Why I can’t drink vodka anymore


It took me four days to recover and now I refuse to do anything so stupid again.

It was the Mad Blonde Supervisor’s birthday on Saturday. Her parents were away for the weekend, so she’d had a house party planned for a couple of months. Of course, those of us that had the day off took full advantage of the leisure centre’s facilities in celebration first.

We went bowling: we didn’t let her win; she pasted the rest of us by the virtue of her own skill. We had pizza: the Irish Supervisor had arranged the presence of a cake and a chorus of singing waiters at Pizza Hut. And then the Birthday Girl gave myself and the Irishman a lift back to her place for drinks. So far, so good. More workmates arrived over the course of the evening and even some people that the Mad Blonde Supervisor and I knew from sixth form turned up. I wasn’t feeling very drunk at the time but my memory starts getting fuzzy around this point. Consequently, I’m not sure why what happened next happened at all.

Some screamers were downed fairly early in the evening, leaving some empty shot glasses and so I got it into my head to drink ten shots of vodka. The Evil Supervisor (the Birthday Girl’s best mate) poured the wretched things while one of our colleagues suggested that this really wasn’t a good idea. I got to five quite comfortably. I started to feel like they wouldn’t stay down at seven. I downed all ten and then staggered to a safe point in the garden to let the inevitable happen: all ten shots were now on the Mad Blonde Supervisor’s lawn. The Irish Supervisor informed me that I’d downed those shots in just over forty-four seconds. Suddenly, I felt hammered. I went back to my chosen spot on the lawn in order to heave again.

After a few minutes of this, I felt well enough to rejoin the crowd for a while. I still felt like crap, though. Anytime somebody mentioned food, drink or anything whatsoever, I was straight over to the increasing puddle on the lawn. (Apparently, I’ve managed to kill a patch of grass there). The queasy feeling was now starting to wear me out – I actually wanted to throw up some more, just to empty my stomach of the chemicals that I could feel in there. Bubbles (don’t ask) started going on about burgers, so I asked him to keep it coming – doubled over and retching as he gave me a run down of a kebab shop menu with added critical appraisal. He then took a photo.

I knew that Birthday Girl wasn’t going to let me sleep inside, so I tried to catch some kip on the lawn. Lying down made the world spin and I was off again: on my hands and knees, drowning the shrubbery in my own stomach lining. I was too screwed up to go on but now I’d found I couldn’t sleep. I thought I was going to die.

I went inside, where everyone else had gone to escape the cold, and asked for an ambulance. The Irishman decided to call the NHS Direct first. He had a long conversation with the nurse about my state then he handed the phone to me. I probably didn’t sound as bad as I was, because I always remain pretty lucid when I’m drunk. The nurse asked me a few questions and her tone didn’t suggest she was judging or patronising me (I love nurses now and if anyone ever disses the NHS Direct, they’ll have me to answer to). I had to pass her back to the Irishman while I threw up again and he ended up on hold while the nurse had a worryingly long dialogue with the poisons unit. The conclusion was that I should suck ice cubes to re-hydrate myself. So I did. I fell asleep on a kitchen chair, then, when I woke up after an hour, went to sleep properly on the kitchen doormat. The whole ordeal lasted six hours. And when I woke up the next morning, I started vomiting all over again. There was nothing left in my stomach by this point: it was all yellow bile. Who’d have thought the gall bladder was so large?

The moral of the story? I’m not sure it’s something I didn’t already theoretically know before. “It’s not big and it’s not clever,” sums it up pretty well, I think.

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~ by Scary Rob on 10 September, 2004.

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