Bottle

I would think at this stage of my life as a bit of a drinker there would be very little to surprise me in the way of a hangover. Headaches. Had them. Nausea? Not a bother. Inability to talk? Some people think I’m at my best in this condition.

Then why is that one recent occasion I suffered more than I have ever suffered in my life? Its not because I drank more than usual. Or because I drank something exotic and out of the ordinary. It was a relatively normal late night where I had couple of beers followed perhaps with one or two whiskey chasers.

Frankly, it was a gentle night.

The next day however was Hell. I woke up fairly fine. A bit groggy…but these things have to be expected. I showered and dressed as usual without any ill effects. It was as I was on my way to lunch with a friend that it started to hit me.

First was the issue with the Sun. Did it really have to be so bright. I hate to sound ungrateful but given that its graces us with its presence on such rare occasions was it to much to ask that scoot off back behind the grey clouds were he usually resides.

Any other time I would happily bask in its solar glory. However today my eyes were offended by its very existence and my head did not appreciate it sending down all that heat into my cranium.

It was around then realised I was still very tired. Lifting my feet as I walked was a bit of a challenge. The shirt I was wearing decided that it wasn’t happy in the position that you would normally associate with shirts. No, not your normal, arms in sleeves, buttons at the front for this shirt.

This shirt decided it wanted to be a scarf. No matter how I adjusted it, tugged at the seams, opened and closed the buttons or flicked the collar, this shirt wanted to be wrapped tightly around my neck cutting off my air supply like a boa constrictor with a South American school boy that has wandered too far from his school trip.

The next question to addressed is why I had decided to wear dress shoes. The answer is probably because they would look good with the shirt. It certainly wasn’t for comfort as my painful 20 minute to the walk the coffee shop could attest to.

No I was not dressed appropriately to be this hung over. When I’m suffering the effects of alcohol I prefer to keep it sartorially simple. Naked or very loose at most. This was neither of those. I wasn’t going to be defeated by it however. I could go and change as soon I’d eaten.

The next issue was not far away unfortunately. The friend who I was dining with is a delightful person. She is good natured , funny and good company. This day however it was The Care Bears themselves had rode down from the heavens on rays of sunshine in order to dispense to her an over dose of happy pills.

Anyone who has ever shared a house with, worked with or generally seen me can verify that I am not a morning person. I have in the past been accused of being grumpy. Its been known of me to threaten physical harm to those who aren’t accustomed to my easing into the day. I have tried to alter this reputation and like to think I’m a much nicer person these days. But its like Chris Rock said when talking about Siegfried and Roy’s tiger who attacked one of them. “The tiger didn’t go crazy. The tiger went tiger.”

My natural grouchiness plus a hangover plus my companions sunny dispo-fucking-sition does not equal a good time for all. The grumpier I got the perkier she got in an effort to give me a boost. All I wanted to do was sit there and replenish my body with buckets of Pepsi. She wanted to ‘talk.’ What kind of sadist wants to talk at 1pm on a Sunday.

I played with my cutlery as she waffled on about lollipops and rainbows or whatever the hell she was talking about. I looked down at the knife. It would take too long to cut my wrists with that blunt blade. There was nothing else for it. I would have to stab her in the eye with fork.

Oh come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasised about impaling your friends with eating utensils when hung over.

At least when the meal arrived I’d be able to concentrate on that. Food would be my saviour, right? So very wrong. I felt that I needed something greasy and stodgy to make me feel somewhat normal. Steak Sandwich and chips please. As I saw the waitress approach with my order its almost as if I could hear the Hosannas and Hallelujahs. That was until she put it in front of me.

The food itself was fine. I’m not here to besmirch the reputation of Rita’s Café. It was cooked well, the ingredients were fresh and it looked like a steak sandwich should. The smell, however, emanating from the meat and mushroom filled baguette was not something that my stomach was quite prepared for. First it danced a reel, then a jig and then I’m not sure but I think it may have finished off with the Macarena.

I won’t go into details but let us just assume that time has passed and I spent ten minutes or so in the bathroom doing what Nadine from Girls Aloud swears she doesn’t do.

So I returned to the table and my still bouncy buddy. Taking my seat, I looked down at my food congealing. It would be a real shame to waste it. I have to pay for it anyway. So for the next forty minutes or so painfully masticating a steak sandwich while trying to have a conversation with the ridiculously happy bastard child of Barney and Rachel Ray.

When the food was done and the bill was paid I said goodbye to my friend (Who is genuinely lovely…I may have exaggerated slightly for dramatic effect) and went home to change my clothes. I have to be honest, I wanted to just strip off and lie on my bed as natural as the day I was born. Sadly, on this particular day, I had another appointment.

It was fates cruel sense of humour that had done it. My life had been too easy up until now and it was time to make up for just breezing through life. I had promised I would attend a gathering and not amount of whining about being a little hung over would justify not going.

A quick change into jeans, trainers and my ‘Clearly I Have Made Some Bad Decisions’ tee shirt and I was off again. I would be attending a birthday party. Not just any birthday party you understand. A two year old’s birthday party. Surrounded by noisy children singing and screaming, balloons bursting and babies crying. Dante must have forgot about that level in his inferno.

Generally I would have called up, told some sort of audacious lie that no one actually believes but everyone is too nice to call me on. However , on this occasion I couldn’t. Besides the fact Cathals Mammy makes some pretty amazing cakes, the two year old in question was my good buddy Cathal. It was Cathal’s second birthday but it was actually his first birthday party. For his first birthday he had been in Our Lady’s Hospital having an operation on his heart.

He really is a brave little guy and you should definitely read his blog. Its much better than mine and he doesn’t whinge like a baby just because he over indulged on exorbitantly priced eastern European lagers. He might only be two but that kid can drink.

Before I go I think its important to say that I have learned something from this and a more recent mixing of hangovers and young children. I really need to avoid kids when i'm a little worse for wear.