So I suffered potentially my first three (3) day long hangover this weekend, at the grand old age of 27, which was a new and I have to say distinctly unpleasant experience. If this is what getting old is, I would like to say I’ve changed my mind and would like a refund please.
It was my work’s Christmas do on Friday, and after the pleasantly surprisingly success of last year (I literally did nothing except drink and dance to Daniel Bedingfield songs) I was actually quite looking forward to this one. My team had been planning “Prinks” (or pre drinks for the uninitiated), simultaneous party prep and had even compiled a playlist of classic “bangin’ toons” to start the evening off with, and by the time it came round to it we were all pretty excited.
Looking back now, I’m not really surprised at the turn of events that led to such an awful and distressingly lengthy hangover. Despite all my very careful prior planning (I was going to stick to sensible similar drinks, eat well and have a glass of water and tablets before bed) by the time we actually arrived at Revs, I was already pretty mashed. Skip forward about 8 hours and we ended up slumped in a pile in Pizzarama stuffing our faces with greasy garlic bread. We eventually made it home at about 4am after countless countless cocktails, about 7 thousand shots and 8 hours of hardcore dancing and by the time I actually got through the front door I was basically a dehydrated twig with sore feet (though kudos to my pal Zo for her strong work on her falsie application because my lashes were still fly as f***).
I do have to admit to being rather proud that we’re actually still alive. I can’t actually remember the last time TMM and I made it to that time – TMM automatically clocks out at 10pm and has been found slumped in pub corners snoring gently to himself and I pretty much go from being hyperactively chipper to ready for bed in about 3 minutes flat. We partied hard though and had the accolade of being one of the last stragglers out. TMM also managed to fully endear himself to all of my colleagues (of which I never had any doubt) and made for some great photo opportunities.
We are the epitome of class
With all that being said, the following morning was only to be expected really. Oddly, I woke up feeling rough but nowhere near as awful as one would think. I was even able to drag myself out of bed and to the local shop (admittedly I didn’t look great) for supplies; consisting of Lucozade, a chicken and bacon sandwich and chocolate buttons) whilst TMM huddled under the duvet groaning pathetically. We proceeded to nest and rehydrate for a few hours before peeling ourselves out of our pity party and gingerly making out way to Molly’s to walk the dog. Unfortunately by that point, I was rapidly deteriorating and had to return to bed by 8pm with a headache that was so bad I couldn’t see and lie in the dark with a flannel on my eyes groaning softly.
Sunday was a little better; though I did have a mild breakdown at my inability to open the golden syrup, we managed to tidy up the apparent bomb site we’d created in our drunken states and finish a couple of Christmas presents. Returning to work on Monday, I was pleased to see the rest of my team struggling with the same kind of fugue like daze, wild hair and crazed and exhausted expressions. Thankfully we have mostly recovered now, but we’ve all got high hopes for the company conference in January.
Thinking back on some of our exploits from Friday (including but not limited to our re-enactment of the Dirty Dancing Lift and some of our less classier poses) has lead me down the somewhat shaded lane of other drunken memories. I thought perhaps now might be the perfect interlude to share some previous experiences with you (some of which will feature me in the spot light, but some of which may be about my dad or friend Jbear).
Something that you may or may not be surprised to learn about me is that I didn’t really drink much until I started University. I was a very timid and easily startled child and didn’t really embrace late nights and loud noises in those days. I think I was fully prepared to be very much the same at Uni, but sharing a block with 15 engaging and hilarious strangers pretty much shocked me right out of that. Whilst I didn’t live quite as energetically as some, I definitely started to adopt more of an outgoing lifestyle. Partly I think this was because under my crusty antisocial exterior lies a devilish party girl, but mostly I think it’s because I met Jbear, my American sister from another Mister. Our relationship was forged in one night of stupid memes and we never looked back. In fact, my very first true experience of what can only be classed as a “drunken shambles” centres entirely around her, some chips and a box of mulled wine (yes, you read that correctly). Oddly enough, that was another Christmas party (I’m sensing a theme here); a gathering in my block of all housemates and various hangers on. Jbear and I had adorably matched outfits (weirdly not on purpose, we were just that in-tune) and what started with some festive tunes and giggles rapidly devolved into drinking cheap mulled beverages straight from their shiny silver foil bladders (£5 for about 2 litres) and ended with Jbear throwing up bright purple chips into the downstairs shower room. Due to the unfortunate chunky nature of the vomit and the unnecessarily tiny holes in the plug, I was forced to poke most of the mess in with my bare hands whilst Jbear lay on the floor alternating between laughing hysterically, telling me how much she loved me and sobbing brokenly. Poor Jbear was, quit literally, hanging after that and spent the rest of the weekend on my dad’s couch in his pjs feeling sorry for herself whilst I told anybody who listened how much fun we’d had.
