S was a geneticist of some sort with whom I shared a flat for a year. The nature of his work meant that at times he had to be in the lab over the weekends to tend an experiment. I vaguely heard him moving about that morning... and then..."OH MY FUCKING GOD! WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS DID THIS? FUCKING GET OUT HERE AND CLEAN IT UP NOW!"What?* * *There is in Hull a club called Spiders. It is - or was - famed for its silly cocktails. To create their version of the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster, you will need a pint glass. Into this, you throw a bit of ice. Then a shot each of vodka, Pernod, and Galliano. A dash of blackcurrant cordial, and a baby bottle of fresh orange juice. You top it up with dry cider, and charge £2.30 for the lot.P, another flatmate that year, had also spent time living in Hull, and had also experienced and loved Spiders. So it seemed only right that we go to the pub on his birthday and recreate the experience for him. By the end of the evening, he was looking distinctly peaky. But we all managed to crawl home - we walked the two miles in an attempt to sober him up - and he collapsed into his bed.* * *I put my head around the door, amazed at the lack of a hangover. S was, by now, in the kitchen, making toast. R, a third flatmate, had also emerged wanting to know the reason for the noise."Was that you?" he demanded."What?""The toilet. I tell you, there's no way I'm using that until whoever did it cleans it up. And I fucking need a shit..."Nice image. But I had only a minimal idea what he was talking about: nothing beyond an association of the toilet with filth.S had by now deduced that the culprit of whatever the crime was must have been P, and was hammering on the door of his room. I, though, still lacked insight into the exact nature of this particular atrocity. I went to investigate. I opened the door.The little room was caked in vomit. It wasn't that P had missed the bowl: he must have been standing up, and he must have done a full 360-degree rotation as the contents of his stomach had made their bid for freedom. It was as if someone had replaced his blood with sick, and then severed an artery. The guy had clearly turned into some sort of chunderfountain; a gushing spring of boke.But that wasn't the worst of it.Remember that the PGGB had as in ingredient blackcurrant cordial? Running down the walls, splashed across the floor and - somehow - dripping from the ceiling, this surging tide of sick was bright, bright magenta.( , Fri 8 Jan 2010, 10:04, 11 replies