So as far as hangovers go this one has been a real gem. I wouldn’t say it’s been top ten, but right now at 6pm it’s still there lingering like a bad smell.
So as far as hangovers go this one has been a real gem. I wouldn’t say it’s been top ten, but right now at 6pm it’s still there lingering like a bad smell. I’ve tried (and failed) to count the number of units I consumed so gleefully last night. I think it was 3am before I passed out in bed blissfully unaware of the pain that awaited me when I awoke. Actually scrap that, I was still drunk when I woke up. It was actually several hours later when it finally dawned on me how well and truly hung over I was. Ever since that delightful little epiphany I’ve been feeling decidedly ropey.
There are many different brands of hangover but I do feel this one, the creeping kind, is one of the worst. Just when you think you’ve dodged the bullet, it sneaks up and taps you on the shoulder and says, “Oh no no no, you you aren’t going anywhere sunshine! It’s time for you to sit down and take this like a man!”
The simple fact is what goes up, must come down. And after all those Jagerbombs last night, you my friend are most definitely coming down with a thud.
It’s not the splitting headache that gets me though. Or even the sense of nausea threatening to engulf you at any moment. For me, the worst thing about this kind of hangover is the sheer unpredictability of it all. What I mean is, things can go from good to bad frighteningly quickly.
Take a trip to the supermarket for example. You pick up your essentials and make a swift move towards the checkout, happy in the knowledge you have remembered your wallet but you haven’t run into anyone you know. Then on reaching the checkout you make the bizarre decision to have some half arsed attempt at banter with the checkout person. Is this ringing any bells people? I think we’ve all been there no? He or she asks you how you are and for some reason instead of offering a polite, “Fine thanks”, you opt instead for something hideously elaborate like…. “Well I tell you what… I’ve definitely felt better… I can barely remember going to bed last night… I think I’m still drunk!”
The look the checkout person gives you is definitely not an understanding one. Instead it’s a unique combination of confusion and disdain which speaks a thousand words… “SO WHAT if you had ten Jagerbombs last night, no one cares!!! Why the hell are you subjecting me to this bullshit whilst I stand helpless and stranded behind this till?!”
You begin to wonder why on earth you ever thought it was a good idea to open your mouth. This person has barely said a word to you but you know they hate you. Things have most definitely gone from good to dire in a few short seconds. However, instead of seeing the error of your ways you fill the awkward silence with more pricelessly awful chat like, “Are you working all day then?” Comments like this confirm you have entered the conversational equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. So why stop there? If there’s time you may as well bring up the surprisingly high price of bread no?? Thankfully the checkout person stops you in your tracks by mercifully offering you your change. The awkward artificial smile they give you silently reminds to please never come again.
Thankfully though, the hideously awkward situation I have just described is a transactional scenario. As ugly as it gets, when the transaction is complete you simply pull the rip chord and get the hell out of there before you ruin anyone else’s day. The same cannot be said for dinner party scenarios. To be honest, if you do have the awful creeping kind of hangover I’ve described in this article, I actively advise you to stay well clear of any round the table social gatherings. Unleashing your ill thought out terrible chat in Tesco is one thing—doing it in someone’s house is another thing altogether.
But we all do it though don’t we! Almost gleefully we stick two fingers up at our creepy hangover and jump into our glad rags again before heading out the door clutching a bottle of red wine. What you don’t realise is that hangover will be reverse wing manning you tonight and landing you in all kinds of unforeseen trouble. You may as well save him a seat next to you at the dinner table but you can’t because the seating plan has already been laid out. And I guarantee the person placed next to you will be your polar opposite, someone you would NEVER talk to in a day to day scenario.
Instead of opting for safe chat about how cold it is outside, your red wine soaked brain decides to take the kamikaze route and brings up last night again. Long gone are the memories of the checkout girl in Tesco and her lack of compassion, this person will understand, you think to yourself. They don’t though—they clearly got an early night last night and stayed well clear of any Jagerbomb related shenanigans.
But you carry on regardless, and strangely you start to become a spectator to your own awful banter as word after terrible word come out of your mouth. You fill every unforgiving minute with another sixty seconds of verbal diarrhoea as the person next to you wonders what they’ve ever done to deserve this. Sure enough, soon you see the error of your ways but it’s too late by then, this person hates you even more than the checkout girl did.
As this hasn’t been a transactional scenario, you’ve probably just spent upwards of half an hour spouting about three tenths of fuck all. If they had a distress flare they’d be sending it up right about now, but instead they politely excuse themselves for a toilet break and never return, leaving you and your wingman to fight it out over who pays for the much needed taxi home.