There I stood; there I spoke; there I vommed
Three years ago I moved down to London with my then-girlfriend.

She’d already secured a job down there, we’d secured a flat, and I was in an interview process for a job of my own. We had drinks with different groups of friends to say cheerio to the hometown over the course of a couple of weeks, culminating in a quiet evening in a bar on the Sunday before we moved. We wanted it to be a short one, because it was our last goodbye and she had work in the morning and I had a telephone interview. I was going to have a nice drinky, a good sleepy, and then a calm and professional interview at 10.00 the next morning.

Unfortunately, but nicely, just about everyone we knew from school, work, family, friends, whatever turned up to see us off and bought us a fucking shedload of drinks. Whisky for me, for some reason. Equally unfortunately but nicely, the bar manager was an old schoolfriend of mine and kept the place open past midnight.

Thus I got six kinds of Wednesday.

I stayed at my girlfriend’s house that night – she lived with her family at that point – and basically threw away whatever dignity and decorum I had. I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember her waking me because I’d sicked the bed in my sleep. That required her mother’s assistance for some reason – I know not – so she got to have a nice discussion with her daughter’s boyfriend as he was covered in sick, drunken as sin and naked as a jaybird. I have no memory of the conversation or the procedure – I guess I just stood in the corner like a little nude dunce, gently moaning. Possibly with an erection.

The next thing I remember is being woken, amazingly, by my phone ringing. Amazingly because it was on silent so just vibrating on a table. It was 10.00 o’clock and time for my interview, and I was still in my girlfriend’s bed and naked. She’d gone off to work and left me, presumably not wanting to have to handle a repeat of the intestinal pyrotechnics from the night. I answered the phone, of course, with the croaking voice of an elderly Bob Dylan. Dear me, did I do well. I was interviewed for an hour talking completely off the top of my head, all the time pacing around the room in an effort to stave off the voms, wanger swaying as I expanded upon my experiences and qualifications. Twice I had to excuse myself and throw up into the bin. I just claimed to my interviewer that I was coughing.

My clothes were not in the bedroom. So after finishing the interview I had to wander downstairs and hold another conversation with the mother to ask where my clothes were (they’d been washed as they got a bit of sick of them. Nice lady). She was in a dressing gown; I was still naked. Possibly with an erection.

No-one died, and I got the job. All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’.
(Land of Green Ginger It's dreamy weather, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:40, 3 replies)

"All’s well that ends well. And the problem with that is, I never learned when to say ‘no’."
This, precisely this.

*click*
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 15:50, closed)

Good story.
Nicely told. Click.
( Evil Bastardo, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 16:08, closed)

Winning!
My fave so far. *click*
(ConanTroutman thought we would free the vulture, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 19:04, closed)