Another journey well done

Long time readers will know that my habit of mixing hangovers with the public transport has, err, "thrown up" some interesting journeys in the past.

Recently though, I've been alright on that side of things. I've managed, with an intense combination of Berocca, Nurofen, toast, water and sleep, to stave off the all encompassing "oh shit, I'm going to vom" aftermath of a messy night out. However, for the hangover prevention to really work well, I have to return home after a night out to where the kit's kept. But as discussed the other week, getting home from central London is expensive unless it's a shared journey to the same neck of the woods.

Which is why lately it's a given that if I go into central London for a night out, I'm not coming home. It's no longer "what time will you be home?", but "will you be home?" as I leave the house. Now don't get the wrong idea. I'm not a dirty stop out, I'm a pikey one. Basically if there's a spare (unoccupied) bed, sofa, rug, (occupied) dog basket or floor space to be had, I'm nabbing it, saving my pennies and doing that journey home for £2.20 the next day.

So when me, Ben and a few other uni mates emerged, blinking and shielding our eyes against the daylight from a club in south east London on Saturday morning, I had two options. Wait 20 minutes and get the first tube, or hop into a cab with the boys back to their house and deal with getting home in the morning. Being a pikey stop-out, I chose the latter.

Somehow, I reasoned that daylight would cancel out any alcohol that was consumed in the club, so I didn't drink water before bed and just went straight to sleep in Ben's spare room. When I woke up a few hours later, the head thumping began. Then it got worse. After flopping around the house for a while, I knew I had to get the journey over and done with. I felt queasy just looking at TFL's predicted 1.5 hour journey time. Then I realised Camberwell is not a place served by a tube line, in fact, the nearest tube was a slow, crawling, Saturday-traffic laiden bus journey away in Elephant and Castle.

I head to the top deck, and it's packed. The sun is hot through the window. I'm breathing deeply, fighting the urge to BLEUURRRGGHHHHHH on the floor. I look out the window to distract myself from the nausea, and instead see a bloke throwing up on the grass next to a children's play area, overlooked by two community support officers. Twenty agonising minutes later and I'm off the bus in the arse end of London, being approached by a woman who wants to know where the nearest B&B is and telling me why she needs one. Seriously, love - move away before I vom on your shoes. Then I head underground. It's hotter. I count the stops to Baker Street. I get on the next train and realise after clocking the noisy red and white clad army on the platform - to my absolute groaning horror - that the football's on. And they're all going my way.

I last five minutes in a hot carriage with fat, sweaty, drunk, chanting, slurring, B.O stinking, rancid, noisy football supporters "OFF TO WEM-BER-LEEEY, WEM-BER-LEEEYY", before I have to get off and spend a few minutes gagging on the next available platform.

It took an hour and a half, one bus journey, three tubes (one aborted), and a walk: but I was finally home. I'd managed to not throw up, but bloody hell; I'd just completed my very own version of the Flora London vomathon.

I got into bed and summoned the energy to text Ben.

Made it home. Died a little bit on the way. Night.


This money saving thing is going to kill me.