Don't forget the Gaviscon.

At precisely 3.37AM on Saturday morning, the chicken vindaloo and five pints of lager that had been coexisting uneasily in Wayne Burkenshaw’s digestive tract, ended their truce and fell upon each other with unbridled ferocity.

Wayne, long since rendered insensible by the anesthetic properties of the lager, now awoke in alarm, emitting an unworldly raucous snort as the titanic clash between lager and vindaloo assaulted his chest with stiletto-sharp pains, while a deluge of curried bile engulfed his gullet. He sat up abruptly, sweating and palpitating, and overwhelmed by a violent bout of vindaloo hiccoughs

 “Sodding indigestion,” gasped Wayne, instinctively groping for the Gaviscon tablets, usually in residence on the bedside cabinet. They weren’t there.

He switched on the bedside lamp, truculently contemplated the Gaviscon-free cabinet, then remembered he’d put the tablets in his trouser pocket before leaving for the restaurant. He leaned down, fumbled for his trousers, concertinaed by the bed, and hastily explored the pockets. Not there, either.

 “Sod it,” said Wayne, now realising that on arriving home, he’d taken the tablets and his keys from his pocket, and left them on the coffee table. He left his bed, staggered along the landing, and flicking the light switch, discovered that the bulb had expired. He swore irritably, and still hiccoughing, started impatiently down the dark stairwell, tripped on the sleeping cat, and arms flailing desperately, descended head first to the sitting room.
                                                                 *
Wayne’s mate, Jason, alerted the police after Wayne failed to appear for three consecutive curry nights, and they found Wayne still clutching the pack of Gaviscon that he must have grasped involuntarily as he hit the coffee table.

 “Broken neck,” said the paramedic, “died instantly.”

“What a bloody pain,” said Jason, “the tight sod never paid me for his last curry.”