Not even the baby noticed their b.o.
I’ll take an educated (sober) guess – most of us like a drink. Perhaps a nice glass of red wine with your meal in the week, but especially at the weekend. If you’re lucky enough to have a full-time job, a release is required at this time. Some can attain this release through spiritualism and outdoor pursuits, some can … get pissed.
The key point is ‘release’ though. Alcohol gives you a high, a de-pressurising high; like slowly deflating a balloon after a week’s wheezing and puffing in the office. Great fun…
At the time.
But before we examine the inevitable after-effects after a night on the loopy juice, what about this scenario, that I’m sure we’ve all been privy to: being the only sober person out?
I’ve been a designated driver before. I’ve also driven to the pub to meet people briefly having been broken from events past and unable to subsist around other humans for anything longer than an hour. And I’ll tell you this – it’s weirdly liberating and liberatingly weird. You turn up, fresh as a daisy, but the people surrounding you are on an entirely different plane. Attempting to talk to someone under the influence is like trying to communicate with someone the other side of the country using only a pair of scissors, a beer mat and a pigeon corpse. Or perhaps Skype, when your PC’s switched off. Speech is louder, personal space no longer exists, sentences are broken and mostly incomprehensible, likely to go off in all directions, topics, maybe even languages.
But of course, when you’re also ‘on the sauce’, there’s nothing odd at all, not a soupçon out of the ordinary. It’s as if you’ve all contracted a virus and mutated into staggering inebriated zombies. It’d make quite a good zombie film actually: 28 Shots Later.
Oh, and have you tried texting drunk? Or reading a text? The experience resembles this:
However, as we waddle around babbling and gurgling to each other, blissfully unaware of anything occurring around us, there is one danger that can snap us out of our comaboozed state – The Chunder.
Unless you’re a masochist and actually enjoy vomiting, the prospect of, or having someone near you, chucking up, is a matter of life and death. If someone looks like they’re about to blow, it can easily clear an area quicker than Peter Stringfellow entering a steam room without a towel. It doesn’t just work for us though:
I may write to the Home Secretary actually – a high concept crime prevention proposal – The Chunder Cops. The Chunder Cops would be a tactical unit sent into any areas of disarray, shortly beforehand drinking salt water and oysters. With the re-introduction of their gastric contents to the offending masses clearly evident by the expressions on the cops’ faces, the crowd would swiftly subside and go about their business.
But let’s get down to the real offender here – the hangover.
Yes, you’ve seen the film, and possibly thrown up on the t-shirt, but the experience itself is darker than what the (admittedly sensationalised but hilarious) films have shown us.
If you’re anything like me, you don’t just wake up after a heavy session and think ‘oh, my head hurts. Well, time for breakfast.’ No no no, it’s worse than that. If you’re an anxiety addict, a terminally worrying tremourbot, the hangover is ten times worse. Psychologically anyway. If I’ve had a heavy session, albeit a condensed, concentrated one over a few hours (I prefer afternoon jaunts with well-paced real ale sippings), my hangover routine plays out thus:
- Where am I?
- What did I say/do last night?
- Who did I speak to?
- About what?
- Was I being silly?
- Was I too loud?
But questioning yourself hung over is like questioning a puppy in an interrogation room: it won’t answer you back, it’ll just paw at your face drooling, occasionally barking, and the room you’re in appears deathly quiet and uncomfortable.
Then, unfortunately, horrifically, and unprompted, you do start to get answers off people. ‘Hey, Dan, why were you charging at so-and-so like a bull?’ Ouch! Your mind is being pelted with sharp pieces of a jigsaw you truly don’t want to piece together. And let’s not forget the terrifying chill that runs down your spine when you get ‘tagged’ in a Facebook photo from the night before. Brrrrr. Ignorance is bliss as far as I’m concerned. Any night you can walk away from is a successful one.
Of course, all these fears and anxieties are always unfounded. Nights out on the pop are great fun and enjoyable as long as you know your limits. With me it’s around 6-8 pints. I don’t do shots.
But that jigsaw is always there, peeping at me. Peeping at us all. And it only has one weakness.
Abstinence.
I’ll drink to that.
dantandy 