Hangovers are, by their very nature, bad.
One thing that makes them worse is the smug comment that we all hear (and make) of “You’re getting no sympathy from me, it’s self inflicted.”
You don’t tell people with lung cancer that.
What made today’s hangover worse was the knowledge that I’m getting old. I never used to get hangovers, or if I did I could get up and work through them, or even drink through them. I didn’t drink a huge amount last night, but I did mix my drinks a bit (wine, lager, tequila and sambuca).
This morning I woke up and wanted to actually die. My head wouldn’t stop throbbing no matter which angle I tried against the pillow. I had to get up to try and get water. I honestly think it used more effort that Ranolf Fiennes crossing the South Pole unaided (and moe useful – for all these people doing huge unadided expeditions – it seems odd that whenever they get in trouble they get helicpotered out – surely that’s assistance. If you really want do to an unaided walk then you should be left to die).
After two hours of this I got the definite feeling that I was going to be sick. This isn’t good. Not only because being sick isn’t good. But it’s another sign of my increasing age and therefore impending death.
Between the ages of 18-21 I was sick once through drink, I prided myself on that, on how I had this iron constitution that nothing could stop.
I have been sick from drink twice in the last two months.
By this formula, by the time I’m 30 I’ll be vomitting everyday, drinking or not.
I may as well kill myself now.
I’m never going to drink again (I never used to say that when I was 18, now I say it more often than I ask for tequila).