Entering the Apocalypse.
There he is, lying on his side, passed out on a friends bed. The mattress is soaked with all imaginable body fluids: sweat, vomit, urine, blood, and possibly even more.
If that's not enough, he has managed to projectile vomit right up in to the upper most corner of the room, a good 2.5 metres from where he is lying.
Whilst his friends carry him out to the stretcher, he gets a bit of a wriggle attack; they manage to just miss the bottle of Bourbon on the bookshelf, the neighbouring picture frame is not as lucky.
On the way out he has a silly attempt of coughing, vomiting and spitting at the same time, lightly covering my colleague in delicious mucous.
During the whole time, home, transport and hospital, he has a nasty smirk on his face. I wish he would realise that he is using up precious resources: an emergency ambulance, the emergency department, and our wasted sleep.
I wish him an extremely awful hangover and some friends that will whack some sense in to him.
