The Hangover


So I woke up on Sunday morning with no headache, panda eyes or need to be sick. Instead, I woke up with an overriding sense of guilt, embarrassment and stupidity. The mother of all hangovers.

You’d rightfully assume that I’d text somebody I shouldn’t have, as did I, so the first thing I did was to check my sent items. Empty. Next was my twitter and even facebook feed. Nothing. And then it dawned on me. I had an argument with one of my best friends, leaving in a huff without my shoes and for no good reason at all. These are the nights you will sadly remember, with the people you don’t want to forget.

This culmination is a rarity in my drunken life. I am a nice drunk, a happy drunk, a pleasure to be around. Or am I? It seems as though everyone assumes that they’re a barrel of laughs after a few glasses of wine, but I’ve always believed that your attitude after dark, all depends what’s gone on during the day and sometimes, the tequila haze squiffs your memory of how well you behaved on the dancefloor.

Speaking of which, it’s been a long time since I’ve woken up feeling stupid. Let’s say roughly six months (basically, however long it’s been since I graduated on that sunny day in July). During my university years, waking up next to my housemate’s cheese, various messages of ‘LOL’ and embarrassing stories were just part of a night out. We’d all congregate the morning after on the stairs outside the bathroom, inform one another of how many jaagerbombs we’d managed to bolt, how many guys we’d kissed and try to work out whose knickers had been left on the sofa. We’d then hang our heads in shame; head to McDonald’s searching for a cure and then repeat the following evening. We wouldn’t think twice about what crimes we’d committed the night before. Instead, we’d laugh and repeat. Four times a week.

Now that I’ve left the shire, it has somehow become less acceptable to run through the streets chanting crude verse, drinking six shots of tequila and snogging your best mate for a laugh. Despite being far more unknown in the big city, you just feel a little bit stupid running around in a toga. But why? Surely the limitation to only a weekend’s worth of drinking should mean that we go even more mental than we did during those three years? But it doesn’t. Instead, we all seem to have grown up a little. Until the next reunion that is.

But despite being happy about being freed from that oh so special need to retreat back under the duvet, is it so bad that I’m craving a night of guilt-free debauchery where the VIP area is accessed exclusively by an expired student card?

The train to Exeter leaves in an hour.

I’ll pack the Neurofen.

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