 |
| Illustration by Sophie King |
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
– and while she was, given her eventual fate, being decidedly literal, I cannot help but note the relevance of this sentiment to hangovers. There’s a certain whimsical grace to being sprawled in one’s bathroom, desolate and pained, as though the aftermath of spectacular alcoholic consumption were a definition of artistry all by itself. We romanticise hangovers in much the same way that we romanticise drinking, and it’s a sure bet that whoever came up with that line about lying in the gutter and looking at the stars was drawing heavily from their own experience outside the pub at 3AM on a Wednesday. We brag about the excesses of our comeuppance like nine-year-olds swapping injury stories, and similarly, we don’t stint on the gory details. Leaving them out would defeat the purpose.
Just as there are different types of drunk, ranging all the way from whoopsy, vicar, I’ve had one too many chardonnays to keee-rist, Robbo’s on the roof again, hangovers come in many guises. While creating a comprehensive index of all known variants with special reference to the requisite degree of poisoning would undoubtedly be useful, it would also be lengthy, repetitive and, ultimately, less interesting than a detailed treatise on the molecular structure of nose hair. Here, then, is a quick field-guide to the most frequent visitors, complete with handy hints on surviving them.
The Churgler
Onomatopoeic, awful and about the worst you can get without ending up in hospital. As the Churgler is usually proceeded by a black sleep, unlucky sufferers can, on awakening, believe themselves to have survived relatively unscathed. This delusion is generally disproved in the subsequent twenty to forty minute period, after which an aurally graphic, muscle-pulling prayer session to the porcelain idol becomes painfully unavoidable. There is no known cure, although revellers world-wide would cheerfully pay through the nose to acquire one. Working through a Churgler is physically impossible: your best bet is to call in sick with food poisoning, which diagnosis is probably less untrue than it is medically accurate. Action flicks, doonas and greasy carbohydrates are all proven roads to recovery, preferably in confluence. And remember: groaning, shaking and self-recrimination are a natural part of the healing process.
The Workover
Deadly if your job involves physical movement, excruciating if you’re in front of a computer, the Workover is mild enough not to merit a sickie but painful enough to transform your day into a clenched ball of misery. This is a good time to chew through some of those simple, monotonous chores that usually get pushed onto the work experience shemp, such as photocopying (office), errand-running (manual labour) and rearranging the storeroom (hospitality). Yes, you’ll be ready to disembowel yourself honourably in the sepukku ritual by three o’clock, but this is still better than attempting to make intelligent decisions through an ongoing fog of low-level nausea, background skull-hammers and nagging worry as to who, exactly, you phoned at one in the morning, what you confessed to them, and whether the subsequent confrontation might result in fisticuffs.
Trembles McGee
You didn’t drink that much, really – so why have your fine motor skills become disconcertingly comparable to those of a palsied octogenarian? Trembles McGee combines zero dexterity with a gnawing, hollow hunger undaunted by the consumption of actual food. Walking becomes shuffling. You will spend the day in a dressing gown, glumly contemplating your eventual dotage and decrepitude while fighting the urge to dry-retch. Put something on in the background, but give up any hope of following the plot. Instead, your mind will wander in maudlin loops while your eyes glaze and fixate, without any conscious instruction, on your shuddering, outstretched hands.
The MetaFlu
Existentialism aside, the MetaFlu is God’s way of telling you not to drink without an unencumbered immune system. No matter what you had to begin with, your symptoms will now include, but are not limited to: snargling, snorting, hacking and coughing up phlegm, all-over muscle pain, a disgustingly blocked nose and a throat so raw it could give you salmonella poisoning. Keep rugged up, drink as much water as possible, and hope. If you’re very lucky, you’ll be completely cured in a fortnight.
Hatefully Chipper
Academically speaking, there is vociferous debate as to whether Hatefully Chipper is really a hangover at all. Rather (some say) it acts as cinching proof for the philosophy that life, to quote Douglas Adams, is, of course, terribly unfair. For best effect, this state requires that two or more people go out of an evening, consume consummately ludicrous quantities of alcohol, catch a cab home at 2AM and pass out on any household surface which is not, in fact, a mattress. Sleep is roughly approximated. And then, when one party finally groans into wakefulness under a truly vile cloud of personal doom, it is to find that the Hatefully Chipper individual has been up since 7, having cooked (and consumed!) a hot breakfast, and is now showered, dressed and immaculate, lounging against the kitchen counter and inquiring whether their bedraggled counterpart would like to go for a run. Generally speaking, this state – whatever its quasi-miraculous origins – is unsustainable, culminating in a spectacular crash around late afternoon, by which time, ironically, anyone with a genuine hangover will have started to recover.
And, finally:
Under the Weather
A classic, non-diet, back-to-basics, kickin’-it-old-school hangover. In accordance with Sod’s Law, Under the Weather almost always coincides with awkward family gatherings or unexpected phone calls from elderly relatives. Wishing for death, you will mumble incoherently about work, romance and daily trivialities, screaming inwardly while a single, tiny, hateful speck of consciousness takes odds-on bets that nobody believed your line about a 24-hour stomach bug, except maybe your two-year-old niece. (Bonus: given your fragile state, nobody will want your help with the dishes.)
Journalistic caveat: This article consists of 100% genuine research. Please direct any complaints to the universe at large.
- Philippa Meadows (5 comments)