The weekend proved to be as alcohol fueled as expected. An extra late night due to the Ricky Hatton fight meant that we did not leave Butlins until midday. The friend giving us a lift said he had to pop in to see his Dad in Chichester, and so, shortly after one o’clock, Fat Jim and I found ourselves enjoying a burger in a bar across from the Cathedral.

“I don’t feel well.” whinged Fat Jim.

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Eighteen hour drinking marathons will do that to you.”

“No. I mean I really don’t feel well.”

“Oh, you REALLY don’t feel well eh? Well I still REALLY don’t care. Eat your burger.”

About an hour later we were en route home in a friends car when Fat Jim piped up again.

“You need to stop the car, I think I’m going to be sick.”

The driver duly obliged and Fat Jim paced the verge looking for a suitable place to vomit.

“Don’t look at me! I can’t do it if you’re looking at me!”

I had never heard of this phenomenon  before. It was always my belief that vomiting was the body’s response to being poisoned. I did not realise it would hold the vomit in if someone was looking at you.

We drove forward 50 yards to leave him to it, like the good friends we are. As soon as he bent over to begin the vomiting we reversed 50 yards to arrive back where we started. Right next to him.

“Look, I can’t do it if you’re there. Seriously.”

“OK, if you can’t vomit when people are watching you, then surely it’s safe to get back in the car? I promise not to take my eyes of you for the next hour and a half, no matter how unpleasant that is for me.”

He got back in the car and off we went. We stopped a further three times, and only when we were within five miles of home did he finally chuck his guts. We did not watch, but we definitely heard. And smelt.

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