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Toxic Custard Workshop Files[Great Vomits of the 20th Century]

The Grisly Details - Part 2

On the teacher

Our Primary School teacher was a strict disiplianian, and I mean STRICT. One of the class had to toss his cookies, however, beaten down by two years of strict rules, he put up his hand to as for permission. When our teacher pointed him, he opened his mouth to speek and instead decorated the teacher. Early Recess was called and the teacher proceeded home and changed. We enjoyed it.

- Chris W

School garden

One day I was feeling queasy, but went to school anyway because it was nit too bad. Feeling better when I arrived I consumed a whole bottle of Choc Milk (Moove)

Setting: Hot Summers Day, English Class, First Period.

We were reading Lord of the Flies. We had got up to one of the grusome bits and the teacher was reading it out loud. At this point for not real apparent reason I got that warning feeling, exited the room, down the stairs and to a convienent patch of grass and killed it stone dead. Used a well placed garden tap and returned to class. Everyone thought it was the book.

- Chris W


Beat this… a Soviet sobering up station in Leningrad (pre Perestroika??).

I had arrived by train from Moscow and went to the restaurant of my hotel to eat. A young Russian (ie, like me at the time, in his early 20s) was also looking for a table and I invited him to share mine. He could speak no English, nor me Russian. We started with one bottle of Vodka, about a half litre size, then, I kid you not, started on the second. We got half way through that when my friend ordered champagne, or some such Soviet version. National pride was not at stake — no way was an Aussie going to be drunk under the table by a Ruski. We incredibly finished the meal (I have no idea what it was now) and I gallantly helped this drunken comrade across the street so he could catch a taxi. But then my watch was missing, and he somehow had it… beats me how. He had obviously been out to rip me off and the argument that followed attracted the Leningrad Polizi (or however you spell it).

I don't know what happened to the comrade but I was carted all over Leningrad's cobblestone streets in the back of a rapidly filling drunks' paddy wagon and ended up at a sobering up station. After giving my details, etc, I proved to them all, and impressed them greatly, how sober I really was by putting together my Turkish puzzle ring in two shakes of a dripping python. They really were impressed. But I blew it almost immediately after by chucking in the corner and leaving a technicolour yawn for some poor Babushka lady to clean up. She didn't like it one bit — and I don't blame her. I spent the night on a cot in a room of about 50 derelicts. But, yes, I did get my watch back. However they fined me a prodigious but forgotten amount for being, yes, drunk. No idea what happened to failed rip off merchant!

- Graeme Hendo

The white leather couch

This is not really my story, but that of my eldest daughter. Several years ago, when she was about 8 years old, her favorite foods included pickled beets and orange juice. One night at dinner, she ate nothing but pickled beets, and washed it down with a large glass of orange juice. Her mother and I told her that she had to eat something else, anything besides beets and OJ for dinner. I guess we were feeling liberal, because all she had was seconds on orange juice. As I recall, she then didn't want to eat anything else because "she didn't feel well."

Half an hour later she went to bed. Ten minutes later she came back downstairs, complaining that her stomach didn't feel good (surprise!), and lay down with her pillow on the living room couch.

The white leather one.

I think the purple fountain made its debut about ten minutes after that. She scrupulously avoided getting anything on her (easily washable) pillow, but really got the couch. The cushions are sewn in. I think we finally got all the beets out of it, and she hasn't touched them since. Still drinks orange juice, though....

- Grant Green

Gas heater

A friend (no really) after drinking shots of Polish Pure Spirit (80% alcohol) vomited into his gas heater. He then got to relive the experience everytime the heater was used that winter.

- Richard Sebel


Told by a friend but I don't know how true. A very considerate friend, rather than vomiting on the cream carpet managed to refill a champagne bottle with the contents of his stomach.

- Richard Sebel

House redecoration

For some reason after a big night I ate a lot of cottage cheese. Lactose intolerance or whatever then redecorated the road in front of a friends house with a fine layer of vodka and cottage cheese. It formed a nice white crust till it next rained 3 weeks later.

