Wednesday, 3 February 2010


Yesterday was cancelled. I was a hungover wreck. There I was enjoying just one more little drink in the company of friends and the next thing I know it's morning, the light is shoving it's fingers in my eyes and the world's loudest and most annoying bagpipes are screaming their balls off in my head. It wasn't fair. No-one ever told me that drinking an excess of alcohol would have an effect on me the next day. I never would have touched the stuff if I'd known.

An entire day down the toilet. Again.

It took pretty much all my willpower to fall out of bed yesterday and even when I found myself on my equally hungover feet I went straight downstairs and collapsed on the sofa. I must have spent two hours just lying there waiting for the pain to go away. I did everything that I could to shift the hangover. Berocca, water, Solpadeine, The Office: An American Workplace. They all did their best but nothing was doing the trick. I even pretended that I didn't have a hangover for about 10 minutes. I got up, did some tidying up, looked through receipts and bank statements. Those 10 minutes were the worst 1000 years of my life.

Even food didn't help. I made a proper meal. Well, a proper meal if I was three people. So now I was in pain, physically drained and stuffed full. There wasn't a thing that I was feeling that wasn't making me sick. Then some vicious, unfeeling bastard knocked on my door. It was a delivery man with a parcel for my neighbour. All I had to do was open the door, sign for the parcel then give it to my neighbour when she got home. But how could I get all the way to the door unaided? It was impossible. I certainly couldn't get there using my legs. One of them was still asleep and the other was still drunk. Somehow I got to the door by lying flat on the ground and using my eyebrows to drag my corpse up the hallway. My hand kept screaming NO NO NO NO NO when I was making it open the door and while signing for the parcel I cried.

Where's my fucking charity record, Bono?

No-one cares about the hungover and their plight. We suffer through the day by shuffling around in a towelling robe in fear of our own breath. Our bodies are wrecked, our minds destroyed and our hair in agony but society has deemed us unworthy of pity. We deserve it more than most because we struggle through our suffering. There is always a point during your hangover when you have to just get a grip of yourself and get over it. I didn't want to yesterday but I had to. I bravely and without complaint decided it was time to start the day. It was about 5.30pm at this stage. A shower is a great hangover cure. It really wakes you up and re-focuses the mind. Especially if you end up accidentally scalding your penis like I did.

It still stings a bit, by the way. But people don't care about my penis. They just think "Well, you shouldn't have had so much to drink". How cuntishly unfeeling, unsympathetic and inhuman of you. Where's the helping hand when it is needed? Where are the arms of love when you're down on your luck? Where is the caring heart when you have lost hope? I bet Bono has never once thought of my penis.


Paul McIntyre said...

I heard Bono does think about your penis. It's what inspired him to write the track "Even better than the real thing".

Rubbish joke, sorry. Bored.

Jack Mantel said...

How about:

Rise Up (If you're lucky)
Elevation (Staying lucky)
Magnificent (If you're really lucky)
Hold me, Thrill me, Kiss me, Kill me (Maybe that's Tiernon getting his Blowy)
Numb (When your luck runs out)
The Fly (That's harsh)

Happiness is a Warm Gun (if we're counting b sides)