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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

This is a special retrospective post, written on Monday afternoon but attempting to channel the spirit of the Hangover (always spelt with a capital H, out of respect like) that invaded us all on Sunday.

Dear Lording Lord Almighty Lord. You know when you wake up from the night before, and you try to open your eyes but you can’t because you forgot to take off your makeup and they’re now glued together with old chunks of mascara?

And your bedroom floor is littered with clothes, more clothes than you were wearing which implies that for some reason when you got in the night before you took all the clothes out of your drawers and scattered them around your room?

And you bravely go to the bathroom, even though you’re so dehydrated you’re considering severing your own head just so you could completely soak it in some fluids because that seems quicker and more efficient than simply drinking?

And when you go back in to your bedroom, the room smells so strongly of alcohol-escaping-from-pores that you immediately want to throw up?

And you lie there unable to go back to sleep because the danger is, if you do, you might slip in to an alcohol coma that you’ll never wake up from?

And in your heart of hearts you’re hoping that will actually happen because that would mean being asleep again?

And then suddenly amid the fug of the Hangover there comes the tiniest glimmer of hope in the shape of a pang of hunger, for which there is only a two minute time limit, after which the nausea will return with friends and family to camp out in your stomach for the rest of the day, and you must run downstairs – RUN, RUN, FOR GOD’S SAKE RUN! – to make toast before the hunger disappears.

Yeah. That was just the first hour of Sunday morning. I lay in bed comparing notes with He Who Only… via the medium of text message about who was more destroyed through alcoholic ravages, and having an argument that was in danger of spilling over in to a serious falling out as to who should go to whose house to make tea. We compromised by meeting in a café up the road and sitting with our heads on the table, moving only to occasionally sip Fat Coke until the life saving sausage sandwiches arrived.

I’m never sure if it helps or hinders you if someone in your group has a worse hangover than you. I have NEVER seen anyone quite like Mrs Bishop on Sunday afternoon as I walked her to her train that would be leaving her at the airport to go back to Dublin. She had shakes, she had nausea, she had dizziness, she had weakness, she was basically ready to die at any moment. I swore then and there that I would never have a drop to drink ever again in my life ever.

Less than five hours later, I had a pint. Well, you know, what doesn’t kill you…


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