SOME hangovers don’t fade away by the end of Lorraine, or lunchtime, or even early evening. Here’s how they progress:
5.30am: Wake up feeling still drunk and like shit. Realise you’re fully clothed on the sofa. Down two paracetamol and a pint of water and head up to bed, confident they’ll do the trick.
9am: Wake up again still feeling like shit. Dizzy, aching head, stomach full of poison, dim memories of having made some bad choices on a WhatsApp group the previous night. Stomp downstairs and choke down two slices of dry toast to soak up the alcohol.
11am: Despite the gentle application of closed curtains, lying down, and Friends on Comedy Central, the hangover somehow seems to be gathering strength. Hands now shaking and acrid sweat pouring out. Consider hair of the dog but the thought makes you vomit.
1pm: Usually you feel better after a good puke. Not today. Instead it’s encouraged the hangover, which now seems confident it can win. Afraid to eat, move or sip water, you remain paralysed on the sofa, paranoid that the Chandler and Ross are talking about what a f**k-up you are.
3pm: Uber Eats delivers a bottle of Lucozade and a bag of Sainsbury’s Onion Rings, which are forced down your throat. Stomach still painful. Two more paracetamol bring the day’s total to six. An attempt to get some fresh air in the garden leaves you lying on the grass while an uncomfortable memory surfaces of you pissing out here last night.
6pm: The whole day is a write-off. The whole f**king day. No longer nauseous but unable to sleep, you choke down food in the hope that it’s hunger gnawing in your gut, not liver failure. Spend a morose evening head-in-hands muttering ‘Jesus bloody Christ’ before retiring to bed in defeat. The hangover has won.