So, I had a few drinks on Sunday. I’m neither teetotal nor a raging alcoholic; I have been both in the past but that’s neither here nor there. I usually most enjoy a drink, over Radio Four, at the end of a long, hard day spent getting up at three and writing till midnight. But on Sunday, I had what might be defined as One Too Many. I remember sipping red wine at ten, dancing to Paramore, swigging blue Wicked at twelve, moving onto vodka and coke by one. The very last thing I have any recollection of is a young lady handing me a bottle-cap full of vodka. “Vodka shots?” I probably declared in my loud, drunk voice, “I can’t see why n-”
Then it all goes black.
I know I arrived back in bed around half seven on Monday morning. I know I slept in my shoes. I know I woke up to my consort elbowing me in the head. And all I remember from the rest of Monday is agony. I sat up in bed and left my eyeballs lying on the pillow, stretching the tendons from my eyes to the point where I became convinced could actually hear them playing Duelling Banjos whenever I moved too quickly. I stared at a pizza crust for three hours as my stomach tried to crawl up my throat and punch me in the face. My liver hurt. MY LIVER HURT. Life was unbearably, crushingly, suicidally awful for a few hours. And, my God, did I milk it.
And that’s the thing about hangovers-you deserve no sympathy for having one. You know what drinking does to you; no-one makes out drinking leads you to a spritely leap out of bed at half eight to choirs of angels strumming harps of magic pearls. You know damn well you’re risking a self-inflicted kicking every time you get pissed. And it’s for that reason that you most want sympathy; not only did you make a silly, easily avoidable mistake last night, but also your head hurts and you want to eat aspirin like they’re magic beans that’ll sprout beanstalks in your insides to absorb the pain of it all. And crisps. Lots of crisps. Always crisps.