh God I thought I’m not done puking yet... oh my God.
In my mind I calculated my journey time till I walked in my office door and could safely vomit. Twenty... thirty minutes? It was going to be tough, but I decided to risk it. I got off the train at East Croydon and checked out the time tables. Good. I had ten minutes to re-cooperate before the train to Clapham Junction.
The ten minutes came and went. The train doors opened before me and the most demoralising thing I’d ever seen was revealed.
The train was packed.
Packed packed.
I’d hoped to sit down, close my eyes, and sleep my way up there before hurling in the toilets at the station. No chance. As I walked on board, I couldn’t help but honest-to-God think this is what it must’ve been like to be a suicide bomber. I have a bomb under these clothes and it is going to go off and get everyone around me. Like this woman next to me, she looks a happy sort - but today she’s getting to work with a sample of my digestive system on her face and she doesn’t know it. Not yet, but she will.
I held on to the rail and focussed on something.... something that I didn’t associate with vomiting. To be honest, probably sex again. Then a large gentleman with stupid fat-guy luggage started talking to me.
...
WHY TODAY?! I’d ridden the train how many times and sat in sombre silence? And the one day that verbal communication could result in me physically projecting my stomach lining on to fellow commuters, it’s like an evening in at the tourettes clinic. Just stop talking you flabby bastard!
“And when we get to the station, we’ll probably have another big squash! Haha!”
*breathy whisper* “Shut up, you fat fuck. Seriously.”
*completely misses it* “Of course, yeah. Bloody trains, terrible inventions really.”
“I will vomit on you and everyone here if you don’t stop talking.”
“It’s a common misconception of course, trains may seem green, but in actuality...”
I couldn’t help but think about how many extra tonnes of coal it would take to ferry each of his amorphous, sweating arse cheeks from East Croydon to Clapham Junction.
My mouth started filling up with water and I shut my eyes hard.
He slowly stopped talking in that sort of ‘is this chap a crack head’ kind of way. I hung there, swinging from side to side from the rail, fiercely trying to keep my own bile in my body where it should be. A lot of people say in situations like this they pray. I did exactly this, only I tend to pray to myself.
“Oh Michael, please don’t be a complete dickhead all your life? Just this once - don’t fuck everything up for the whole day?”
I seemed to listen, as I heard “We are now approaching ... Clapham Junction.” ring out over the tannoy and still hadn’t thrown up. I opened my eyes and looked around - people were giving me that look - it was like that scene in Home Alone 1 right after Macaulay Culkin spills the milk everywhere. That kind of ‘you wanker’ that is normally reserved for smackheads and brattish children.
They were quite right to gaze - I was by now hanging off the hand rail and swaying dangerously to and fro. My skin had lost all of its colour and was coated in a cold sweat. I looked at the platform slide past outside the door. The movement of that alone made me dizzy, and an all to familiar feeling swept across me. No... not this close..! The train shuddered to a halt, but it was too late - I wretched and bent in half right there and then. Luckily owing to the emptiness of my stomach, the first wretch was a dry run but I knew that luck wouldn’t last. Already a sickly-warm feeling was edging its way up the back of my throat. I leapt out of the carriage and powered towards the stairs hitting the first step I slammed a hand over my mouth and hung on to the side rail for dear life as my faltering steps threatened to repeatedly throw me down the stairs.
No way could I make it to the office. No way - I’d need Dr. Who on my side and even then it would be a push. I spied the station toilets out of my peripheral vision and ran in.
“20p, man.”
“Meughk - mmmmph mmph!!”
“What? 20p to use the toilets.”
“Mmmm!”
The sexual, racial and downright personal insults flying out of me were muffled by my hand and no bad thing, and least three of them are illegal in this country as far as I know.
By the time I’d fumbled a warm, sweaty 20p in to the man’s grasp I could already feel something warm and unspeakable on the palm of my hand. I leapt over the barrier and shouldered my way in to a cubicle. It was only good luck no-one was in there considering what happened next. I am convince that if someone had been on the seat, trousers down I would vomited square on to his exposed penis.
“HEHEEEEAAUUUUGHHH GOOOOOOD WHY?!?!? AAAAAEUGH!!!”
Those in the toilets had clearly never heard me vomit before, as the commotion seemed to cause quite a stir. So much so that the guard came over and started to knock on the door.
*thud thud thud* “Are you alright in there mate?”
“HEURGH ... Fuck o-eck HEEEEeeeeeeeEEEeeeEEEeEURGH”
“Look, I’m coming in.” The man clearly thought I was giving birth and needed some hot towels.
“NO! I’M BEEEEUGHING SIIEEEUGH!”
“Do you need an ambulance?” Yep, definitely thought I was giving birth.
“HEEUUURGHHHH!! I’M HUNG OVER FOR FUCK’S SAKE FUCK OFF HEUURGH OH JESUS FUCK HEEEUUURGH EEEUU eeeeugh- eug- HEEUUURRRRRGH!!!”
“Sir, could you please leave?”
“NO! NO I CAN’T!” This kind of thing does happen to everyone else, right? Late for work, vomiting in a station toilet with a security guard and three concerned commuters ready to give you the Heimlich manoeuvre lining up outside? I’m surprised the press wasn’t there.
There was a sigh, a flush then a lot of spitting. Then the sound of me ripping toilet paper in to wads, then another flush. Then, the cubicle door swung open to reveal me, a little pale, a little red around the eyes, but otherwise reasonably composed striding out and out of the toilet. God only knows the stories the guys in there had for their colleagues when they got to work.
I stopped off at a newsagents and grabbed some breath mints. Popping four I got on the bus. I shouldn’t have eaten those. I got to work and the same situation played it self out less the four spectators and I walked in to the office.
“Sorry I’m late, I don’t feel very well.”
Guy (my boss) looked at me, then at Xuelong (my other boss), then back at me. His expression was humourless and sober. Then I thought I heard Xuelong snigger and then Guy burst out laughing in my face - tossing me an Alka Seltzer XS, he told me to to ‘sort myself out upstairs’, as apprently... I ‘looked like shit’.