There are types of hangover we all go through, each associated in the main part with the alcoholic beverage we have consumed in the most part the night before. Or the day before. Or the entire week before. Depends on your level of commitment, really.
The wine hangover brings with it a dull, irritating headache – ever-present and not the sort of thing that lends itself to any air of flightiness or the ability to move much. At least in the morning. But it’s tinged with hope – and with the air of class that comes from getting rat arsed on something a step or two up from meths.
There’s the beer hangover, which brings with it the intense feeling you are about to die from a headache. It is a dirty, filthy, horrible hangover that seems to know exactly what to do to you to make it a bad follow up day to the drinking. Mainly: make your head hurt and, as a result of your head hurting, make you not be able to sleep.
And, in my experience, there’s the vodka hangover. This, if managed well enough the previous day – water consumption before bed and a chicken product to aid with its magical curative properties – can be the best of the hangovers. It can allow you to be sprightly and active the next day, barely even recognising the fact you drank enough to kill twelve children. But it teeters on the brink, and one drink too many plunges you into the absolute worst of the hangovers: nausea, sleeplessness, headache, loss of appetite, need to eat everything anyway, more nausea and a profound melancholy.
Well, I thought it was the worst of the hangovers. Then I tried to combine all of the above elements last night and discovered a new plane of hangovertitude. And I still feel like I’m suffering now. I couldn’t even focus on Match Of The Day because it was making me feel sick by moving too much. My reactions are so dulled I’m fucking bollocks at pinball. I should not have drank all of those things.
It’s a hangover so bad I’m considering dropping the whole drinking thing. And that’s something I’ve never considered before. Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
I think we should instigate a new rule when it comes to going out in Bournemouth – or anywhere, for that matter. This new rule is “do not listen to Ian’s suggestions”.
If we begin to follow this one simple rule we will be able to avoid many of the situations we find ourselves in that seem to drain most of our money away. Admittedly we will also miss out on many of the fun adventures – and anti-fun non-adventures, like going to the ex-strip club, now late-night drinks emporium/absolute shithole (with a thin layer of grease covering everything) – but it will be for the best.
After all, I am old and have a job and should be respectable now. I should not be living for the weekend.. well, Friday, as I can’t do two nights running as I am weak. I should not be encouraging people to do things they shouldn’t be doing because it amuses me. Regardless of being brilliant at blackjack and winning money last night, I really shouldn’t be constantly demanding we go to the casino at 4am. I shouldn’t be communicating with people solely through the medium of shouting JAEGERBOMB at them. I shouldn’t…
Ah, this is all bollocks. It’s base, stupid, expensive and pathetic, but I like doing it so I’m going to carry on. Ignore the do not listen to Ian rule. Change it to an ‘always listen to Ian’ one and you’re done. I still maintain I’m not going out again this month though.
Well that was a shit blog.
I went through a period where I drank alcohol a lot of the time, as a social thing, with friends, to have fun, whatever. It was called “university” and then “the few years after uni when I had no idea what the fucking hell I was supposed to do with myself”. They were good days, but I don’t find myself drinking anywhere near as much as I used to. This is, obviously, a good thing, as booze is generally shit in all regards.
Well, sometimes it gives you a shitty hangover, but otherwise it’s awesome. Clearly.
Anyway, partway through this whole university thing I, along with a couple of friends in the shape of then-housemates Ben and Damo, decided to try something a bit harsher. A bit more trampy. So, armed with our new purchases we went to one of the most well-known vagrant hang-out spots in Preston, sat on the piss-stained bench and began the experiment.
I could not drink more than a quarter of a can of Special Brew.
I have quaffed near-entire bottles of vodka straight, I have tried the foulest and most fiery of spirits (though I never would go near that shit with the cobra in it that Rhyds had) and I have always had room for a bit more, even if I hated them. But this was something different. Something special, I suppose. Or at least just a special kind of horrible.
Safe to say, I got a massive headache from my quarter-can and had to go home to have a lie down. The other two schmucks had to go to work for the evening, which must have been fun for them*. But hey, at least I know I could never really be a tramp.
*I think it was. They probably carried on drinking. Bastards.
Mad Men is a bad influence on me, as I find myself wanting to do most of the things they do on the show. Namely, being sexist/racist, smoking a hell of a lot and – most importantly – drinking at work. Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we were able to drink ourselves into a (working) stupor at a steady pace through the day?
One time, many years ago when I worked somewhere that will remain nameless (it’s not hard to figure out where), I visited the pub with a colleague in our dinner hour. As we were only realistically left with 40 minutes at the pub including time to get from and back to work, we drank quickly. Then we realised we had drank too quickly, so we had another. And another. And a double order. And a couple for the road.
Basically, in about 40 minutes – probably a bit more – we managed to get a suitable buzz on. I had ended up drunk at work by accident. And it was the best afternoon ever. Not because I was the most productive drunk, that I was friendly, outspoken and all in all the life of the party, but because I spent the entire afternoon on MySpace, in plain view of everyone.
Being drunk at work would be awesome not because it would make me better at my job in any way. Being drunk at work would be awesome because it would stop me from caring as much. Which is clearly the best way to be, right? Less care, less fret. Also: more booze.
Booze is great, but I’ve found myself not drinking nearly as much as I used to. I’m saying this like it’s a bad thing when it’s clearly nothing but great and healthy and all that shite. Though it does mean I’m not as sociable as I once tried and failed to be.
Alright, so that’s a lie – I didn’t try.
