There's something in the toilet
In 1990 (20 years ago? Fuck!) I worked here, as a 'tour guide', which involved pointing at old things and lying. I was paid the mighty sum of £2.30 an hour, with which I did what any bored 17-year-old in the wastes of northern Scotland would do: spent it on booze and dead things masquerading as kebabs.

My initiation into the world of pubs, drunks and hangovers started at the easy-listening end: Guinness and whisky. I decided quite quickly that I didn't like either, but I also decided I didn't want to be called a poof for drinking anything else. So down it went.

One evening I was introduced to what my mates called a 'Robert Johnson' - Guinness with Bailey's. This made Guinness much more palatable for me, so I had more than I should. I can't remember how I got home, but when I woke up the next morning I felt like a pig had shat in my head, and I had to go to work.

Off I went on my moped (top speed 29.8 mph) and I expect I was still over the limit, but I got there in one piece but feeling worse because my stomach had been lurching about on the way.

Anyway, I was on duty in the blue bedroom (four-poster bed, watercolours, Victorian/Edwardian furniture). As the morning went on I felt worse and worse, to the point where standing up began to make me want to throw up. Luckily it was quiet, so I decided to lie down. What if I lie down on the bed and fall asleep? I'll get the sack if anyone comes round. I know! I'll lie *under* the bed, nobody can see me there. So I did, and I fell asleep.

I woke myself up probably only a few minutes later with the urge to throw up. Looking out from underneath the valance, I make eye contact with the first visitor that's been round this morning. He looks at me blankly. "Er...I lost some money under here," I say weakly. I get out from under the bed and the room starts spinning uncontrollably, followed by my stomach. I have to go.

On the 2nd floor of the castle there is a nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian bathroom. It's part of the tour so it's never used as a bathroom. It's the nearest thing to receive the rising contents of my stomach. I kneel before the porcelain throne, with my foot on the door (there's no lock) so no-one can get in. Here it comes - the worst bit about being sick - the waiting. I am salivating like a dog with a hot sausage. Oh god, this must be how Robert Johnson died. Here it comes - WHAM. A massive spasmy gush of black stuff - and again. Christ. I am going to die like Robert Johnson and Elvis. Then - it's gone.

The damage is an extensive tarry black splat in the previously nice, pristine, spotless, clean, white, Victorian WC. It's like a lumpy mix of soil, bitumen and treacle, and it stinks like cat shit. Thank fuck it didn't go on the carpet (who puts carpet in a bathroom? Victorians, that's who).

I wobblily get up to flush. Flush, I said. FLUSH. I pump the handle. FLUSH YOU FUCKER. There's no flush. It's a show bathroom only and there's a sign on the door saying so. Nothing works. FUCK. There's no water in the cistern. Bollocks. I turn the taps on. Dribbles, no good. The stink from the treacly sick monster is spreading.

I rush to the nearest water source, the staff kitchen on the 3rd floor. I come back with a teacup full of hot water.

The visitor who saw me under the bed is just coming out of the bathroom. He looks at me again. He clearly thinks the nightmare in the pan has come out of my arse.

It takes me half an hour to clean it, relaying teacupfuls of hot water. I have never touched Guinness since, but I have listened to a lot of Robert Johnson.
( Mighty Nibus who dares gins | @nibus, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 12:20, 2 replies)

Cultural.
*click*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 14:10, closed)

"dead things masquerading as kebabs"
never a truer word has been said.


*click*
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 18:06, closed)