So after the success of my Halloween Hangover blogs – and by success I mean rapturous torture of my liver, poor life choices, and near loss of dignity – I figured it would be fun to start-up a new hangover series based on the next holiday that we Brits revel in getting drunk for… CHRISTMAS!!! And seeing how we’re in December and we usually start celebrating Christmas come September these days, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
So welcome to the first – in what I’m sure will be a many – part of my festive Christmas Hangover series, starting with: The Work Do.
“Don’t get too drunk at your Works do.”
“Try not to make an idiot of yourself.”
“Don’t make a tit of yourself tonight.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Don’t be a nob.”
If only someone had said this to me before I ended up downing countless pints of beer, taking more embarrassing selfies, and trying to dance the Uptown Funk in front of my colleagues. Oh wait…everyone did…woops. Well aside from breaking out some “killer” dance moves (broken is probably an apt turn to describe them), forcing my colleagues to dance (if you can call it that) with me, and drinking enough beer to drown a Rhino, I’d say I was a pretty respectable member of society last night…
I’m sure this was why I woke up this morning with my brain trying to break free from my skull, and to tell you the truth, I don’t blame it. This weekend circumstances meant I had to travel to my parents house for the weekend. This means I find myself hauling my sorry carcass to Eastleigh train station, cradling a bottle of Lucozade like it’s my own child.
It’s OK son, Daddy’s here.
Two seconds after arriving at the station, and I think I’m losing my mind. There are a load of train spotters here wearing Minion Onesies…Because if there’s one thing that this phenomenon needs to infect now, it’s Trainspotting.
Now whoever invented trains, did not do so with the hangover in mind. I’ve travelled on trains for most of my life. Delays and cancellations aside, I have fond memories of peaceful journeys, as you sit back, look out the window and the beautiful English countryside, and relax as the train gently rocks you into a state of tranquility. All this changes when you’re hungover and suddenly the train starts doing its best impression of a hundred year old tug boat caught in a maelstrom. Oh God I can’t take this – Man Overboard!
I remember my last hungover train journey, the morning after a pretty messy Birthday night out where I, dressed as the Riddler, threw up in/on my hat and spent most of the night in the fetal position. For the train journey, my best friend stood guard, as I shoved my head down a toilet, clutching onto it for dear life, hoping I could throw all the evil up, before being greeted by my parents delivering their Oscar Worthy performances of “Mother and Father who are just going to pretend their son isn’t an embarrassment by being monstrously hungover on his birthday.”
If this train wasn’t bad enough, for the first time this week the Sun decides that today of all days, is the day he’s putting his hat on. A hat which seems content to blare through the train window and scorch out my retinas. This is horrid…I mean I could move but…effort.
Just let me burn.
I still have two more stations and a near half hour walk before I reach my parents house. That’s it, I’m throwing in the towel, I’m waving the white flag. This is a surrender. I pen a text to my Mum – “Send Help” – in the hopes her kind soul will raise me from the depths. My phone buzzes, a reply:
“New phone who dis?”
Thing is, I don’t even think I got that drunk last night (Yes I did), but its the hangovers like this that remind me that, at the grand old age of 25, I’m not a young man anymore. Back in my student days, I could drink enough to drown a whale till the early hours, walk home, stay up till the early hours filling my gob with pizza/burgers/fish fingers, and then wake up 5 hours later, fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked ready to work. Whereas now, I find myself so hungover that reading a bloody book proves far too much of a struggle.
The struggle to get back to Fareham was fuelled by a detour into town to get a McDonalds breakfast. What I love about Eastleigh on a Saturday morning is that no one seemed to batter an eye lid at my disheveled attire. I walked past one man, also wearing tracksuits, clutching a Subway bag like his life depended on it. We nodded at one another, sharing the acknowledgement of our poor life choices, as we ambled past each other like The Walking Dead. Cut to Fareham, a place populated with functioning human beings, carrying society, out on bikes, out for an early morning jog. All of them looked down their noses at me. Sorry Fareham for sullying your beautiful image with my alcoholic haze (great name for a band).
Overall, the Works Do was a success, courtesy of the confidentially named Best Parties Ever, it was a fun night and I look forward to holding my head up high on Monday Morning, and then burying it in the sand when I am reminded of how much of a tit I was. Fantastic night, I ate, I drank, and I was very merry in the company of some fantastic people.
Ah well, onto the next alcohol fuelled Christmas themed extravaganza, which I’m sure will be coming round very soon.
Tis the Season after all.