I barely make orders on TheDrinkShop.com anymore, which must have them worried as I’m sure I was their best customer (who was on the dole at the same time) just the other year. But some things just aren’t the same.
I still love Zubrowka, but it just doesn’t have the magic anymore. And as for pressed apple juice (the only thing to drink with it)? That shit seems to get more expensive every sodding day. I’ll have to try some of Lidl’s finest in it one day.
Beer is still just as great as beer has always been, but I want an Oddbins nearby with a crate of 24 bottles of Quilmes for £16, like back in Leeds. The every-few-weekly trips to Headingly with Jack for a crate each were the stuff of LAD legend. Even though there’s a wider selection of beers and ales in Waitrose, it just doesn’t feel right. And beer is a bit too expensive from the aforementioned TheDrinkShop.com (seriously, I don’t work for them).
Wine? Pick it up on the day/night. £5 tops. Gone within an hour or two. Some shit never changes.
But the one thing I honestly think has put me off drinking as much – ordering from The Drink Shop (dot com) – is this: Sailor Jerry’s. They changed the recipe months ago, and it went from being a delicious beverage I was introduced to by Kat and Rich to an awful, bland, pointless stain on the boozing community. And I blame Kat and Rich.
The day they changed that recipe is the day my enthusiasm died, and it’s not yet managed to recover. I’ve been hunting for anyone with remaining stocks and asking advice on similar-tasting rums, but no dice as of yet. I have a quarter of a bottle of the old recipe sitting in the kitchen, and I doubt it’s going to get touched for at least a few years.
Maybe I can finally develop a taste for scotch…
So not only does a power cut stop me from doing last night’s blog, Word being an utter prick tries to stop me from doing today’s by letting me write it out then deleting it? Wow, thanks world. Fuck you too. Hence, this is a rehash of something I’ve just written, and as such isn’t as passionate about being hilarious as it was before.
I’m going to a stag do tomorrow* for the first time in my long, fat life. The details aren’t important – who, what, why, where, when and how can take a running jump for all I care. All that matters is the fact that even with my lack of experience I am still a lean, mean, fat-reducing grilling machine/stag do man. This is owing to the fact I have researched many stag parties over the years, with my main bodies of research conducted in Liverpool, Bournemouth and Riga, Latvia. I can tell you for a big fat fact that these are some of the finest places around to pick up some ‘stagging’ technique. See my plan for tomorrow:
- We will wear wacky, zany and outright crazy items of clothing that make us completely unique and individual (bought from a shop). These will indicate that we are indeed out for a good time and are not the usual plebs who go to pubs. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out)
- The groom-to-be will end up dead. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though not necessarily with a groom-to-be. A bride-to-be, for example, is even funnier)
- We will be as obnoxious and aggressive as possible to anyone who isn’t a part of our group, as is traditional for British stag parties. After all, we don’t want to break with tradition. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though only applying to traditional tradition, not stag-tradition)
- We will get into fights within our group once everyone else we have alienated and insulted leaves or runs away. After all, what says ‘fun’ more than punching each other in the face? (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, because everyone needs to punch their alleged friend in the face at some point, right?)
- We will end up in a strip club, where I will feel uncomfortable and want to leave. After all, gawking at trafficked-in Eastern European girls is a good pointer on how to rock the stag night party! (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, especially when you’re on your own. Going on your own makes you even cooler)
- We will drink so much our hearts explode, or something, because drinking is really big and cool. Anyone in the group who uses the tenuous excuse of “I can decide whether or not I drink as I am my own person and simple peer pressure is not something I cave to. I also resent the accusation that I am incapable of having fun without having booze in my system. It’s an immature viewpoint held by a lot of people and is a sign of the shocking state of British culture today” can just balls off. As they’re clearly pansies. (Note: can be applied to normal nights out, though probably with less “COME ONNNN, IT’S A SPECIAL OCCASSION!” to try and make non-drinkers drink)
That’s about it, as far as I’m concerned. If I die tomorrow, it was Anna’s fault. Even if she’s not going to be there – that’s just coincidence.
*Meaning you’re unlikely to see a new blog until Sunday. I’M SORRY, OKAY?
It would appear I forgot to do an update yesterday. A combination of drinking and arguing with Anna as to which of us had to phone the pizza place was certainly to blame. I can only apologise, and promise you a double update today. Starting with this one. YEAH.
I am currently moving flat. It’s a difficult situation, as everyone who has ever moved house will know. But this is made easier by the fact that I only have to drag my tons (and tons) of shite downstairs to my new abode. It is a self-contained flat in the same house I currently live in. It costs more, but I’m willing to take that hit on my finances for somewhere I don’t have to share a kitchen and bathroom with housemates I do not like being around.
I’ve ranted about them before with the door-slamming and pettiness, but some of that has actually changed. The one most responsible for door-slamming was kicked out by the landlord – probably for door-slamming – and it’s actually his room/flatlet/bedsit I’m moving into.
Yes, folks: I am moving into what could very easily be described as a bedsit. I am one of those grotty scrotes who lives in a shithole because it’s all he can afford (even though we all know that with a bit of effort and patience it’s quite easy to find somewhere nice to live, even when you don’t have much money to spend). I am also, according to Anna, like James Herriot. I think he lived in a bedsit at one point in his made up life. So yes, I have turned into a vet on a twee television show that I used to watch as a child.
Right. Back to lugging things around. Again, apologies for yesterday’s lack of update. There will be a second one later today, quite probably a review of Clash of the Titans 3D: Titans Will Clash in Three Dimensions. Can’t wait.