Hangover

When you're 18, the concept of the hangover is much less exciting than the concept of being drunk.

By the time I hit my 30s and, having experienced one or two of both (this is obviously like the rev counter on a car, you have to multiply to get the true figure), the concept of the hangover is looming large against the joy of being so drunk you're willing to have a conversation about 18th Century French Artists with your trousers.

If hangovers weren't bad enough, life, playing with it's big biology chemistry science set, then makes the cure for a hangover, more drink. It's not orange juice, coffee, gallons of water, enough paracetemol to euthanase Paris or a fried breakfast. It's plain old beer. Or spirits if you're feeling particularly racey. Hindsight, is never so strong as the morning after, when you question the value in your choice and quantity of drink from the night before. Was it really a good idea to drink 8 pints and 7 large Vodkas and that bottle of wine and the emergency aftershave you keep in the fridge? There's nobody as wise with drinking decisions of the past than the terminally hungover.

And those morning states can vary wildly, from a headache designed to kill rather than disable, to still being a bit drunk, dancing wildy around the living room to some stupidly loud music as if the night before is still in progress. Well, I suppose at that point, it is. Nothing better than a quick pause before resumption of festivities. Remember, you're not an alcoholic as long as you're enjoying yourself. Or something. Hic.

Is it worth it? Is the effort of depriving your bank account of funds to fill the urinal with funds of your own, really worth it? Sensible people will say 'no'. Sensible people will also be able to tell you the cast list of Coronation Street and know more about home improvements than is really ideal. So, mostly, it's a resounding 'yes'. The people you meet, the conversations you have, are all mechanicals functioned by the oil that is alcohol, in one way or another. It gets shit done.

Multi million pound business deals. Are they really done around the boardroom table? More likely, they're forged in the Lounge Bar, trying to play Whiskey top trumps 'till the wee hours, talking about that time they got caught by wife number 3 with their PA's legs wrapped around their neck and the resultant divorce. Atilla the Hun wasn't really a genocidal maniac intent on dominating the world. He was just pissed, most of the time. Waking up to find you've slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people and paracetamol hasn't ben invented yet must be a real hangover bitch from hell. 

So the hangover is just a byproduct of a necessary evil that gets shit done, makes the world go around and costs the NHS millions of pounds in treatments every single year. What's not to like?