The intensity of the hangover was astounding. I crawled from my bunk knowing I was going to chuck. No time for niceties, I covered my mouth with a hand and headed for the ladder. The route to the nearest head took me through the junior rates dining area, but no-one batted an eyelid as my naked torso appeared above deck level. It was nothing unusual to see an almost naked sailor en-route to bathroom or head. I’d slept in my boxers as usual, so modesty was preserved.

Stepping over the combing, the smell of cooking breakfast had a disastrous effect and I broke into a shambling run. Flip-flops, the preferred messdeck footwear when not on duty, were never designed for running and I lost one of mine before I’d made 10 yards. The other was left somewhere near the bathroom flat as I’d loped my stumbling way as quickly as possible aft.

Flinging my body down the ladder to the head, I bowled Yosser Hughes over and was reminded that my parents must have had me out of wedlock: the insult didn’t matter because by now my cheeks were bulging, my throat was full and there were twin jets of vomit squirting from my nose. I dived into a vacant trap and just released.

Even my recent sea sickness didn’t compare to this. Like Magnus Magnusson, I’d started and I was damn well going to finish; I just didn’t know when that might be!

I’ve no idea how long I lay sprawled there, prostrate on the cold steel deck, face over the stainless steel crapper. Time passed and as it did I just kept on chucking. Eventually there was nothing left inside, but that didn’t stop the automatic reaction; the constant clenching of stomach muscles left me weak and I felt even more death-like as time passed.

I knew I needed to move my ass and get myself cleaned up so I crawled, literally on hands and knees, into an adjacent bathroom. Having brought nothing with me, I simply dropped my skivvies and hunched into a cubicle with the water jetting over me and after a while I began to revive.

Back in the mess I collected my things together and headed for the bathroom a second time to take care of my morning ablutions. Having only managed to locate one of the flip-flips on my journey back from the bathroom first time around, I kept as sharp an eye open as I could for the other. No luck, I’d have to get a new pair.

The simple act of cleaning my teeth made me sick again and I became aware that I was hurting considerably. My ribcage was sore, my stomach muscles were very sore and my throat felt as though someone had had poured broken glass down it.

The morning muster was just finishing when I arrived in the EMR and I got a bollocking for my tardiness. Chief Llewellyn didn’t report me though, so the damage wasn’t too bad and I stood as erect as I could manage to accept my reprimand.

“Look at the state of you, you’re a mess! Don’t you ever turn to in that condition again; now get out of my sight.”

In the two and a half hours since the QM had piped ‘Call the Hands’ all I’d managed was getting dressed and turning to. Dehydration had set in to add misery to my still churning gut and banging head. I sipped water from the cooler fountain before descending to my work place.

The HF room was empty when I got there and Bud Abbott found me slumped on the desk when he came in a short while later. Taking one look at me Bud smiled and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea, which he thrust in my direction, “Get this inside you, you look as though you need it!”

Sipping gratefully at the tea, I remained silent. Then, when I’d drunk about half the contents of the mug I knew I was going to chuck again. The weather deck was nearer than a head, so I made for the open air and offered yet another technicoloured yawn to the world.

Retching for a few minutes I was surprised to see blood in my outpourings. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Back in the HF room, Bud asked me if I was okay. I told him what had just happened and he suggested a visit to the M.O. It made sense, so I went.

The orderly took my details and made notes of my visit, then took me in to see the Doc. “This man’s been sick sir, blood present.”

“Blood, eh? How much blood? What colour was it?”

“Red sir,” I answered wondering what colour he’d expected me to say. “Not much, just in with the vomit.”

“Better to be safe than sorry I suppose. Alright, drop your trousers and let’s have a look. Turn round and bend over here. Spread your buttocks for me.”

Now I might have been in a pretty bad state, but even as hung-over as I was I still knew that I’d vomited from my mouth: why did the Doc want me to spread my ass cheeks and bend over his table? Oh God!

For the first time in my life I was being anally examined and I really didn’t like it. I’d always said live and let live, but if this was an indication of how it felt to have homosexual sex, you could stick it! Doc did stick it, and he wriggled it about, then thankfully he removed it.

“Get up onto the bed, turn onto your right side and tuck your knees up under your chin.”

I felt particularly vulnerable when Doc approached me a second time. His digit violated my little puckered hole again and once more it felt as if he wriggled it about and revolved it before removing it: I was starting to feel like the woodpecker in the rugby song!

“Alright, you can get up now. Had you been sick before this morning? Yes? Well why the bloody hell didn’t you say so! Do you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than stick my finger up your ass? Bloody Hell!”

The repeated sickness had torn my throat-lining and the blood came from that it seemed, nothing else. The rectal exam had been to see if there were traces of blood internally, which could have pointed towards a possible ulcer.

I left Sick Bay with the cheeks of my bum firmly clenched together and a new wiggle in my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Doc had enjoyed his morning foray, the SBA certainly seemed to have enjoyed observing judging by the smile on his face and lump in his pants as I left...