Hanging Out
Hangovers would be just awful if they did not have so many redeeming features. If it was not for the perks, waking up in the morning feeling genuinely physically diseased would almost be enough to turn you off drinking. Forever. Thankfully though, there is a great deal more to hangovers than the throbbing vomity terribleness and feelings of dejection. Symptoms sometimes include early morning drunkenness. This involves waking up at five in the morning and being incredibly drunk.
Despite your body gasping for more sleep whilst your brain desperately tries to displace the painstaking memories of the night before, it is somehow impossible to resume unconsciousness. What is remarkable the sprightliness and slightly dyspraxic enthusiasm suffers sometimes have for cooking elaborate meals. Or the indefatigable optimism that they are fully functioning, and just “getting up early”.
A reversion to this child-like eagerness provokes a bittersweet sense of nostalgia for the time before we all became so apathetic. Speaking of postmodern sophistication, university hangovers are undoubtedly more refined than school or sixthform ones.
You no longer wake up with the thrill or horror of your recently discarded virginity, or a momentary dabble in some pseudo-bisexuality (that only involved sucking your mate’s gob but will cement an explicit contract of homophobic abuse, just for you, right up until valediction). These things are not only passé, they are alarmingly juvenile.
At Oxford University, you know that the social mores would ultimately protect you from having to confront any such drunken shame or debauchery the next morning. We are all intellectuals. So, basically, no one has sex. Thus no matter how many pints of vodka you consumed, you are not going to wake up with a warm bundle of naked impropriety lying next to you in the morning. One less thing to worry about as you snort your line of Alka Seltzer.
That is not to say you are not going to thoroughly humiliate yourself. Or completely alienate your close friends. Or indeed both. Sometimes, in spite of burying your head far under the quilt, the nagging sense of guilt does not go away. Text message reads: “Dear friend, I’m so sorry that I acted like such a twat last night. I honestly didn’t mean to smear my kebab over your white shirt and then try to grab hold of your girlfriend’s tits.” The funny thing is, it will not send.
Hilarious in fact! Why in the world would you, of all the drunk-cum-sickly people, have no credit on your phone? A brief examination of your recent calls list at this point could irrevocably destroy your life as you know it. Never, ever drink and dial. And for the sad wankers who religiously manage to check their email before they pass out, there is the ultimate challenge to any budding romance/existing friendship/general correspondence: the drunken email.
What becomes all too clear to hangover sufferers at this point is quite how hideously inappropriate it was to tell that person that you really love them. Or that you think they have nice teeth. Or that you always used to think that they were really ugly, but they have actually been looking attractive recently. And of course, hangover days naturally equate unequivocal mingingness.
Sweated alcohol leaking out from the facial pores; shrunken, gammy eyes; and flaky greying skin are all fabulous in a morbidly fascinating way, but god forbid you bump into anyone you fancy on a hangover day. Unless you are trying to work the frail and waif-like look, to con your object of affection into nurturing you by appealing to some messed-up Freudian maternal/paternal instinct they might have.
But even in that case, the tracksuit bottoms and grandad jumper combo might well hinder the efficacy of the mother me plea, so be very careful. Best to stay within the confines of your room, steaming your face and conducting an intensive rehydration programme. Hangover days are also an apt time for you to reflect upon all the disastrously mixed up psychological matter that might be lurking around in your mind.
The philosophical debate over ‘is that what I really feel when the barriers are down, or was that just me chemically altered?’ is an important mental climbing-frame to play on as you wonder why you cried so sorely when the bar ran out of lime cordial.
Similarly, is Catholic indoctrination at a young age socially disabling, or were your motor skills simply a little delayed when you decided to throw red wine over the fittie at the party and then chase him around all night calling him the messiah? However, there are some who would find this hyperbolic, bellyaching all rather softcore and unnecessarily indulgent. Waking up on a hangover and immediately smoking some rough-cut tobacco can really seal the grotesque theme of the entire experience.
As can the old reliable lunchtime pint follow-up that takes your urea to soaring toxic levels. Yet, in a perverse way, there is something distinctly satisfying about these cloying, guilty acts. Binge drinking is a horrific process to subject your body to. So just do it in moderation.
25th May 2006