Oh god. Puking while driving.

That brings back an awful memory.

I went to a flying-club meeting several years back. Consumed
a couple donuts then realized I felt rather poorly. Very poorly
indeed.

Got in the car, and made it about two miles down the country road
before I realized that something was going to erupt--- NOW.

Pulled over, and actually go the door open before I chunderspewed
on the ground, on the door, on my trousers, and unfortunately,
on the dashboard of my beloved AUDI S4.

Now, the S4 has very stylish fine screens over its dashboard
and door stereo speakers. It was quite the job to get the bits
out of there next day--- but I get ahead of myself.

So there I was, by the side of the road, with vomit down
the front of my trousers, wondering what to do about getting
myself home. I knew I could drive, but the 'bung' I was
giving off was not pleasant.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I stepped behind the car, took off the soiled trousers, and tossed
them into the boot, where a 'Weather-Tek' liner could come to no
harm.

Jumped into the driver's seat and all the 15 miles home prayed
that a) I'd keep my few remaining cookies down and b) No officer
of the law would find reason to pull my over and find me driving
home in me Y-fronts (aka 'tighty whities').

Got back to the farm where I was at the time renting a loft over
the garage and ran out and upstairs before my landlady or her
daughter could spot me.

Spent the next day or so groaning in the bed.

There was something ignominious about hurling in the car when I can
fly upside down and squiggly in an airplane and never bat an eye
in situations which would make others toss up their toenails.

Just remembered the rest of that Bernard Wrigley verse:

"Last night outside the Chinese chippy I shouted out for Huey
I'd had me share of pints of ale and curried pork chop suey
But as I lay there in the gutter, I was glad I wore me Mac
Because when I shouted out for Huey, someone answered back!"