I went to visit my friend Nuttman, who I have mentioned before.

Nuttman and I have very different modus operandi when it comes to planning and executing an evening out. He, in an effort to maximise the party potential of the evening, will complete much of his alcohol consumption before leaving the house. Whereas I, in an attempt to spend at least part of the evening sober, will tend to drink quickly when I have finally arrived at the venue of choice.

When we go out together it creates something of an alcohol infused perfect storm.

Before we left his house in Reading I remember some vodka, Sambuca, a few more vodkas and a Sambucca chaser.

Once we were out and had finally met up with our other friends, it was further pints and shots. Much of the evening is a blur, but I do remember trying, and failing, to climb a stripper pole whilst upside down.

The next thing I remember is being woken up by Nuttman the following morning.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at me. I looked down at my bare chest to see I had slept fully clothed but with my shirt open.

“I left my shirt open so the guns could breath?” I offered, weakly.

“No, that.” he continued pointing, only a little lower.

I looked over the side of the futon and noticed the pile of vomit next to me. I did not remember drinking snakebite and Black, or in fact being sick, but the evidence was there for all to see.

I am never sick after a night out, ever. Of course, I was not aware of the Norovirus epidemic at this point, but the Winter vomiting bug is a serious illness that has been affecting people up and down the country, and I am clearly one of its more unfortunate victims. As is Nuttman’s carpet.

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