This isn’t even a picture from that weekend (or even the right house) but it is pretty much a perfect representation of how we spent half of our time. Also this was one of the clearest photos – apparently we were incapable of using phone cameras in those days.
Sadly Jbear only stayed for a year, though I am pretty sure we made the best of that. After she returned to the good old US of A, leaving me in the capable hands of TMM, I was forced to go on partying without her (until I went to visit her in Ohio and got so drunk playing beer pong I am surprised she didn’t end up poking my vomit down a plug hole). For the most part though, I was mostly very sensible and drank in moderation, enjoying the highlights of University life without waking up in a bush or making a complete tit out of myself in the union bar.
This was before the beer pong game even started
Unfortunately I do have to say mostly, as there is one particular scenario which does not fit the criteria of sensible moderation. There is, in fact, one specific night that I’m pretty sure still brings TMM out in panicked hives. Let me set you the scene – it’s the height of summer, there is a beach theme party at the union and I’ve got a fabulous flowery dress. The sun in shining, the birds are singing and I am annoyed because I have to work until 7pm, despite my best attempts to swap shifts. Whilst this might not seem like the most tragic situation in hindsight, I was practically inconsolable at missing out on valuable prinks time with my friends and in my infinitely flawed wisdom, thought it would be best to catch up in the shortest amount of time possible once my shift had finished. To that end, I proceeded to down a couple of unnecessarily strong shots before we made our way to the party. It is possibly pertinent to point out at this point that we stopped off at a friend’s block on campus to pick up some other people (and do a few more shots in my case). For reasons that I couldn’t fathom at the time, half of them seemed to be sober and not eager enough to catch up to my level and after an hour or so of chatter and games, it was decided that a few of us should go onto the union alone as a kind of exploration party and the rest would join us later.
Check out those classy digs. Little did I know how my evening was going to end…
Fast forward about an hour to 10 o’clock and I am starting to regret my choices. Some dancing, some candy floss and, shockingly, some more shots had started to curdle internally and I was forced to make my way to the nearest available bathroom. It was here that I was found by my friend, who told me later through hysterical laughter that I had taken my shoes and glasses off and put them neatly to one side before curling round the toilet to have a quiet chunder. She managed to convince me to let go of my death grip of the porcelain and deposited me with TMM, who took one look and decided that it was home time. It was as he was guiding (read: carrying) me out that we bumped into the rest of our party who were literally just coming in. Shamefacedly, he led me back across campus, where I had to stop and cry loudly at least three times because I was, for some unknown reason, terrified one of my lecturers would see me and be disappointed (a goody two shoes even in that state). TMM was very sympathetic and continued to chivvy me on, finally managing to drag me up the fire escape and into our room. It was at this stage I made the signal and he artfully slide a bowl into my outstretched arms and held my hair back as some more of the shots v. candy floss cocktail made its exit. That night, he somehow managed to be the most supportive and iron stomached boyfriend the world has ever seen; emptying the bucket on numerous occasions between stroking my head, telling me he loved me and making sure I drank as much water as possible. Eventually I passed out, star-fishing so completely that he was forced to retire to the couch and it was there he stayed until early the following morning when he got up to go and play a rugby match in front of his parents whilst I lay in my shame pit, begging friends to bring bananas, ice lollies and sympathy (I got the bananas and ice lollies, I definitely did not get the sympathy). How I managed to keep him for a further 8 years is completely beyond me, but boy am I grateful.
Thankfully since then, I only need one hand to count the times I’ve got outrageously drunk, and most of them have involved a theme party (which we all know is a weakness of mine) or being on a yoga retreat holiday in Fuerta Ventura and making complete tits of ourselves at a beach front bar, happily plied by a bar owner who clearly thought we were hilarious and was eager to get us to try some of his homemade concoctions.
We were classic Brits on Tour here. Shameless.
Whilst I am mildly ashamed of my ability to be such an outrageously royal lush, I do like to think that I have carried on the family tradition of being completely hilarious whilst drunk. I come from a line of legends, who have done such things as coming home so drunk they couldn’t remember going to sleep, but woke up face down, fully clothed (including sun glasses and bag) minus only their shoes, which were later found in the hallway with the laces cut all the way down the middle to make for easy escape, or being so hungover out and about that the only way they could manage the unfortunate egress of the previous night’s indulgences was by throwing up into a spare nappy (not used) belonging to their toddler.
We might not do it often, but when we do, by God we do it hilariously.
Not too shabby is it? 
This is me upon our MOUNTAIN of clothes