- Richard Sebel

Holiday in Malta

This story has been waiting for a public airing for some time - it's all true and no names have been changed - mention this to Roy and to this day he still goes a funny colour. Please use this on the site if you like. Apologies to any Maltese readers and Nuns in general.

The time has come at last to make public as a warning to others what can happen when Hot Sun, Cheap Wine and Speedboat Trips are combined. Our torrid tale takes place on that wonderfully friendly and welcoming mediterranean island, Malta, in the summer of 1986. My good friend Roy Hardy and myself, a couple of normally responsible and hardworking young lads <g> had decided to spend our hard earned wages holidaying there, enjoying the good food, good wine and the friendly female scandinavian tourists. You're starting to get the general idea.

Our exploits although sometimes lively and exuberant had never been rude, disgusting and downright offensive to the people of Malta and to the Catholic Church. Until that fateful day that is. We had taken one of the Captain Morgan round the island cruises with a lunch stop and optional small boat trip through the Blue Grotto. The small boat turned out to be a speedboat piloted by a larger than life Maltese character called Banis. As Banis took us sedately through the indeed wonderful sights of the Grotto he ran a seductive sales pitch, along the lines of for an extra 5 Maltese he would take a select few of us the remainder of the trip back in his speedboat. The added attractions of this offer were a high powered stereo system and free wine.

As the Captain Morgan trip had taken 2 1/2 hours to take us thus far and the prospect of a similar period for the return was indeed a soporific one, we opted for the speedboat. The boat ride was an amazing experience, twin 125 horse power Yamaha engines on the back saw to that. We barely touched the water for long, bouncing off the tops of the waves at between 35 - 40 knots, zipping in and out of the bays and smaller islands dotted along Malta's coastline, the stereo powering out the top sounds of the summer of 86, the sun beating down etc. Oh yes and then there was the wine. There were 12 of us who had opted for the speedboat trip and Roy and I were sitting at the very front, quite the best place for maximum bounce effect from the waves.

Banis was handing out bottles at the back and Roy and I ended up sharing a bottle between us, initially that is. This wine was white, acidy sweet and thick in texture, we subsequently found it on sale for 30 cents with 15 cents back on the bottle, it was that good. However a couple of Beers with lunch in the hot sun and our discriminatory senses had evaporated in the heat. The more sensible of our companions were taking a small sip and passing the bottles forward where they ended up in the possession of Roy and I. About a bottle and a half each was consumed I think, to this day I am not sure. However the events that follow are engraved on my memory for ever.

As we got back to the main harbour in Valletta, Banis performed his piece de resistance, a high speed figure of eight which brought a large part of the harbour into the boat with us. Drenched and rather unsteady on our legs we stumbled out of the boat and up the harbour steps. Roy was by this stage a very pale colour despite his newly acquired suntan and weaving considerably. I was intoxicated myself but still fairly lucid (or so I claim !). I dragged Roy on to a bus. The buses in Malta are, or were then ex World War 2 vintage large American vehicles with very hard suspension, originally brought in for moving troops around. The Maltese roads are cobbled in places and it so happens that our route took us over one of these sections.

Roy was sitting beside me gradually turning green and starting to make strange groaning noises when the bus stopped. Two Nuns got on, crossed themselves (as is their custom) and sat down in front of us. The Bus started off on its rattling way and hit a particularly large cobble or bump in the road. This was the final Straw as far as Roy was concerned as he erupted and the contents of his stomach went over the two Nuns sitting in front of us. The nuns leapt to their feet yelling in Maltese. Time stood still as Roy went for the second instalment over the seat and the floor in front of us.

Fortunately the bus chose that moment to reach a stop, I dragged Roy off the bus and into the crowd in Sliema. To my eternal relief the bus started on its way without anyone attempting to apprehend us. The shame doesn't end there as Roy kicked the poodle of a gentleman who was expressing concern at the obviously distressed state he was in and insulted a restaurant owner who offered us a table when we only wanted to use the bathroom facilities of his premises. When we eventually arrived back at the apartment we were staying in Roy literally collapsed headlong onto his bed and was out for the count for a straight twelve hours. To this day he still will not touch white wine !

- Ian Hindmarsh

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TCWF - Great Vomits of the 20th Century