Member-only story
While recently seated beneath the learning tree of a colleague of mine I heard told the story of a former colleague who would regularly undertake a mission which — to my mind — was the perfect recipe for making oneself extremely and violently ill.
Gather round, make yourself comfortable — and have a glass of cold water close to hand.
What said former colleague would do, so the story went, was indulge in several pints of fizzy lager at the end of a working shift before boarding a bus to their house, upon which they would crack open their laptop and complete some work tasks on the journey home.
The mere telling of this story was enough to invoke massive feelings of nausea and send me staggering out the room and out into the open air for several dozen lungsful of delicious cold oxygen.
The fizzy lagers alone are almost enough to induce feelings of an urgent need to expel everything from my stomach, up to and including the beers themselves and anything else which preceded them, which is likely to be several flat whites and a surfeit of plateloads from a fusion buffet — the dream combination, I think you’ll find, to be released in a projectile fashion directly from the digestive tract.
Now, add in the bus journey. Admittedly, my frame of reference is about two decades outside of its…
