Some years ago, quite a few years ago in fact (I'd say "back in the day" but I'm not sure I'm quite old enough to pull that off. Oh go on then) back in the day when the novelty of being served alcohol legally and without need for 'convincing' fake I.D. [purchased by a friend from the back of FHM, photocopied with my bus pass picture stuck to it] was still fresh, myself and a couple of friends decided it would be a wise investment to partake in the mid week offer of "2-4-1" cocktails at a relatively respectable establishment for the evening. I say respectable as I didn't personally know of anyone who had been either spiked or stabbed in there, and I say "relatively" as the bouncers would still grant me entrance in my cream jeans and Ben Sherman shirt (ironed by my mum of course). As there were three of us, the mathematics of the drinks offer didn't quite work out favourably, which inevitably left one of us having to drink the remainder of the equation each time - some form of brightly coloured and equally sickly beverage usually topped with whipped cream and, if really lucky, a cherry. Manly. This, more often than not, was yours truly. Well, my friends were both bigger than me, I had to make up for this by drinking more than them, obviously.
As the night rolled on more and more of these liquefied deserts were ordered, which in true cliché conformity obviously came with the added bonus of uttering suggestive remarks or making obscene requests to the fairly attractive barmaid under the innocence of simply ordering a drink, whilst of course giggling uncontrollably each time like a schoolboy - which to be fair, we pretty much were. Occasionally my gag reflex would be in urgent need of a rest so we'd take a break every now and then and order a proper drink; a Smirnoff Ice or maybe even an Irn Bru WKD. Just the one though, then back on to the 'good stuff' once my saliva glands had resumed normal service.
Inevitably, the night came to an end, or at least, our funds did. Even more inevitably, and provoked by the fresh air hitting my lungs, vomiting ensued, which was of course rewarded by my mates with a noise that can best be described as "WAAAAAAYY!!". I vividly remember being both shocked and impressed at my 'street art' which was like a visual orchestra of primary colours composed on a paving slab. You really had to be there to appreciate it, and since I was, this particular pavement decoration (of which there have been a few over the years) has etched itself into my memory, enabling me to recall my production in full glory.
I was reminded of this today thanks to my colleagues choice of blouse. It is simply spectacular.
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